Some Kind of Wonderful (3 page)

"Just so you know," Judith said, shaking me out of my reverie. "I would have totally killed you if you'd picked Meredith over
me."

We all laughed, but as I looked across the table, my stomach knotted. As SBB always wisely told me—that girl has a proverb
for everything—every jest carries a glimmer of truth.

Chapter 3

DATE NIGHT...WITH MY BODYGUARD?

O
n Saturday night, I was standing before my vanity
a
mirror, trying to figure out how to zip up the back of my new black knee-length dress, when Adam called to say he'd be at
my place in twenty minutes. I calmly said I couldn't wait to see him, and then flipped into frantic primp mode.

I wished Feb were home. I'd been her date prep assistant since I was seven years old and she went on her very first official
date. His name was Trenton Tallard the Third, and he asked Feb to accompany him to his sister's wedding. I still remember
the pink streaks she put in her hair and the fishnets she insisted on wearing, despite my mother's stern warning that "no
respectable girl goes to Tavern on the Green dressed like Gwen Stefani." I sat next to Feb in front of her vanity while she
painted both sets of our toenails with dark green NARS nail polish.

Whenever I had trouble sleeping when I was a little kid, I used to imagine my own first date. I'd lie in bed and picture my
own grown-up self, sitting in front of my vanity, switching the lighting setting to
evening
and primping and powdering so that my own Prince Charming would be blown away when he knocked on my front door with calla
lilies.

Little did I know then that the ideal date in a guy's universe didn't exactly include an arranged bouquet from Michael George
and a carriage ride through Central Park. So far, I'd had my share of boyfriends, but Jonathan's idea of eighth grade courtship
included buying me a large box of Hot Tamales and coming over with something from Netflix. And Bennett, my most recent ex,
was very sweet, but his romantic overtures included me helping him leaf through racks of comic books in dusty comic book shops
in the Village.

Adam was different. He was super observant, so he was great at reading me and was always the first person to notice the little
things—from a new haircut I'd gotten, to my embarrassing fear of cactuses, to the face I unintentionally made when I was ready
to leave a party.

Which is why it didn't surprise me that Adam actually remembered the date of our one-month anniversary,
and
thought to plan ahead since it fell during Thanksgiving weekend,
and
showed up on time with a bouquet of some really unique bright orange calla lilies.

"Hey, Flan," he said, when I pulled open the front door. I loved that when he talked to me, his voice sounded totally different
than it did when I heard him calling out football plays on the field. "You look really nice," he said.

"Thanks," I said. It still made me blush when he complimented me, but suddenly I was glad I'd done more than just slick on
some ChapStick and throw on a pair of jeans like I usually did when we hung out. I'd actually gotten a manicure at Bliss that
morning, and I used the good Frederic Fekkai hair mask, too. The dress I was wearing (I'd finally managed to zip it up) was
from 202, which is probably my favorite store in the city. It's a trendy brunch spot slash chic clothing store. You can gorge
yourself on lemon ricotta pancakes and not even have to leave your seat to do some of the best window-shopping in Chelsea.

"Ready to go?" Adam asked.

I nodded and turned around to give my Pomeranian, Noodles, one last kiss.

"Be good," I told Noodles, who sneezed out a good-bye.

We were halfway down the stairs of my brownstone when we noticed my parents walking up the sidewalk.

"Who are these two trendsetters?" my dad asked, jokingly. He'd already met Adam—they'd spent a good twenty minutes comparing
their fantasy football teams, which was the ultimate icebreaker with my dad.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Flood," Adam said, smiling easily. It was cool that he never got high-strung about being around my parents.

"Flan, you're a goddess," my mother said. "How did I ever give birth to you?"

It was the same thing my mother said every time she was home to see me, whether I was wearing a prom dress or pajamas.

As we said good-bye to my parents and started walking to the restaurant, Adam put his arm around my shoulders. Even though
it was kind of heavy, I appreciated the gesture to shield me from the icy November wind. Walking next to Adam, I realized
I was glad that I'd decided to go with the vintage red heels instead of my typical Hollywould flats. I had been feeling like
the Tower of Pisa this week, but then I remembered with relief that Adam was six-foot four. It was the first time all week
that I hadn't felt like a giant.

