Perfect Match (2 page)

But a few minutes later, I was distracted again by the distinct buzz of a vibrating cell phone. Now this guy was really being rude! But when the buzzing didn't stop, I realized that I was the culprit this time. Whoops.

In an attempt to be smooth, I reached down to turn it off. But before the screen went black, I noticed that I had four missed calls and three text messages from the girls in my Thoney clique. I couldn't help taking a quick glance.

From Harper: PARTY AT VANS. WE'RE ALL GOING.

From Amory: I'M GOING TO RICKY'S FOR PRIMPING PROPS. WHO WANTS GLITTER EYE SHADOW?

From Morgan: MEET ON THE CORNER OF PERRY AND WEST FOURTH. I HAVE THE CODE TO GET UPSTAIRS.

I looked over at Camille; I was sure the girls would have texted her as well. But she didn't seem to know or care about it. I kind of envied that she was able to focus on the movie. I was having a great time too, but now that I knew that all my friends were heading out to a party and assuming that I'd meet them there … well, my mind was sort of wandering. Should I let them know where I was? Would they be bummed that I couldn't make it?
Could
I make it, if we went right after the movie?

Wait, what was I thinking? It was just a party. I'd missed parties before and survived to tell about it. And here I was, at this amazingly fun event, with
Alex
, who I adored and who'd been cool enough to invite my best friend to join us.

Come on, Flan.
Everyone in New York was looking for love and Cupid was actively smiling down on me. What more could I ask for?

Early the next morning, I met Camille and SBB for brunch at a tiny East Village restaurant called Prune. They don't take reservations, so you have to get there right when the doors open at ten o'clock if you want to avoid standing in line for an hour. But they do have the best breakfast BLTs in the city, so it's definitely worth the early rising.

Luckily, all three of us arrived at the same time and SBB only had to sign three autographs and pose for two photographers on the way in, so we were able to snag our favorite sunny table under the hanging ivy plant by the window. The crowd was young and beautiful, mostly couples or small groups of girls. Each place setting contained the classic brunch trifecta: a frothy cappuccino, a pair of aviator sunglasses, and a PDA. The other groups of girls were all laughing as they dished out their tales of the
weekend's adventures, but I noticed that the vibe at most of the couples' tables was decidedly lower key.

“Is it me,” I asked, smearing some of Prune's signature blood orange marmalade on a hunk of wholegrain toast, “or do the girls-only cliques seem to be having way more fun than the girls who are here with their boyfriends?”

“Probably because it's more fun to talk smack about your boyfriend to your friends than it is to actually hang out with him,” SBB said thoughtfully, biting into her black bean flapjacks.

“Whoa, where did that come from?” Camille asked. “Is something going on between you and JR?”

SBB threw her head back in a laugh. “Not even. Jake Riverdale and I are more in love than ever. It's called
empathy
,” she said, sounding out each syllable. Camille and I shared a secret smirk as SBB continued her explanation. “It's an acting term where you put yourself in someone else's shoes. I've been working on it recently at my agent's suggestion.” She glanced around the room. “Take that couple over there.” SBB nodded to her left at a couple so lifeless, they practically looked asleep. “Wouldn't you be Somber Sally if you were dating that dude? Wouldn't you rather be hanging with …” She scanned the room until her eyes landed on a group of girls practically falling out of
their chairs with that laugh specific to inside jokes. “Them?”

I was used to SBB's “acting” terms and techniques, having been BFFs with the teen actress
Rolling Stone
had recently called “an intergalactic star” since we were both wearing training bras. But today, SBB's professional lingo made me wonder about life off-screen.

“Isn't it possible,” I asked the girls, “to have as much fun with your boyfriend as with your friends?”

“Sometimes it seems like a lot more is at stake with boys,” Camille said, looking down at her plate. “Like every word you say to each other
means
something, you know? It's easier to navigate when things happen with your girlfriends than with your boyfriend.”

“Okay, your turn,” I said to Camille. “I know you don't have SBB's excuse that your working on your act. Is everything okay with Xander? You guys seemed so good last night.”

