Love, Lies and Texas Dips (19 page)

Ten

Laura stayed up way too late on Tuesday night. She couldn’t get her brain to quiet down, not when vivid scenes replayed themselves over and over again in her head, like Jo Lynn warning her off Dillon
(please!)
before their deb orientation and her equally nasty encounter with two of the Bimbo Cartel after she’d “bumped” into Avery at the country club on Monday afternoon.

Maybe she would’ve felt calmer if she’d had a chance to vent. Only Mac had been so freaked by Cindy Chow’s becoming the newest Rosebud that she’d whined about her stomach aching and bailed on their plans for ice cream après-Rosebud meeting. In desperation, Laura had tried to call Ginger, but kept getting her voice mail. Something bizarre must’ve happened at Rose Dupree’s, because Ging never turned off her cell unless it was an emergency.

With neither of her BFFs available to talk trash, she’d ended up texting Avery, asking, How can U hang out w such MEAN girls?

He’d come right back with: The world’s a mean place. Get used 2 it.

Wow, that sounded cynical enough for Mac.

Thx 4 the tip, she’d texted back sarcastically, which is when he’d written something that made
her
stomach ache.

B careful OK? Watch out 4 JL

Well, hell, like she wasn’t doing that already.

She’d tossed her BlackBerry onto the chaise longue in disgust, and had tried to calm her nerves by eating the remains of a pint of Häagen Dazs chocolate chip cookie dough and scrolling through the latest Vera Wang bridal collection online, looking at potential designs for her deb gown, before she’d finally fallen asleep well after midnight.

When Wednesday morning dawned, and Tincy popped into her room with a cheery, “Rise and shine, my Texas Rosebud!” Laura had groaned and pulled a pillow over her head, lying there for another good ten minutes until she’d dragged her butt out of bed, showered, and started getting dressed. She knew it was going to be a rough day when she had trouble putting on her uniform.

Laura stuck out her tongue as she tugged at the zipper on the side of her tan and black plaid pleated skirt, finally nudging it all the way, up.
Damn PMS
, she cursed, feeling bloated and edgier than before, if that was possible.

“Laura Delacroix Bell!
What on earth’s taking you so long?” Tincy called from the doorway. “Oh, Lord, don’t tell me your new uniforms are already too snug? Did you sneak an ice cream last night after the meeting? And don’t lie, because Cookie found the empty container in the kitchen this mornin’.”

Found it?
More like Tincy had her staff snooping for signs that Laura had started bingeing after her stint at fat camp this past summer.

Laura slowly turned away from the mirror to face her mother. Tincy had her fists firmly planted on her tiny hips, and her glossy lips were arranged in a disapproving frown.

“Um,
hello?”
Laura said, staring at her mom. “Perhaps you’ve heard of knocking? You ball up your hand and bang it on the door, like so.” She curled her fingers into a fist and rapped the air in front of her.

For some reason, Tincy had begun to think it was her prerogative to burst into Laura’s bedroom whenever she felt like it. Laura was going to have to start locking her door if this kept up. She wasn’t at Camp Hi-De-Ho, where the counselors rarely gave the campers any privacy for fear someone would bolt and hit the nearest 7-Eleven for a Big Gulp and a king-sized Snickers.

“Thank you, Ms. Smarty-pants, but in my house, I do as I please.” Her mother marched across the room, came up beside her, and began tugging on Laura’s skirt and shirt, like she’d done a bad job of dressing herself and needed adjusting. “I can’t believe these are the new ones,” Tincy murmured. “I wonder where Babette’s been sending them out. I think the cleaners must be shrinking them.”

Tincy might only come up to Laura’s chin—well, maybe up to Laura’s nose if she was wearing heels—but that didn’t make her any less terrifying. God, Laura mused, her older sister was beyond smart to have taken a PR job in San Francisco, far away from Tincy and her criticism. How had Sami survived her debutante season without strangling Mummy Dearest? Maybe Laura should give her a call one of these days and get some frank advice.

“Laura
. I’m speaking to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Next time a package of sweets arrives from that anonymous Romeo of yours, it’s goin’ straight in the trash,” her mother said in no uncertain terms. “I thought it was cute at first, that maybe it’d be good for you to have another boy interested in you so you’ll forget that Avery Dorman. It isn’t him, is it?”

