Notable (Smith High) Read online

  Amy looked thoroughly disgusted with all of us for doubting her survival skills, but she caved under pressure and promised to keep her mouth shut, her nose buried in a book . . . and her eyes peeled for Cambodia’s most notorious drug tycoon. I couldn’t help wondering if it was those big, innocent Bambi eyes that were preventing people from taking her too seriously, much in the same way that everyone acted as if the natural color of my hair debilitated brain function.

  “She’ll have her new prepaid cell phone with her in the lobby,” I reminded everyone. “Amy can handle herself too. So, can we leave already?”

  Amy nodded in agreement and then studied me closely. “You’re not going to wear that to the bar, right?”

  Oh yeah, if she was already thinking like, well . . . me, then Amy was definitely ready to handle a little reconnaissance mission.

  “Good point. I definitely need to change out of these jeans.”

  Ben flopped down next to Amy on the bed, the swim trunks he’d just retrieved from the very bottom of his suitcase already forgotten. “I think I should wait before going to the pool. It’s not a good idea to swim right after lunch.”

  He patted his stomach so unconvincingly that Amy, Liz, and I laughed. Houston didn’t appear to find it funny, however. Instead he began pacing around the room.

  “Yeah. You’re real subtle, Ben.” Unzipping my own suitcase, I rummaged through its contents, sorting everything into piles based on the level of sexiness. I briefly held up a sparkly black top for consideration before tossing it into the maybe pile.

  “That one,” Ben croaked. “You should definitely wear that one.”

  Liz shook her head. “Too obvious. She doesn’t want to look desperate, and sparkles don’t exactly scream sophistication.”

  I was willing to concede that point.

  I held up a fairly conservative silk number . . . and then I remembered that my hair was now a matching fire-engine red. “Okay, that’s not going to work.” I tossed it onto the bed before anyone could comment and continued digging in my bag.

  But the blouse caught my eye once again as Amy carefully began folding it.

  “Want to try it on?”

  “I, uh, don’t know if it’ll fit me.” Amy’s cheeks began to match the shade of the shirt while I mentally started to backpedal.

  The last thing I ever wanted to discuss was weight.

  It’s one of those subjects that makes everyone feel awful, regardless of their body type. Sure, I’ve always been thin. That’s just the way my body is built. Which is incredibly lucky because the one job I actually want—to be a professional dancer—demands a certain look. And I’ve got it.

  But I’ve also got to deal with rumors that I’m secretly bulimic, even though the only time I’ve ever thrown up at school was after dissecting a frog in biology. Still, every couple of months I’m even called into the health office because a “concerned friend who prefers to stay anonymous” thinks I have an eating disorder. Then I get handed a whole bunch of pamphlets about body dysmorphic disorder while they insist that I’m in a safe space where I can share my problems.

  Except my only real problem was knowing that my parents would be bickering when I got home. That at some point in their argument my mom would inevitably begin making dire predictions about my future—no college would accept me, no restaurant would ever hire me, etc.—and she’d insist that eventually my looks would fade and then I’d wish they had both pushed me just a little bit harder.

  Not something I really wanted made common knowledge. So I took the pamphlets and kept my mouth shut.

  “The offer still stands if you change your mind,” I told Amy.

  It looked like she rethought saying anything when Ben waved a hand at me to hurry it up.

  “What else have you got?”

  I held up a dark blue dress that featured a rather deep V-neckline, requiring a camisole underneath.

  He wolf whistled. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  Houston couldn’t seem to find the humor in the situation. “She’s seventeen. Let’s just . . . not do this okay? There are too many things wrong with this situation.”

  It was kind of nice seeing him genuinely flustered. Especially because Mackenzie wasn’t around this time. “By most people’s standards this isn’t even risqué. Loosen up, Houston. It’s not exactly made out of mesh.”

  When his scowl only deepened, I couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “Now that I think about it, I might have some mesh in here.”