“We were. We are,” she sighed, popping the last bite of her asparagus quiche in her mouth. “But after we left you guys at the movie, we both had messages from our friends to go to separate parties. And he wanted to go meet up with them and I didn't. I just got scared that I might be more into him than he is into me.” She looked at me. “Do you know what I mean?”

The truth was, Alex and I had had the exact opposite conversation last night after the movie. But I knew that just because I thought it would be fun to meet up with friends after the movie, it didn't mean that I wasn't totally into Alex—and looking at Camille now, I was sure that the case was the same for Xander.

“Oh, you girls and your little worries!” SBB laughed, picking up the check. “I won't hear any more of it. You're beautiful and adored by your men,
capisce
?”

“Nice empathy, SBB,” I joked.

“Empathize this: what we need is some retail therapy. Now, who knows what she's getting her man for Valentine's Day?
That
, ladies, is something worth stressing over.”

As we stepped out of the warm, cozy restaurant into the harsh reality of February in New York, all three of us hustled into our hats and mittens. SBB whistled for a cab.

“Bloomingdale's on Broadway,” she told the driver. Then she pulled out a thick packet of paper bound like a screenplay with three golden brads. But I doubted that anyone would title a script SHOPPING LIST. “What?” She shrugged at us. “I don't mess around with it comes to retail therapy.”

When the cab pulled up to the great white building,
SBB got out first and started calling out a breakdown of the floor plan. “Boys first. We'll start at the third floor and move through the fifth. Then, once we've gotten the gift-buying work out of the way, we can reward ourselves with spa treatments on six and shoes on four.”

Wow, it usually took me an hour just to make it out of the cosmetics section on the ground floor at Bloomingdale's. Since I had no good ideas about what to get Alex for Valentine's Day, I was pretty grateful that I had SBB-on-a-mission to keep me on track.

While we thumbed through piles of men's shirts and racks of ties and boxes of cuff links, I could feel my eyes glazing over. It's not that I wasn't interested in shopping for Alex—though I had to admit, high-heeled boots were way more fun to look at than cuff links. I mean, what
were
cuff links, anyway? But I just didn't think any of this stuff was quite right for Alex. And I wanted to get him something really special. What exactly that was going to be just hadn't come to me yet.

I looked at Camille to see if she was having any more luck. Her brow was furrowed in frustration.

“It's not just finding a Valentine's present that I'm worried about,” she explained when she saw the concerned look on my face. She was holding up a
hideously ugly brown sweater without even seeming to see it. “Xander's birthday is the week after next,
and
our one-month anniversary is right after that, but I don't want to go overboard with the gifts—especially if he doesn't think that one month is a big anniversary, 'cause you know, some guys don't really think about that, and—”

I had never seen Camille so unglued over a guy. I could always count on her to be the smart, balanced, carefree one. What was making her so nervous? I looped my arm through hers.

“Maybe you should follow SBB's lead,” I suggested. “Put yourself in her shoes. Look at her. She's dating the most popular pop star on the planet and the only thing in her relationship that she's not completely confident about is whether JR would prefer the blue or the green Burberry scarf. You should get Xander what feels right. Try not to overthink it.”

She nodded. “You're right.” Her eyes finally locked on the mess of brown merino wool in her hands. “God, what am I doing with this awful sweater? Yuck. This is certainly
not
the answer.” She tossed it back in the sale bin and sighed. “I'm going to go check out those money clips over there.”

“Good idea.” I smiled. Relieved that Camille seemed to have found her purpose, I looked around
for a bench. It might have been the first time in my life that I opted out of shopping. I felt a little bit like my dad or brother when Mom, Feb, and I dragged them around department stores.

“Eeeek!” SBB came up from behind me and grabbed my shoulders. “Flan, thank you
so
much!”

“For what?” I asked, confused.