When we got to Perilla, we were seated at one of the curved banquettes. The place was laid out really nicely, with lots of
bold reds and whites and dark woods. The music was on pretty loudly and there was an even louder buzz of voices talking over
it. I had to scrunch really close to Adam to get him to hear me when I talked, which wasn't a bad thing at all.

Over appetizers of duck meatballs, Adam took my hand. "I owe you an apology," he said.

"For what?" I asked. What could he possibly have done wrong?

"For being so insanely busy with football. I know I haven't had a ton of time to hang out. But between Coach pressuring me
to implement all these new plays and double practices . . . well, I just hope these past few weeks haven't been too hard on
you."

I was on my way to laughing out loud when I realized that Adam was being one hundred percent serious.
Uh-oh.
Was it bad that I'd barely noticed how swamped he'd been with football? "Don't sweat it," I said. "I've been crazy busy myself."

"But Flan, you deserve a guy who can totally be there for you. As soon as football season's over next month, I'm going to
bring the focus back to us."

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

The truth was, I was happy with the way our relationship was going. I mean, we already saw each other every day at school,
and we hung out at least once a week. How much more did he think we were missing out on? As Adam snuggled closer to me in
our curved leather banquette and kissed my cheek, I suddenly found myself wondering whether I was ready for him to
bring the focus back to us.

I tried to lighten the mood. "So guess where I'm going for Thanksgiving break?" I asked.

"Plymouth Rock?" Adam joked.

"Not quite," I said. "My family's going to some bungalow resort in Nevis. I'm super excited. Meredith and Judith are coming,
too."

"My family's going to Chicago," Adam said. "We go to the Bears game every year. It's fun—not Nevis fun, but still pretty awesome."

He refilled my water glass from the crystal pitcher on the table. "So, how are Judith and Meredith? Everything back to normal
between you guys after . . ." His voice trailed off. He knew we'd gotten in a little tiff over him, but I'd tried to spare
him most of the gory details.

"Completely," I said as the waiter set down our steaming entrees. I couldn't wait to dig into my organic free-range chicken
with baby bok choy. "They're such great girls—nothing like my old friends from Miss Mallard's."

Adam squinted at me and angled his head. "What do you mean? What were your old friends like?"

I didn't know why I'd brought that up. The memories of my old friends must have been all tangled up in my head with the thoughts
my mother planted about returning to the private school world. I thought of one girl's face in particular: Kennedy Pearson,
with her cascade of wavy dark hair and piercing green eyes. She'd been one of many Queen Bees at Miss Mallard's and, once
upon a time, we'd been friends.

But that was a long time ago, and right now I was with down-to-earth, sweet Adam, who didn't need to know a thing about the
awfulness that was Kennedy Pearson.

"Just, um, not as cool," I said. "Everyone I've met at Stuy has been so chill and nice and fun to be around." I gave him my
brightest, happiest picture-taking smile. "Especially you."

As soon as we polished off our main courses, I had my eye on the dessert list—I never feel like a meal is over until I've
gorged myself on something like . . . sticky pineapple coconut cake.
Yum.

When Adam saw me ogling the dessert menu, he said, "Oh . . . I was thinking of showing you this amazing ice cream place I'd
just discovered on Bleecker, but if you'd rather stay here, that's fine, too."

Immediately, I knew what place he was talking about. Cones—the place that had been my favorite ice cream spot for years, the
place I'd discovered when Jonathan took me there in eighth grade. Jonathan, who, unlike Adam, actually knew about a good spot
before the whole planet read about it on Citysearch. I shook myself out of that thought. A heads-up on the new hot spots was
not
the reason I was dating Adam. I was done with guys like Jonathan.

"On second thought," Adam said, "let's just stay here. From the way you're staring down the table next to us, it looks like
you've got your heart set on the cake they ordered."

I laughed. "Am I that easy to read?"

"I like to pay attention," he said, looking at me earnestly, like he was ready to bring the focus back to us
right now.