  Ben perked up. “Really?”

  “No!”

  “What a shame.” Liz pretended to leer at me. “I’d have enjoyed that.”

  “Hey! You’ve already got a girlfriend.”

  She winked. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good show.”

  “Speaking of Sara,” I interjected before Ben could say something beyond inappropriate, “what was her reaction to all of this Neal stuff?”

  Liz began folding up the clothes I had tossed aside as a guilty flush crept up her neck. “I, uh, didn’t tell her.”

  I definitely hadn’t seen that coming. “Why not?”

  Her shoulders lifted in a halfhearted shrug. “She’s got enough to worry about right now. Her mom is giving her a hard time about her tuition money.”

  “What does that mean?” Amy asked softly.

  “It means that it’s none of our business,” Houston interrupted. “So why don’t—”

  “I’m fine, Houston. Really. It’s not all that hard to answer. Sara’s mom is threatening to stop paying for college if she keeps dating me.”

  Dead silence met that announcement.

  “Yeah, there was no celebrating in Sara’s family when she came out of the closet. We’ve been together for two years, and they still won’t admit that I’m her girlfriend. They spent the first six months of our relationship hoping that they could somehow pray the gay away. Since that didn’t work, they’re now trying to pay the gay away.”

  It actually made me miss my dad for the first time in years. Usually, I was so angry at him for hiding away in his office at Lewis & Clark, it didn’t leave much room for me to feel anything else. Probably because underneath my anger was a pretty deep layer of hurt. And given the choice, I’d much rather be spitting mad. But at least my parents wouldn’t threaten to stop paying my tuition if I brought home a girlfriend.

  Granted, neither of them believed I could get accepted into college.

  But still.

  Amy nudged Liz’s shoulder in a silent show of solidarity. “Well, that puts my problem in perspective.”

  We all turned to her and waited expectantly.

  “I have to keep coming out to my family. As straight.”

  Liz’s laugh was huskier than usual, but Amy still beamed with pride at her success. “You’re kidding,”

  “Nope. My parents hint at it every few months. You know: How’s your love life, honey? Have you met any cute girls? Or boys? We’ll love and support you regardless of your sexual orientation. You know that, right? And then I’m stuck going, Uh, yeah. Thanks. That’s really sweet but . . . um, I’m still straight. Just like the last time you called.”

  Ben stretched. “I’ve never had a problem convincing people of anything.”

  Amy rolled her eyes at Ben, while Houston stopped pacing and sat down next to Liz.

  “I may know someone who can help with the financial aid office if Sara’s parents follow through on their threat. So if she ever wants me to make some calls . . . well, just say the word.”

  Liz slung her arm around his shoulder. “Thanks, Houston. I appreciate that.”

  He shifted uncomfortably as he tried to play it off as no big deal. Just Houston being . . . Houston. His eyes connected with mine, and I could practically feel him begging me to create a distraction.

  It was kind of cute.

  Really cute, actually.

  So I made a big production of grabbing my low-cut blue dress and sauntering over to the bathroom.
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  “I’ll be right back,” I promised coyly and shut the door on another one of Ben’s wolf whistles.

  Showtime.

  Chapter 23

  Creating massive amounts of stupidity is something of an art form.

  You have to factor in the gender ratio of the room, the genre and volume of the music, the amount of skin on display, and most importantly, the availability of liquor, in order to get the conditions just right for poor decision making.

  Good thing I’m something of an expert on the subject.

  Which is why when I emerged from the bathroom after applying my makeup for maximum impact, I looked like my parents’ worst nightmare. Houston wasn’t exactly thrilled with the results either. His eyes barely met mine once before he quickly glanced down at his watch as if it was critically important that he monitor the seconds ticking by.

  Probably because I had transformed myself physically into the girl from last year’s Christmas party.

  And I did it knowing that within five minutes I could make everyone at the bar underestimate me by slipping into the role of an empty-headed twit whose life ambitions were exclusively centered around designer labels and red carpets. A role I relished the chance to play if this time it could help Neal. I flashed the group my most devastating grin as I twirled for inspection.