“For revitalizing my entire career!” She was bouncing on her Ferragamo heels. The last time I'd heard her so breathless, she'd just hurled herself over one of the blue
Village Voice
newspaper displays on West Broadway to avoid a Segway-riding paparazzo across the street. “Alex's friend, Brody? Or Brindy? Or, oh, Brady! Well, he just
inquired
about me. He got my agent's name from Alex … and he wants to audition me for a part! In his new indie film! Can you believe it? My agent said the script is totally smart and edgy. So it's basically the opposite of anything I've done before. It'll be groundbreaking! It'll be revolutionary! It'll be—”

“That's so great, SBB,” I said. I was thrilled for her—and more than a little thrilled with Alex. I'd only mentioned SBB's career concerns in passing after the movie. It was totally sweet and perceptive of him to talk to Brady already, and without me even having to ask.

“So what's the movie about?” I asked. “What role are you auditioning for?”

“Oh, you know, it's a gritty drama, set in an all-American high school. And I would play the typical high school student. I'll just have to channel my inner—oh
no
! My career is finished!”

The color drained from her face and she sank onto the bench next to me.

“What is it?” I asked, holding her small body upright. I started to fan her with my mittens. “What's wrong?”

Very slowly, my little starlet eked out the words. “I never went to high school. I have no experience with ‘typical.' I don't have a chance.” SBB sighed wistfully.

I suppressed a grin. “SBB, high school is easy.”

She looked at me doubtfully.

“Okay,” I reconsidered. “It's not easy to
live
through, but I promise you, it will be a breeze for you to act. It's all your favorite stuff—boys, fashion, immeasurable drama.” I patted her knee. “Trust me, with my help, you'll be the most convincing high school student the silver screen has ever seen.”

SBB's eyes got all wide and dewy, the way they did when she felt really moved. “You'll help me, Flannie? I really want to prove that I can do this. I want to become a legitimate indie drama darling, the toast of the Independent Spirit Awards.”

“Lucky for you,” I said, “I'm something of an expert on high school drama. You can put your empathy skills to use on me.”

As SBB gave me a tight side squeeze, Camille reappeared in front of us. “So,” she said tantalizingly, holding her hands behind her back. “What do we think of this?” She held up a pocket watch dangling from a cool, sort of gaudy gold rope. “When you open it up,” she explained while demonstrating, “there are three different compartments. The watch is one, and you can store two pictures on the sides. It's kind of a like a functional man locket. Weird or cool?”

“It's a mocket!” SBB squealed. “It's perfect! Where'd you find it? We'll take three, right, Flan?”

Camille led us over to the glass case where she'd found the golden mockets. I wasn't so sure this screamed
Alex
, but the other girls seemed so into it that I didn't want to argue. As the two of them brainstormed exactly which photos they'd put inside the lockets, I felt my phone buzz in my bag. It was a text from Morgan, whom I realized I hadn't seen all weekend.

YOU ALIVE? BEEN MISSING YOUR PRETTY FACE, she wrote. GRAB A COFFEE?

Morgan lived in SoHo, within walking distance from Bloomingdale's, so it'd be super easy for her to
come meet up with us. But as I looked at my two friends gushing over their mockets, I tried to imagine Morgan hanging out in the men's section. All we were doing was talking about and shopping for our boyfriends. Of all my single friends, she seemed the most sensitive about her lack of significant other. I didn't want to blow her off, so I texted back:

HOW 'BOUT LATTES TOMORROW BEFORE SCHOOL? WE'LL NEED THE CAFFEINE TO GET THROUGH ANOTHER MONDAY

I knew I was doing Morgan a favor by opting to devote time to her solo, but something about my response felt a little forced. When had it started feeling like I had to dole out time with my friends based on whether or not they had boyfriends?

“Flan,” SBB called me back to reality. “We're about to check out. You want in on the mocket, right?”

“Okay,” I surrendered, feeling more enthusiastic about getting out of the men's department than about the gift itself. “Yes, I'll take the mocket.” I was going to need some serious time in the shoe section to recover from this retail therapy session.

A few hours later, I was holed up in my bedroom, avoiding my chemistry homework and holding up the mocket I'd just bought for Alex for the approval of my very discriminating Pomeranian, Noodles.