The Pretty One(39)

“I’m glad you’re home,” I say. “George is coming over in a couple hours.”

“Oh,” Lucy says, turning the page in her magazine.

Okay, she obviously isn’t feeling very social and so I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she, like me, has a pounding headache. Maybe it’s going around.

“So what do you think I should wear?” Even though it’s not looking good, I’m still hopeful that she’ll come around.

But Lucy just shrugs.

“Any ideas?”

“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes still glued to the magazine.

Okay, now I’m getting frustrated. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m reading.”

“You were the one who wanted me to go out with George. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“I am.”

Ugh. I open our closet door and Lucy’s dollhouse falls on my foot. I’m tempted to kick it off but in the interest of sisterly goodwill, I bend down and gently place it out of harm’s way. “Can I wear your pink shirt?” I ask (in what, for me at least, is a very sweet voice).

“Which one?”

I pull out the T-shirt she found on a clearance rack at TJ Maxx for ten dollars and wave it in front of her.

“That’s my Michael Kors shirt,” Lucy says.

I try not to roll my eyes. “Are you wearing it?”

“No,” she says, as she begins to read her magazine again. “And neither are you.”

Ouch. Someone less determined might retreat, but not me. “Why not?”

Lucy sighs long and deep, as if I’m asking if I can borrow her brand-new one-hundred-and-seventy-two-dollar jeans. “All right,” she says finally.

“Forget it.” I put it back on the hanger. “I’ll just wear one of my old hoodies.” Lucy detests my hoodies and I know the thought of her sister looking like a ragamuffin in front of her friends will inspire her to take action.

“Whatever,” she says.

Lucy doesn’t care that I’m going to wear an old hoodie on my date with George? “I just didn’t think it would be such a big deal,” I say, once again trying to bait her. “Wearing that Michael whatever shirt.”

“It’s not,” she says simply.

I walk over to the foot of her bed and cross my arms over my chest. “Is this about the play?”

“What?” Lucy puts down her magazine. I’ve got her full attention now.

“The fact that I got cast in Drew’s play and you didn’t.”

Lucy sits up straight. She angrily tightens her lips and squints her eyes. I can tell by her fiery expression that she’s ready to dress me down. Not that I didn’t think mentioning the play would incite a riot. Truth of the matter is that I know exactly what I’m doing. I’d rather have a fight than endure another day of this ridiculous silent treatment.

But I forgot that Lucy isn’t the fighting type. “Oh please,” she coolly replies. And then hugging her magazine to her chest, she walks out, slamming the door behind her.

I give the dollhouse a kick, causing the balcony to fall off. I throw the balcony in the kitchen and then shove the whole thing back in the closet.





thirteen

audition (noun): a trial hearing given to a singer, actor, or other performer to test suitability for employment, professional training, or competition.

Up until now I have always wondered what the parties my sister went to were like. One thing is certain. I thought they would be a lot better than this.

Lucy and Drew aren’t here yet so I’m sitting by myself on a sleek leather couch in Danny Warner’s giant house watching George and a group of music majors belt out Broadway tunes beside a baby grand piano. They’re each trying to sing louder than the other, each trying to be showier and peacockier and practically head butting one another out of the way.

“Megan,” George says, waving me over. “Come join us.”

“No,” I say. “That’s okay.”

“Come on,” George says. He puts his hands together like he’s praying and puckers his lips like a baby. “Please. One song for George.”

Ew. I hate baby talk and I especially hate baby faces.

I see him whisper something to Danny, who’s playing the piano. Danny begins playing a different tune as George looks in my direction. He puts a hand on his heart as he begins sing: “You are so beautiful…to me—doooooon’t you seeeeeeee? You’re everything I liiiiiiive for—”

“Okay!” I exclaim, jumping up and raising my hands as if surrendering. This is worse than Chinese water torture. “I’ll sing.”

“What do you want to sing?” he asks me.

Everyone is silent, waiting for my answer. They look at me in this impatient sort of way, like they want me to hurry up and sing so they can get back to trying to be the next Hilary Duff or whoever.

“But first,” I spit out. “I just have to…ah, get some water.”

I make a beeline out of there and into the kitchen. I practically sigh with relief when I realize I’m alone. As the crowd in the other room erupts into a rendition from West Side Story, I pour myself a glass of water and glance at the bowl of chips sitting on the middle of the table. I was so nervous about my date that I didn’t really eat much dinner. I did, however, eat two doughnuts when I got home, but as my father would’ve been quick to point out, doughnuts are loaded with fat, not protein. I gnaw on my thumbnail as I calculate the calories in my mind.