  “Go knock ’em dead,” Liz told me.

  “Oh, I plan on it.” I turned to Houston. “As for you, when we’re at the bar, don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to anyone near me. Don’t—”

  “I get it.”

  “Good.”

  We rode the elevator in silence while I mentally ran through my plan one last time. Not that I needed to stress over it. This was one of the few areas in my life where I trusted my instincts. Sure, trying to create drug contacts in a third-world country might be significantly more dangerous than getting dirt on fellow high school students. But the technique wasn’t all that different.

  And I’d been inadvertently preparing for this moment since middle school.

  The hotel obviously catered to wealthy travelers, and there were plenty of tourists at the hotel bar, which allowed me to simultaneously blend in and stand out. That’s the trick to getting noticed for all the right reasons: You never want to be the only person in a crowd who looks different. If the dress code calls for a slinky black dress, a hot-pink, sparkly number is a risky move. The safer course of action is to make sure that the black dress draping your figure is the most flattering one in the room.

  Except the large quantity of corporate guys in dark suits meant I was going to have to tweak my normal approach. So I whipped out my cell phone and hastily brushed off the fine coat of white powder that clung to the surface, before I aimed one last warning look at Houston and sauntered over to the busiest part of the bar.

  “What do you mean ReadySet isn’t here?” I demanded, mimicking my mom’s irate voice of authority. “What am I supposed to do? Waste my time waiting for some wannabe rock stars who have barely left puberty behind them?”

  That definitely caught the attention of half the guys at the bar. Well, that and the V-neck of my dress as I played the role of frustrated, high-powered businesswoman to perfection.

  “You know what? Fine. But I’m charging my bar tab to the company.” I thrust my cell phone back into my purse while I slid onto a barstool next to the youngest-looking guy without a wedding band.

  Then I mentally began counting.

  One. Two. Th—

  “Having a rough day?”

  The stranger’s cologne smelled overwhelmingly of citrus, but it fit with his preppy Harvard brochure looks. He seemed like the type who was used to trying a little bit too hard. Which meant that he would be too thrilled with a reversal of fortunes to risk blowing it by asking the wrong kind of question. The rush of a performance heightened my every sensation as my target was officially acquired.

  “The worst,” I admitted with a soft sigh. Then I gave him a warm look that said I was more than willing to let him try to make it better.

  “Why don’t I buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it.”

  Oh yeah, redheads can definitely have just as much fun as blondes.

  “Are you sure you really want to hear it? I just got off the flight from hell.” I made a face that I hoped would come across as endearingly charming instead of unsophisticated. “I kid you not, four screaming babies.”

  “Ouch,” he winced, while I ordered a glass of red wine. Not my preferred drink of choice, but I thought it added a classier touch.

  “No kidding. It gets worse too. Apparently, my Rolling Stone interview depends on the whims of a boy band.” I took a sip of wine before flashing a grateful smile. “Enough about me. What brings you to Cambodia?”

  He tugged at his tie self-consciously. “I’m here with a team from Brookes and Merriweather.”

  I laughed delicately. “I’m sure I’d find that very impressive if I was familiar with the company.”

  He flushed. “I’m part of a team of lawyers.”

  I surreptitiously glanced around the bar and counted at least five other guys in his pack of suits who appeared curious about the redhead chatting up their geeky coworker. In fact, the only guy within a twenty-foot radius not tracking my every movement was Houston. Apparently, the football game playing above the bar was far more interesting to Houston than watching me work my magic. Although at least he wasn’t brooding or scowling at anyone whose gaze lingered too long on my cleavage. That would have been a whole lot harder to explain away.

  I leaned in closer toward my intended target. “So if the band never shows up, should I get you to represent me in court?”

  He laughed self-consciously. “Not yet. I’m actually still an intern.”

