Skater Boy (3 page)

I raise my eyebrows. “You're going to Boston? How are you going to get there? Do you have a car?”

“Nah.” She shakes her head. “I'm only fifteen. No license. But there's a train about a block away.”

She planned to hop a train? I try to imagine what The Evil Ones would do to me if they found out I'd hopped a train to the big city. Would they kill me quickly or devise a slow, torturous death to make sure I'm really, really sorry I disobeyed?

“Come with me!” Starr says eagerly. “I know some killer used record stores.”

I shake my head. “I'm already missing gymnastics ‘cause of detention. My parents will totally kick my butt if I miss my Japanese tutoring as well.”

Starr raises a pierced eyebrow. “Oh,” she says, her tone a bit colder than before. “I understand.” But she doesn't sound like she understands. In fact, she sounds more like she thinks I'm the lamest girl on the planet.

Boring Barbie, that's me.

It's so not fair. I never get to do anything fun. Run off to the big city on a whim. I suddenly envy Starr and her laissez-faire attitude on life.

Envy her and want to be her.

Maybe I could call my tutor and tell him I'm sick. And then call The Evil Ones and tell them I'm going over to one of the Ashleys' houses to work on a class project after my lesson. That should buy me at least ‘til nine o'clock. Plenty of time to hit Boston and get back before they realize I'm gone.

I feel a strange thrill well up deep inside. You know what? I'm going to do it.

For once, I'm going to be a bad girl.

“Maybe I will go to Boston with you,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual as my excitement takes hold. “Sounds like fun.”

Chapter Four

 

Boston is a whole new world with Starr as my tour guide. Sure, I've been to the city before. The Evil Ones take me shopping for school clothes every autumn and to the
Nutcracker
every Christmas. But those experiences pale in comparison to Starr's Boston.

After getting sprung from detention, I drop my poem and entry form in the mail and then Starr and I head to the train station. Luckily we don't have to wait long since I've suddenly developed this huge paranoia that my dad's going to drive by and catch me. But of course he doesn't. Still, my heart's beating a mile a minute as the whistle blows and the train pulls out of the station. No turning back now.

Starr fills the half-hour trip with wild tales of boarding school (wow!), her environmental concerns (gas guzzling SUVs—bad; hybrid, environmentally friendly Toyota Prius—good), even (yay!) politics.

And bonus—she never once mentions shoes, jeans, or anything remotely related to fashion, which is soooo refreshing.

When we arrive in Boston's North Station, we take the subway to Newbury Street where we hit Urban Outfitters for funky clothes, Silver Nation for retro jewelry, and then Mystery Train, a used record store for tune'age.

In Mystery Train's low-lit basement store, Starr contents herself to flip through the seemingly endless bins of used records, pulling out and examining obscure recordings I've never even heard of. Bands with names like Joy Division and Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus.

“This is a great album,” she says, holding up a recording from a band called The Cure. “And it's not as hardcore as the others. In fact, even a Barbie like you might appreciate it.”

I take the album from her, wishing she'd cut the Barbie crap. There's a pair of bright red lips on the cover and songs like “Torture,” “The Snake Pit,” and “A Thousand Hours” listed.

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs,” I say. “Do they, um, have it on CD?”

Starr blinks. “You know, records are the authentic recordings of the music as it was meant to sound, before electronic enhancements messed with its purity.”

“Sure, I get it. But I don't have a record player.” I shrug. “Is it available on iTunes? I could download it….”

Starr rolls her eyes. Why do I feel so incredibly unhip around her? I mean, she's the one who listens to vinyl— even the ancient Evil Ones have moved on to CDs. But her purposeful, pig-headed rejection of technology just makes her seem even cooler for some odd reason.

She yanks the record from my hands, pulling it from its dusty, cardboard sleeve and sets it on an empty turntable against the wall. Then she places the needle on the record and hands me the attached headphones.

As I put them over my ears, a dark, intense music bombards my senses. A man purrs and wails in a powerful, soul-wrenching voice. It's so deep. So beautiful. Like nothing I've ever heard before. I close my eyes to better take in the sound. It may seem completely corny, but I get the feeling this kind of music could change someone's life, if they let it.

