Teen Idol (12 page)

I Like Chuck

Dear Like,

The reason Chuck is not calling, paging, texting or e-mailing you is because YOU NEVER GIVE HIM THE CHANCE!

Annie

W
hen the nice
policeman put me in the limo with Luke Striker, I didn’t know what to do—let alone what to think. I mean . . . was this a date? Did Luke Striker have a crush on me or something? I will admit that this seemed very, very unlikely, but, you know, stranger things have happened.

Except that, from everything I’d read, Luke was still smarting over Angelique Tremaine’s betrayal. How could he just switch gears like that, go from liking a totally gorgeous movie star to liking . . . well, Jenny Greenley?

And couldn’t he tell that I didn’t like him back? At least, not that way?

Apparently not. Apparently not, because he leaned forward and said, "Let’s go to the condo, okay, Pete? And lose the convoy, if you can."

I looked behind us and saw that some of the more intrepid drivers who’d pulled up in front of Chi-Chi’s to watch all the excitement were giving us the tail. I think that’s what they call it. In the movies, anyway.

While this was somewhat exciting—especially when Pete started running red lights to lose them—it still didn’t distract me from the problem at hand.

And that was that America’s sweetheart, Luke Striker, was taking me—me, Jenny Greenley—to his condo.

"Um," I said. Because I felt like I had to say something. "You probably shouldn’t have taken your shirt off."

Okay, incredibly lame, I know, but what else was I going to say?

Luke just shook his head. He wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking at the countryside zipping by. We were well on our way to the lake, which was about ten miles outside of town. We’d managed to lose the entourage. Pete was a good driver. I wondered how the Duane County police were dealing with the crowd back at Chi-Chi’s . . . if there’d been a riot or anything. If there had been, Scott was probably in his element. He loves anarchy of any kind.

Geri, on the other hand, was probably just mad she’d worn the wrong shoes. Or hadn’t brought a camera.

"I’m getting that thing removed," Luke said bitterly.

I didn’t know what he was talking about at first. Then I realized. The tattoo.

"That must've really sucked," I said from my side of the limo. I had never been inside a limo before. Can I just say—and I know it will sound stupid—but they are really big? I mean, there’s this really long stretch of space between the backseat and the front seat. And in that space, at least in Luke’s limo, was like a console with a bar and a TV in it. It was pretty cool. I mean, if you’re the type of person who likes to watch TV in the car.

"I mean," I went on, "it must have sucked when she . . . Angelique, I mean. You know. Married that other guy."

"I don’t want to talk about it," Luke said, still looking out the window. You could see the lake, now, in between the trees. Clayton Lake is man-made, but it’s still really pretty. I've been boating on it, on a rented pontoon. I never actually get in the water, because I’m afraid I might run into a cadaver or something. But it’s still pretty to look at.

I could understand Luke not wanting to talk about Angelique. Hey, if I’d been dating someone and all of a sudden he had just up and married someone else, I probably wouldn’t want to talk about it either. So I changed the subject.

"Sorry about my friends back there," I said. "I don’t know what came over them. I've never seen any of them act like that before."

Luke looked at me then, and it was like he was seeing I was in the car with him for the first time. Then he did the strangest thing.

He smiled.

"Oh, that," he said, shaking his head. "Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time. Something happens to people when they see a celebrity. It’s like . . . I don’t know. They don’t realize we’re human, just like them, or something."

I wondered if that was it. Is that why everyone had wanted to grab Luke? To make sure he was really human? Or was it just so that on Monday they could tell people in school that they’d touched Luke Striker?

"Not you, though," Luke said, startling me a little. "You’re not like that. Some people are . . . different. Oh, great," he added, as the limo pulled to a stop. "We’re here."

We got out in front of a modern-looking house, complete with Cape Cod shingles to make it look more New Englandy. I’d been to the condos at the lake lots of times before, because my dad designed them and my mom decorated them. Both my parents had gotten way into the nautical theme of the place. There were whitewashed rafters and shells and seagull paintings everywhere, even though there’s never been a single seagull spotted at Clayton Lake. It’s a big lake, but Duane County is pretty much landlocked.