  It didn’t make a difference to me. All that I really needed was a good excuse to linger in a bar for a few hours. One that didn’t seem likely to protest loudly if I had to leave suddenly, because his expectations had been fairly low all along.

  “So does that mean you’ll be stuck under a mountain of paperwork here?” I asked conversationally while I surveyed the room once more in the hope of seeing something . . . not quite right.

  Nothing jumped out at me.

  Then again, my eyes had developed a terrible habit of lingering on one particular person sitting on the other side of the bar.

  “Worse, I’m going to be stuck in meetings. Get twenty lawyers in a boardroom and—”

  His words were cut off as one of his cheerfully intoxicated colleagues draped an arm around his shoulder. “Who’s this, Wesley? Can’t keep the pretty girl to yourself.”

  I didn’t hear any slurring, but that didn’t make me any more comfortable with an unexpected third-party intrusion.

  “Ignore him,” the guy who was apparently named Wesley murmured in my ear. “Aaron thinks he can handle his liquor, but two drinks in and he’s like this for the rest of the night. But he’s totally harmless, I swear.”

  Aaron smiled, and I noticed the red flush in his cheeks that was a dead giveaway that he had exceeded his limits.

  “Wesley, huh? I’m glad I finally caught your name. I like it.” I maintained my flirtatious body language as I evaluated his buddy: Asian American, judging by his accent, or lack thereof, with dark black hair and an attractive smile. “Nice to meet you too, Aaron.”

  “Y’know, I think we may have real chemistry together. What’s your name, babe?”

  Apparently, it was possible to have a more patronizing nickname than princess.

  I took an extra-long sip of wine while I racked my brain for a good fake name to help keep me in character. Something that would make me feel strong. Something that would remind me of just how much power I’d been able to wield at Smith High School. A dim memory of Jane’s nicknames for Ashley and Steffani back at the Portland Airport began to take shape. I could feel it percolating to the surface despite the nice buzz slowly building from the wine.

  Fake and Bake. Which meant that I had to be—
r />   “Lake. My name is Lake Scott.”

  “Lake,” Aaron hiccuped. “I could just drown in you.”

  Wesley shook his head and mouthed the words, I am so sorry, while I did my best to play the whole thing off as a joke. Of course, I found it hilarious when guys who were one beer away from passing out started hitting on me.

  Even the fictional version of myself wanted to get out of there before the situation could become really uncomfortable.

  There was an empty suite only an elevator ride away. And it was entirely possible that I could flip through channels until I found an episode of the Real Housewives of Somewhere-other-than-Cambodia .

  Instead, I tried to subtly glance around the room again.

  “My mom’s a total hippie,” I lied, because it would seem suspicious not to say anything. “She’s a vegan peace protestor who sells crafts at Portland’s Saturday market. I’m just lucky she didn’t name me Rainbow Trout.”

  Wesley clinked his beer bottle against my wineglass with a shy smile, but the mood was broken by Aaron’s loud chortle. “Rainbow Trout! That’s hilarious. Dude, the hot chick is hilarious! ”

  Somehow I had been upgraded from a babe to a chick.

  My parents would be so proud.

  “So have you guys been able to see the sights? I’m thinking about booking a tour tomorrow.”

  Hint, hint.

  “Absolutely. There’s an amazing pagoda on top of a hill called Wat Phnom. Have you heard of it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, back in the thirteen hundreds it’s believed that the Lady Penh retrieved a tree from the river and found four statues inside.”

  “Don’t bore her, Wes.” Aaron lowered his voice, but it was still loud enough for everyone around us to hear him. “Cuz if you do that then we’ll never see her again!”

  “I’m not bored,” I promised, letting my fingers travel closer toward the ring of condensation Wesley’s drink had left behind on the bar. “I’d love to hear more about this temple.”

  Wesley shot Aaron a look of superiority, but his buddy was so focused on trying to flag down the bartender that he missed it entirely.