"Well, I don't mess around when it comes to coconut," I said lightly, examining my dessert fork to avoid his intense gaze.

After we polished off our amazing cake, Adam paid the bill and started to walk me home. Just then, out of the corner of my
eye, I spotted some of the boys from Feb and Patch's crew walking across the street, probably headed out for steaks at Freeman's.
Of course, they were dressed to impress, every one of them sporting three-hundred-dollar jeans and a watch the size of a hockey
puck.

They all had tons of product in their hair so they were practically glinting, and sure, more than a few of them were shorter
than me by now, but there was still something about the way they sauntered down Bleecker Street like they owned it. It made
me shiver.

There were guys in this crowd I used to drool over, and now here I was, walking on the other side of the street encased by
my ail-American football player. For a second, I felt like I was living in
Grease,
a real-life Sandra Dee running into the T-Birds at the diner with my clean-cut athlete boyfriend.

Suddenly Arno Wildenburger caught my eye. It was the first time I'd seen him in forever without giant Gucci sunglasses protecting
his face. Tonight, they rested on top of his head—in case he needed them in the dimly lit club, I was sure. As we approached
each other, Arno's mouth curled into a smile and I was sure my cover was blown. Soon all the boys would be hooting about Patch's
little sister on a date.

But then, something strange happened. Arno winked at me. And I realized it wasn't because he recognized me—he didn't.
Arno was checking me out?

I ducked my head into Adam's shoulder, hoping this would keep me out of sight from the others. Luckily, Adam didn't seem to
notice anything strange and had enough to say about football until we turned the corner. Maybe he would think that when I
pulled him closer, I was just impressed by his football stats. Adam just wasn't the type of guy ever to guess that I'd be
using him as a bodyguard, a shield against my other life.

When we reached my front stoop, Adam put both his arms around me.

"Thanks for an awesome time tonight," he said.

As he kissed me lightly on the lips, I
should
have been thinking about what a perfect night it had been from start to finish. How chivalrous Adam always was. How great
he looked in his preppy tucked-in yellow Brooks Brothers shirt.

But for some reason, I wasn't. I couldn't shake the feeling that something had just shifted inside me. Maybe it had to do
with literally hiding behind Adam when I saw Arno & Co.

Was it because I didn't feel like having my date interrupted?

Or was it because it was more than just Adam I was hiding behind? Was my whole switch to Stuy a way of hiding from my other
life?

Chapter 4

PACKING WITH THE STARS

I
'd set my alarm for eight o'clock Sunday morning, knowing that I had a full day of packing ahead of
&
me. If there was one thing in the world that I hated to do, it was to pack. I had a hard enough time deciding what to wear
every morning to school—how was I supposed to know what I'd feel like wearing a full week ahead of time?

I would have asked Feb for some help, but we hadn't seen her in two weeks. There'd been one picture of her in Page Six at
5 Ninth with Ric Roderickson's director brother, Kirk, but that was last Thursday and the messages I'd gotten from her cell
phone had all been totally garbled. My dad did show me a photo Feb had sent to his iPhone the day before. Feb was wearing
a business suit and cat's-eye glasses, sitting in a boardroom next to Emerald Wilcox, daughter of Blast Records music mogul
D. Wilcox, and what looked like a team of architects.

"What's she playing this week, do you think?" he asked me, showing the picture.

I shrugged as my mother called out from the terrace, "Maybe she's working on that new Google competition to send a rocket
to the moon—I saw a segment on
The Soupl
Check with Patch, he'll know."

But none of us had seen Patch either, ever since he left a week ago to get a burger at Shake Shack and apparently forgot to
come back. I wondered if his disappearance had anything to do with the fact that his Princeton early admissions letter arrived
two days before he wandered out. But then, it wouldn't be like Patch to worry about the contents of that letter—that would
be something
Fd
do. Patch had probably forgotten entirely that this week was the big reveal for early admissions decisions. The letter sat
there on our kitchen counter, just chilling out, much like its addressee, calmly wedged between the fake lemons my mother
had bought in Brazil that my father thought looked like grenades.