"Want a soda?" Luke asked, going to the big fancy Sub-Zero fridge.

"Um," I said. The air-conditioning was on in Luke’s condo. It was like twenty degrees or something. And all I was wearing was my still-damp bathing suit and a pair of shorts. I had to keep my arms crossed on account of the whole, you know, nipple thing.

For some reason all I could think of was what Luke had just said in the car. Er, the limo, I mean.

That I’m different.

"Sure, I’ll have a soda," was all I said, though.

"Here ya go." Luke handed me a soda. I had to uncross one arm to get it. I’m not saying Luke noticed anything was going on up there, but he went, "Let’s go out on the deck."

And to my relief, a second later he was opening the huge sliding glass doors to the deck that overlooked the lake, and we were back out in the warm sunshine.

The view from the condo was unbelievable. My dad had done a good job positioning the deck. The crystal blue lake, surrounded by thickly leafed trees, stretched out before us. There were a few sailboats out on the glassy water. The sun beat down as if it were midsummer, not spring, and birds were tweeting all over the place. It was quiet and restful and nice.

Too bad in about an hour it was going to be overrun with paparazzi. At least, it would when word got out that’s where Luke Striker was staying while licking his wounds over his abandonment by Angelique Tremaine.

Luke climbed up on one of the deck railings and twisted the cap off a beer I hadn’t seen him pull from the fridge. I wasn’t insulted that he hadn’t offered me one—I am so obviously not the type of girl anyone offers a beer to—but I was kind of wondering how he’d gotten hold of them. He isn’t twenty-one, and they card like crazy in Indiana.

Then I remembered. He’s a movie star. He can probably get as much beer as he wants, whenever he wants it.

"Nice out here, huh," Luke said, after he took a long pull from his beer.

I sipped my soda. It was nice and fizzy. Just the way I liked it.

"Yeah," I said.

Different
, he’d said.
Not you. You’re different
. It was driving me a little crazy, the fact that he’d asked me to come home with him. I mean, he obviously didn’t want
that
from me. He could have had
that
with Trina (I’m sorry to say) or any of the other girls out there in the Chi-Chi’s parking lot. Why would he have asked ME to come home with him, if sex was what he was after?

"I never went to high school," Luke said suddenly—apparently to the lake, since he certainly wasn’t looking at me. "I had private tutors. We all did, all the
Heaven Help Us
kids. So except for in the movies and on TV and stuff, I never saw what a real high school was like. I thought all those John Hughes flicks were just, you know, made up. Or maybe exaggerated a little. I had no idea . . . no idea . . . that’s what high school is really like."

Luke took a swig of beer, then lowered the bottle and looked at me.

"But it’s not," he said. "High school—in real life—is nothing like it is in those movies. In real life, it’s ten million times worse."

I just looked at him. What could I say?
Duh
? That seemed kind of rude.

"Those kids at your school," Luke said, slipping off the railing and beginning to pace the length of the deck, "are some of the rudest, most foul-mouthed, inconsiderate people I've ever met. They have—Do you know what empathy is?"

"Um," I said. "Having compassion for others?"

"Exactly. There was a consultant on
Heaven Help Us
who was a real reverend, you know, who helped with the scripts and everything. Anyway, empathy was a big thing with him. Having empathy for others. That was the first thing I noticed about Clayton High. Not a lot of people there seem capable of having empathy for the feelings of others. . . . They mercilessly torture the weak and idolize the bullies."

I did feel obligated to speak up at this point.

"That’s not true," I said, since I do not, nor have I ever, idolized Kurt Schraeder. "Not everyone—"

"Oh, no, not everyone," Luke was quick to agree with me. "No, there’s a large contingent of people who just sit back and watch while their friends get vilified. Those people are even worse than the bullies, in my opinion . . . and I think the reverend would agree. Because they could do something to stop it, but they’re too scared to, because they don’t want to be next."

I shook my head. I mean, in no way do I consider Clayton High a Utopian society or anything. But we’re not
that
bad.

"That is totally untrue," I said. "You saw for yourself that I went after Cara—"

"Oh, sure," Luke said. "You went
after
her. You mopped up her tears. But you didn’t do anything to try to stop them from hurting her."