“No, it’s not him,” Laura told her, the only thing she did know for sure, which made her all the more nervous about who was sending the mysterious packages. She’d already checked off the bow tie-wearing boy she’d served lunch with at the Bread of Life last weekend (who she was sure was gay) and Neville Hopkins, who’d professed a crush on her since first grade but who’d been practically engaged to Winnie Van der Haven since their sophomore year. Laura knew her on-and-off relationship with Avery had scared most other guys off. One of the only options left was one she didn’t care to think about: that it wasn’t a guy at all, much less someone who admired her.

“Maybe it’s someone you met at camp,” Tincy suggested, and Laura had to bite her lip to keep from guffawing.

The only men she’d met at Camp Hellhole worth five seconds of her attention had been the counselors, but they were all in college and none would ever send a Hi-De-Hoer
chocolates
, for God’s sake. Now, if she got an anonymous gift of soy milk and alfalfa sprouts, she’d have a damned good idea where it came from.

“No more talk about my weight, Mother, please,” Laura said, trying to step around her mother, only to have Tincy lift a hand to stop her.

“You can’t afford to gain another ounce, sweet pea, or you’re gonna give the GSC selection committee something
more to talk about. I don’t want to sound mean, but you’re in by the skin of your teeth. If you weren’t a legacy, why, they’d never even consider a girl of your, um, build,” Tincy got out, then seemed to realize she’d said too much. She drew in a sharp breath and clamped her mouth shut.

Regardless, Laura felt the sting. She hardly needed constant reminding that being her “build” put her on precarious footing with the GSC. All Laura had to do was glance in the mirror to realize she didn’t come in the two sizes preferred by the deb selection committee: small or extra-small. Tincy had raised her with the belief that becoming a Rosebud was one of life’s most important things. It was just a lot more pressure than she’d ever imagined.

“I won’t screw this up, Mother,” she said quietly, smoothing a hand over her skirt where it stretched across her belly. “I promise.”

“I only say these things because I love you so much,” her mother cooed, laying a cool palm against Laura’s cheek. Tincy’s carefully made-up face softened, though the Botox injected into her forehead every few months kept the skin there from creasing even slightly. It was as if part of her was made of wax. “Now finish getting ready for school.” Her mom patted her behind. “You’re running late, as always.”

Laura stood stock-still until her mom had left the room and then she turned to face her reflection again. She attempted to tuck in her button-down shirt, but ended up leaving it hanging out instead. She debated adding a belt around her hips, but nixed that idea. It would only emphasize her middle. Then she turned left and right, smoothing a hand over her stomach, squinting as she eyed her body
critically. She could definitely stand to tone up, but if she started working out with Dillon that would take care of things, wouldn’t it?

If you weren’t a legacy, why, they’d never even consider a girl of your, um, build
.

What was wrong with her build? Why did every fashion magazine in the industrialized world have to promote the idea that only skin-on-bones was pretty?

Think “Diva,”
she told herself, picturing the photo of the white-gowned debutante taped to her bathroom mirror with her face Photoshopped onto it. She’d written affirming things like
Rosebud
and
Goddess
beside it, and she focused on those words now and all the things she liked about herself.

She turned this way and that, so her skirt swayed across her thighs. Yeah, her legs definitely rocked. They were long and shapely and still a little tan from spending most of the summer outdoors. Camp Hellhole had been good for something, at least. Hadn’t Avery once said that her legs were her best feature? Okay, and her boobs, which were one hundred percent real. And hadn’t he always loved her eyes? Judging by the way he’d kissed her when she’d run into him at the country club, he didn’t seem to have any complaints about how she looked. He’d always accepted her for who she was, even if his crowd—the
in-crowd—
at Caldwell and PFP hadn’t approved.

I do admire you. A lot. Maybe more than I should
.

Avery might not be her secret admirer, but he
had
sent her the flowers to celebrate her Rosebud invitation. Even if he’d been spending time with Camie Lindell, Laura knew he was still drawn to her. She’d felt it when she’d kissed him. The attraction between them was undeniable.

I am who I am
, she silently repeated her personal mantra, adding to it,
and I will get Avery Dorman back somehow
.