I knew when the time came for
my
college admissions, I'd be chasing the mailman down the block every day after school. I was stressed out enough by the idea
of packing for a simple one-week vacation.

Meredith, Judith, and I had scheduled a conference call at ten so we could have a virtual packing powwow. As Meredith had
wisely informed us, three heads were better than one when it came to limited suitcase space.

When my phone rang, I had to scramble over some piles of clothes on my slate gray canopy bed to answer it. I sat on my favorite
Conran Shop rocking chair under the framed (and signed) movie poster from SBB's latest blockbuster hit and was greeted by
M&J's chipper voices on the other end of the line.

"Okay, first things first," Meredith said. "Who's bringing their diffuser? I think we only need one."

"What are you talking about?" Judith said, and I figured she was going to make a crack that Meredith's curls were the only
things that were going to need diffusing among our three heads. But then she said, "First things first means, how was your
date last night, Flan?"

"Well," I said cautiously. This was the first time Adam had come up since the girls had professed that they were over it.
I decided to test the waters. "We went to Perilla," I said.

"Perilla!"
Judith shouted. "You're so lucky! How was it?"

"It was great," I said, already feeling relieved. "And he brought me calla lilies."

"Calla lilies!"
Meredith said, matching Judith's pitch. "Those are your favorite! He's so sweet!"

It was awesome to hear them both sound genuinely excited for me. I leaned in to smell the lilies in their vase next to my
chair.

"Okay, let's cut to the really good part. How was the kiss?" Judith said. She was such a sucker for the good night kiss anecdote.

"Um, yeah,"
Meredith said. "Get to the good stuff."

"On a scale of one to ten?" I said, fully getting into the storytelling mode. "Eleven. I'd say it was just slightly more passionate
than normal, without feeling too intense."

"Awesome,"
they said simultaneously. What was even more awesome was their reaction to my date. Finally everything was starting to feel
back to normal among us.

Judith sighed. "And I thought I was having fun last night watching the DVD of
Weeds
with my boyfriends, Ben and Jerry."

"Hey," Meredith said. "There'll be none of that party pooperness in Nevis. Speaking of which, I just had the
most amazing ideal
You might even call it a packing stroke of genius."

"Okay," Judith said. She was used to Mer's bubbly outlook. "Lay it on us."

"What if," Meredith said, "we come up with a set of rules, one for each of us to follow? Our mission is to break out of our
normal fashion modes and release our inner vacation goddesses!"

Half an hour later, we'd decided on the rules.

Judith was to bring at least two pairs of shoes that were
not
sensible. If necessary, she was to visit the Barneys warehouse for said non-sensible shoes. Extra points would be awarded
for heel height.

Meredith was to try to limit patterned pieces to one per outfit. It was true you could get away with wearing just about anything
in the Village, but Mer's bohemian threads, when layered one on top of the other—paisleys and bold flowers and once, I swear,
I even spotted argyle in her closet—well, Judith and I worried all that activity just might frighten the natives.

As for me . . . my wardrobe in Nevis could not include more than three solid-colored boat neck shirts—my fallback when I'm
feeling drained of fashion energy.

When the vacation attire rules were sufficiently agreed upon and our suitcases were completely stuffed, we hung up and agreed
to meet at the Cosi in Terminal D at LaGuardia the next morning.

I was about to close my closet door when I began to worry that, with only three solid-colored shirts to choose from, I wasn't
really bringing the best options. I didn't want to break the rules, but suddenly I wasn't sure whether I should pull the lavender
Petit Bateau T-shirt in favor of a cream colored Marc Jacobs tank. I held both of them up against my torso in the mirror.
Making all of these decisions was pretty exhausting. Why couldn't I just have it all?

At least I hadn't had to choose between Meredith and Judith on this trip. Friendship was one arena where it never helped to
be restrictive.

Suddenly the door to my bedroom burst open and in marched Sara-Beth Benny.

"Omigod! Sara-Beth, you scared me!"

She struck a paparazzi-worthy pose, with one hand on her hip and her chest and butt extended so that she looked even tinier
than normal. In her high-pitched voice, she called out, "Get over here and give me a kiss if you want to touch the lips that
Jake Riverdale was smooching last night!"