"What was I supposed to do?" The knot, which had disappeared from my stomach days ago, came swooping back. I couldn’t believe this. He had asked me over so that he could attack my character? What
was
this? I hadn’t exactly been expecting confessions of undying devotion or sweet kisses or anything, but this was just unfair. "You want me to take on the entire school? Luke,
nobody
likes Cara—"

"No," Luke said. "Nobody likes Cara. And I can’t say I blame them. I heard you in the girls’ room with her. I heard what you said to her. It was good advice, probably the best she’ll ever get, and she completely dismissed it. But has it ever occurred to you, Jen, that while it’s true that nobody likes Cara, it’s also true that everybody likes you?"

I shook my head. "That isn't—"

"Don’t give me that. It’s true, and you know it. Name one person who doesn’t like you. Just one."

I didn’t have to think very hard. I strongly suspect Mr. Hall doesn’t like me. On account of my still not knowing the choreography for Luers.

And what about Kurt? Kurt Schraeder doesn’t like me all that much, either. Well, he probably never thinks about me at all. But that doesn’t mean when he does, it’s favorably.

"Bull," Luke said, when I offered these two names up as examples.

"Okay," I said, frustrated. "Okay, let’s just say everybody likes me. It’s not true, but let’s just say it is. So what?"

"
So what
?" Luke stopped pacing and just stared at me incredulously. "
So what
? Don’t you see, Jen? You’re in an incredible position. You could effect real social change at that place, and it’s like you don’t even realize it."

Effect real social change
? What was he talking about?

Then it hit me. What Luke wanted. Why Luke had asked me to his place. It was so obvious, a moron could have seen it, but not me. Oh, no. Not me.

Luke was on a campaign. You know, the kind celebrities go on all the time. Like Ed Begley Jr. and his electric cars, and Pamela Anderson and PETA, and Kim Basinger and those beagles.

Luke was on a celebrity campaign to promote empathy at Clayton High School, and he wanted me in on it.

I sank down onto one of the plank benches that ran along the deck railing and went, "Oh, brother" tiredly.

"Don’t
Oh, brother
me, Jen," Luke said. "You know I’m right. I've watched you, Jen. I've been doing nothing but watching you for the past four days, and the fact is, you are the only person in that whole stinking school who cares, really cares, about the people in it. Not just about yourself—in fact, I’m willing to bet that the person you think
least
of is yourself. And it’s great that you care, Jen. It’s really commendable. And I’m not saying that you haven’t done tons to make things better. But as someone—a complete outsider—who’s been watching what’s going on in that school, I’m saying you could do more."

I couldn’t take it. I really couldn't.

"What do you mean,
more
?" I wailed. "I do so much—I’m exhausted by the end of the day. Do you think it’s so easy, being me? It isn't, you know. It’s really, really hard."

"What do you mean?" Luke wanted to know, sinking down onto the bench beside me.

"You know," I said. I couldn’t believe I was telling Luke Striker—Luke Striker, of all people. Luke Striker, the hottie enigma, the one person I’d never been able to figure out. And he was now privy to my most shameful secret. It wasn’t fair.

"
I’m mayonnaise,"
I whispered. Then, when he looked confused, I said in a more normal voice, "I’m what keeps the sandwich from falling apart, see? It’s my job. It’s what I do. I smooth things over."

"Yes," Luke said, comprehension dawning at last. He even sounded excited. "Yes, you do. That’s exactly what you do!"

I didn’t see what he had to be so stoked about. But I guess it’s all right for him.
I'm
the one with the problem.

"But, Luke," I said, "that’s
all
I am. What you’re telling me . . . what you think I should do . . . I can't. I really can't."

Luke wasn’t letting go, though. He was like Trina’s cat, Mr. Momo, when he gets hold of a chipmunk. There is no letting go. Not until he’s chewed its head off.

"But is that what you
want
to be, Jen?" Luke asked me urgently. "What do you want?"

Want? What did I
want
? Was he insane?

I decided he must be. I decided I must have been kidnapped—and was currently being held hostage—by a crazy man. It made sense, actually. Why else had I never been able to get an accurate read on him? Because he was nuts.