“What do you think?” Starr asks a few minutes later, as she pulls the headphones from my ears. I reluctantly relinquish them, blinking my eyes, still a bit dazed.

“Awesome,” I say, though the word seems kind of inadequate to express how the music has affected me.

“A little different from your average Bieber, huh?”

I frown. “Just ‘cause I've never heard of this band doesn't mean I like Justin Bieber, you know.”

“Okay, then, what kind of music
do
you listen to?” The question has a definite challenge embedded in it and I feel my face heat as I try to figure out how to answer her. I never tell anyone what music I listen to. I'm afraid they'll just make fun of me. But Starr is different….

“Let me guess,” she says, regarding me with unabashed disdain. “Usher? Dave Matthews? Taylor Swift? Beyonce?”

“Actually, I prefer the classics,” I admit at last. What the heck, it's better than having her assume I like Dave Matthews. “Rolling Stones, The Animals, Beatles, David Bowie.”

“Oh! David Bowie rocks,” Starr says, eyes shining and disdain quickly fleeing her face. In fact, she actually looks a bit impressed. Score one for Barbie.

“You like him?” I've never met anyone under thirty who liked David Bowie. “I've had a total crush on him since I saw
Labyrinth
when I was a kid.”

“Oh, yeah, he was way sexy in that movie,” Starr agrees. “I never understood why Jennifer Connelly chose saving her baby brother over him.” She steps forward, in total actress mode. “Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen.”

I giggle at her rendition. “For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great. You have no power over me,” I continue, in my best dramatic voice.

“He'd have a heck of a lot of power over me wearing those tights, I'll tell you what,” Starr says with a laugh. She lifts the record off the turntable and puts it back in its sleeve. “You know, Barbie, you're not half as clueless as I'd guessed.”

“Gee, thanks.” I roll my eyes, but I'm secretly pleased.

“I'm going to buy this for you,” she says, holding up the Cure album. “And I'll even give you a break and get it on CD.”

“You don't have to,” I start to say, but she waves me off.

“It's all good. I like educating people about music. Music's very important.”

“I agree,” I say with a smile. I feel so relieved to have shared my secret music obsessions with someone who wasn't going to ridicule them because my list didn't include Eminem.

The clerk rings up her purchase and we leave the store. It's getting dark, so I suggest we catch the next train back. Don't want to get home too late and feel the wrath of The Evil Ones.

Because if I don't get caught this time, I'll be able to play bad girl again. Something I definitely want to do.

Chapter Five

 

“So if you were given a thousand dollars and could only pick one shoe store to spend it in, which would you choose?”

Just another Lunch Topic of the Day at the Ashley table. Sigh.

“Louboutin, without a doubt,” declares Ashley #2, swishing her long blond hair behind her.

“Really? I would have thought for sure you'd go with Manolos,” Ashley #1 says, raising her perfectly arched eyebrows. She stabs at her salad with her fork.

“What about Steve Madden? He makes cool shoes,” Ashley #3 pipes in. She's chowing down on a huge, juicy burger, as usual. I have no idea how the girl keeps her perfect size-five figure the way she eats.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn't be caught dead in cheap-o Steve Maddens.”

“Yeah, but you could get like fifteen pairs for a thousand dollars instead of two pairs of Manolos.” Ashley #3 explains the math slowly, so the other two can grasp it. “That's like, ‘buy two, get thirteen pairs free.'”

“Wow. Thirteen free pairs of shoes …”

I stifle a yawn and resist the urge to bang my forehead against the table. Instead, I scan the caf, looking for Starr. I see her across the room, sitting with a couple of the computer nerds. They look like they're having a very animated conversation and I'm pretty sure it's not about shoes. I feel a stab of jealousy, but quickly squash it. After all, it's not like I invited her to come sit with me at lunch and she has every right to make other friends.

“Earth to Dawn! Come in, Dawn!”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, turning back to my friends. “I'd go with Kate Spade.”

The Ashleys nod knowingly. “Ooh, good choice,” says Ashley #1. “Like those pink strappy sandals, right?”