She went over her mental to-do list for this year, and finding a way to snag Avery was at the top. Number two was conning Dillon Masters into helping with her pre-Rosebud Ball workouts, which doubled as a slap to Jo Lynn.
Check, check
. Vera Wang was all set to design her ball gown.
Check
. And Jo Lynn Bitchwell’s blackmail attempt hadn’t stuck, so she had nothing on Laura anymore.
Check and checkmate!

Ginger had once told her that red meant energy in feng shui—okay, she’d also said it meant danger, too, but Laura ignored that part of it—and she definitely felt red today. To further pump up her mood, she slipped on a pair of red patent leather BCBGirls flats, threw on a pair of red Anne et Valentin sunglasses, and grabbed a red Coach tote. It didn’t hurt that her Mercedes Roadster was red also. She could use all the extra energy she could get!

Her laptop kept pinging from her desk, like someone was desperately trying to IM her. But Tincy was right: she was running late and definitely didn’t have time to chat. As if to underscore that fact, her mother’s voice blared from the intercom:
“Laura, you’d better get going!”

“Okay, okay!” She scrambled to collect her things. Her Patek Philippe confirmed that she was way behind schedule, so she had to book. If she was late for first period, Señora Rung would make her speak in Spanish for the entire class.

“Goodbye, Mother!” she yelled as she raced through the kitchen and out the back door. She put the top down on her Roadster and flew out of the garage, her blond hair blowing as she hightailed it toward Piney Point, kicking up dust in her wake. The traffic was lighter than expected, and she
made quick progress. She put on her XM radio, turning it up when she heard the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus in the middle of “Seventeen Ain’t So Sweet.”

Maybe it’ll turn out to be a red day after all
.

She took a fast corner at Taylorcrest and she sailed ahead toward Pine Forest Prep, only occasional stop signs slowing her down. Her BlackBerry went off in her bag, and she dug for it one-handed, answering with a snippy, “What?”

“Where
are
you?” Ginger drawled in her ear. “Mac and I hung out at our lockers forever, waiting. I’m about to head into class, but I’m dying to tell you what happened at Rose’s after I left y’all last night—”

Laura cut her off. “Well, it must’ve been something crazy, ’cause I tried calling you and left a million messages. Look, I’m about to pull into the parking lot. I’m gonna have to run to beat the bell. Can we sit down and dish at lunch?”

“Sure, lunch it is. Now go on and scoot! Don’t want you getting detention again for racking up tardy slips,” Ginger urged.

Laura tossed her cell back into her bag as she rolled into the senior lot, finding the last available space. She climbed out of her Roadster, not bothering to put the top back up. The sky above was a crystal-clear blue, not a cloud in sight.

She heard the warning bell ring as she reached the grassy courtyard between the ivy-covered brick buildings. Students clustered on the stone benches outdoors began to gather up books and bags.

Perfect timing
, Laura thought, passing a group of girls as she strolled up the sidewalk. She smiled and waved at a couple of juniors she knew.

“Hey, Becca, nice kicks!” she called out. “Cute bag, Danielle!”

They stared at her wide-eyed, not even hollering out a thanks before ducking their heads and scurrying off. Another pair of girls nudged each other then started to giggle and point.

What’s up with that?
Did she spill mouthwash on her white shirt or something?

She casually glanced down, but didn’t spot so much as a speck of lint on her starched button-down.

“How’s it going, Laura?” a voice piped up from behind her, and Laura looked up from her shirt into the bucktoothed face of the editor of the school paper, Angie Dielman.

An O of smoke eased through her thin lips, and a tiny leaf clung to her sleeve. Had she been puffing away in the shrubbery? Such a disgusting habit.

“Gotta dash,” Laura said, and started up the stone steps toward the door.

The girl crushed an outlawed cigarette under her heel and followed Laura. “You feeling okay these days?”

“I’m feeling great, Angie, thanks for asking,” Laura said, thinking,
Hello? The Freaky Factory phoned and wants to recall all its Angela Dielmans
. She walked faster, so that she was breathing hard by the time she pushed through the doors into the building. But at least there was no sign of Angie.

The girl’s certifiably weird, no doubt about it
.