"Would you settle for a big hug?" I laughed.

"That works," she said, embracing me and plopping down on my bed. "Actually, you're right not to be starstruck about JR. I
mean yeah, he's gorgeous, but he's actually sort of a moron. It's really extremely unfortunate," she said dramatically.

I knew Sara-Beth was on location somewhere in Texas, starring opposite Jake Riverdale in a remake of
Bonnie and Clyde.
Aside from what she was wearing— a Pucci do-rag, ankle boots, and an oversized jersey knit T-shirt dress—I could totally see
how her spark plug energy and dramatic flair would make her a great Bonnie. I envisioned her egging Clyde on to hold up just
one more bank before they called it a night.

"Flan, you wouldn't believe the pressure I'm under. I told Spencer and his team I just can't
zvork
with these people, but they only care about the bottom line. Ugh, agents! You know7?"

"I know." I laid down next to SBB on the bed and patted her shoulder, my packing woes forgotten. Sometimes SBB was the only
person who could bring me back down to reality. Probably because she was so crazy.

"Sometimes I think I'm the only sane person on the set," she continued. "Ric Roderickson is the director from hell. He listens
to anything Jake says.
Bonnie
and Clyde
is a
classic
—it is so
not
supposed to be a musical. I swear, if I have to sit through one more table read practically yodeling my lines, I'm going to—"
She shot up from my bed and landed on my suitcase. "Wait, Flan, are you going somewhere? And did you grow? You barely even
fit on this bed! You promised me you wouldn't get any taller!"

I stood up too and noticed the striking difference between SBB's height and my own. She's very sensitive about her five-foot
stature and once made me sign an affidavit saying I wouldn't wear heels in front of her.

"Sorry, SBB, it wasn't really something I could help. Believe me, I wish I wasn't so enormous all of a sudden."

"Enormous schmeenormous. You're just saying that to make me feel better. I was told by Lucy, my tarot reader, that I was going
to be five-foot eleven someday. You're so lucky, Flan, you know that?
Sigh."
Her bony shoulders sagged.

"I guess so . . .," I said.

"I know so and that's that. Now tell me, where are you taking your tall self? Somewhere fabulous, I hope?"

"My family's going to Nevis for Thanksgiving," I said. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."

"Nevis?"
SBB jumped up and began to rummage through my sock drawer for no apparent reason. "What I wouldn't give to be back in Nevis!
I once spent two of the most amazing weeks in Nevis—now, was that last year or the year before? I can't remember." She started
waltzing around my room with a pair of my tube socks in her hands. "It was perfect. You remember, when I was dating . . .
what was his name . . ."

"Jared," I said.

"Jared! That's right, the one who modeled for Calvin Klein for, like, a second. Totally washed up now and it's so sad. The
problem was his head, if you remember. It was shaped like, what did I used to say?"

"A cereal box."

SBB collapsed in a fit of giggles, which always made me laugh, too. Being with SBB was always so easy. All we did was make
each other laugh. No drama, no competition. It might have been because we existed on totally different planets, but still.

"So you're going to Nevis and this is what you're bringing?" she said, eying my suitcase. I knew what was coming next.

She snatched up the two shirts I'd been deciding on when she first burst into the room. Now they were crumpled into two balls
next to my suitcase.

"Didn't I teach you how to fold?" she asked. "My guru taught me. I know, yoga and material objects don't really go hand in
hand, but he was really very fashion forward." Sara-Beth whipped the shirts into two origami triangles, each one-eighth its
original size, and tucked them both into my suitcase.

"No, wait," I told her, reaching for the shirts. "I'm only allowed to bring three solid-colored boatnecks!"

"What in God's name are you talking about?" she said. "I never want to hear you talk about packing restrictions again. You
can never be too prepared in Nevis. Now, what you need is a bigger suitcase. Do you have one lying around someplace? Where's
your storage facility? You must have something."

I shook my head.

"Well then, let's say no more," SBB said, spinning around my room. "I have an absolutely genius idea!