“Yeah,” I say halfheartedly. I wonder how'd they react if I'd said Doc Marten combat boots like Starr wears.

I think about my afternoon hanging with Starr and how fun it was. How much more interesting our non-fashion related conversations were.

I got home yesterday and luckily The Evil Ones were out at a Save the Fill-in-the-Blank charity event so I didn't have to explain my absence or my detention. Magda heated me up a plate of yummy enchiladas with extra spice, which I took up to my room. There, I uploaded the new Cure CD onto my iPod and listened to it while doing homework. It's probably the best CD I've heard in my entire life. I fell asleep with my headphones on and had the coolest dreams.

Now I'm back to reality. Mundane, shallow reality. I wonder what the Ashleys would do if I got up from the lunch table and walked over to sit with Starr. Would they simply tease me or disown me forever?

Sadly, I'm not ready to find out. I mean, I barely know Starr. And I'm not even sure she likes me. Sure, she tolerates me, but she calls me Barbie, for goodness sake. Like I'm some doll she's playing with. And I'm not about to risk losing my only friends, plastic though they may be, just on one girl's opinion.

I'd rather straddle the fence a while longer and see which side I end up falling on.

 

*

 

“That CD is amazing!” I catch up to Starr as she's walking out of school. I notice she's changed from her uniform into a long-sleeved, black-netted top. She's completed the outfit with a black skirt, fishnets, and combat boots. Silver rings adorn almost every finger and she has a stack of rubber bracelets up her left arm.

She turns around and smiles indulgently, as if addressing a small child. “Glad you like it,” she says. I wonder if she's ticked at me for not finding her at lunch. For not inviting her to the Ashley table. But then I figure she's probably not interested in hanging around with them anyhow. I mean, I can hardly tolerate them myself and they're supposedly my best friends.

“So, where you headed?” I ask.

“I was thinking of going downtown, actually. I heard there's a bunch of skaters who hang out under this parking deck and do tricks. I want to go check them out.”

“Skaters?”

“Yeah, you know, skateboarders, Barbie. Those guys with big, baggy pants who ride around on wooden boards with wheels?”

“I know what skateboarders are,” I say, exasperated. She really does think I'm a moron. “That sounds, uh, cool.”

“Yeah, should be,” Starr says. Then pauses. It's an awkward pause and I realize she's not going to invite me this time. Maybe she filled her Barbie quota for the month yesterday and wishes I'd just leave her alone.

I'm supposed to be at a yearbook committee meeting in five minutes, anyhow. And if I don't show up to yearbook, the other committee members might accidentally put the wrong cheerleader on page forty-three, which of course would be a complete disaster.

Yes, my life is that lame.

“Well, I'll catch you around, then,” I say, knowing I sound disappointed and pathetic. When did I turn into such a loser? Hanging around and waiting for an invitation? That's so not me. At least it never used to be.

“Wanna come with?” Starr asks at last.

Woot! “Um, well, yeah, I guess,” I say, keeping my voice uber-casual. Like it's no big deal either way. “Sure.”

“Okay. Let's go catch the bus then.”

Since two out of three Ashleys already have their licenses and matching BMWs, this public transportation thing is a new concept to me. In fact, before now, I hadn't even known our town had a bus line. But sure enough, minutes later, a big gray vehicle pulls up to the bench we've been waiting on and opens its doors. We pay our dollar and scamper to the back.

Starr pulls out a pair of headphones and sticks them in her ears, effectively preventing any chatting on the way there. But I'm cool with it. Instead, I stare out the window and watch the world I know—subdivisions, shopping malls, and upscale restaurants—slowly morph into a much more depressing scene.

The mansions with their perfect paint jobs and meticulously landscaped yards melt into rickety triple-decker apartment buildings with sagging porches and trash-filled lots. The shopping malls with their Macy's and Nordstrom anchor stores are replaced by small, squat, standalone shops advertising Bail Bonds, Pawn Shops, and Cash Advances. And the restaurants with their surf and turf specials have downsized into $4.99 all-you-can-eat buffets, and an obscene number of McDonald's squat on nearly every corner.