Hot Mess Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  To my parents for always being totally supportive and totally embarrassing. I love you guys.

  —J.K.

  To Mama, the hero down the hall. To Gigi, the late bloomer.

  And to all the girls who trust their dreams more than they doubt them—be brave, fortune favors the bold.

  —S.L.

  One

  Rachel, Kyle, and I rocked up to El Shack del Tacos straight from seventh period. My boyfriend, Brian, and his posse had been there for hours. This was their last day of high school ever, and they’d commemorated it by ditching, which didn’t make sense to me. Because then yesterday was their last day. Whatever, I always tried to be fun, cool girlfriend and not logical, naggy girlfriend, so I didn’t mention it.

  Brian’s posse was really tight. They were all a year older than Rachel, Kyle, and me, and always reminding us of it. They call themselves “The Hombres.” I know—eye-roll central.

  I was sitting next to Bri, who was dressed in the typical Hombre uniform: khakis and a lame slogan tee. Today’s read “I Like Girls Who Like Girls.” What can I say? That’s my boy! Captain Classy. We’d been together for nine months officially and, I guess unofficially, ten and a half, and I couldn’t believe he was leaving at the end of the summer. Sure, he’d only be two hours away in Albany, but I knew things were going to be different between us. The official plan was to stay together. My plan was to savor this summer and hope for the best when he packed up and headed off to college in the fall.

  Luckily, we were both going to be lifeguarding at the swim club this summer, so we’d be able to hang out between adult swim and kids crapping the pool. My parents were really pushing this “summer internship in New York” idea for a while. One of Mom’s “Golf Gals!”—that’s what they call themselves. Yes, with the exclamation point. And no, not to be funny, either—said that she could set me up with some kind of internship at a branch of her company in New York. And I have to admit, a summer of pink drinks and high heels in Manhattan would have been pretty awesome, but I decided to stick with my chlorine-and-flip-flops summer here in Bridgefield. New York was always going to be New York, and I could go there another summer. But who knew with Brian? I kind of wanted to carpe diem while the diem was good with him. Pathetic or romantic? I couldn’t decide.

  I looked over at Rachel, who was all up on Warren, her apparent crush of the moment, sitting on his lap and feeding him taquitos. And poor Mister Sister Kyle, as always, was just kind of lingering around the periphery of The Hombre bunch, twisting his kabbalah bracelet uncomfortably. I knew he didn’t like Brian or The Hombres—they didn’t exactly follow Perez Hilton the way he did—but he sometimes pretended to for my sake. Not today, though. I heard him sigh loudly and then mumble something to Rachel about asphyxiating on all the testosterone. She looked at me and twirled her finger around in the air. I nodded back and reached for my bag. The finger twirl was our code that it was time to leave. Rachel’s uncle taught it to her. It was some military sign that meant start up the choppers…or missiles are coming or something. Whatever—it worked. Surprisingly, Bri took a last gulp from his soda and announced that he was going to leave with us.

  “Rach, you think you’re gonna have enough room for me?” Brian asked between belches. “I ate an extra taco. I’m feeling a little bigger than usual.”

  We all laughed at the thought of Rachel’s battleship-sized car. The girl drove a bona fide mom-mobile station wagon, complete with a “Bridgefield Elementary Super Speller” bumper sticker. The thing was so huge, it pretty much had its own zip code. I was jealous that she had a car at all, but it wasn’t exactly the Nissan Z she was hoping for on her Sweet Sixteen.

  Kyle hopped in front with Rachel and I scooted next to my still-belching bf in the back. As she turned the key to start up the bus, “Ring of Fire” blared from her speakers and we sped off, going at least twenty miles above the speed limit, as usual. Rachel tried to compensate for the fact that she drove a covered wagon by going 120 miles per hour on Ridgeline Drive.

  “Lady, it’s two-forty-five p.m., not a.m. We’re not late for curfew or anything. Slow down before we turn into a driver’s ed cautionary tale.”

  “Fine, Emma,” Rachel snapped at me, and rolled her eyes, slowing down by about four miles per hour. I still felt like I was on the Bezerker.

  “Honey, will you do something about this music, puhleeze.” Even Kyle’s whines were sassy. “I need to be celebrating the last day of junior year. This shit would make my Latin oral exam sound like music. I need to work this out, bitch!” He did his signature body wave. It totally didn’t go with the Johnny Cash blasting out of the speakers.

  Rachel slapped his hand as he reached down to find another song on her playlist. “Don’t you dare, Ky. Johnny Cash stays on. I’m doing research.”

  “On what, Professor Wolfe? How long it takes before country music will make a brother’s ears bleed?” Unless Kyle was talking to one of his siblings, he surely was not a brother. Yes, he was darker than Rachel and I were, but that had more to do with self-tanner than minority status. And Lancôme Flash Bronzer does not a black man make.

  “According to Danny’s MySpace page, Johnny Cash is now his favorite artist,” she said matter-of-factly. “By the time we’re on the bus up to camp together, I’ll be a total expert.” She turned up “Folsom Prison Blues” and pretended to sing along, but I’m pretty sure “Get this party started” isn’t part of the lyrics.

  She was what some would fondly call “boy crazy” and others would not-so-fondly call “stone cold psycho.” Either way, Rachel Wolfe was a seventeen-year-old on a mission to find a boyfriend. And “tall, dark, and handsome” were not on the checklist for her ideal mate. “Funny, intelligent, and rich” were missing, too. But “bar mitzvahed, circumcised, and from a nice family?” Check, check, and check! She was on the warpath to find a nice Jewish boy and she’d already exhausted all of the Semitic studs in Bridgefield. Well, to be fair, there was only one barely popular-enough Jewish male in our class, Josh Kleinman. After two weeks of dating him last year, she was already talking about marriage and the theme of their kids’ bar and bat mitzvahs—Casino Royale for a boy and Hollywood Lights for a girl. Needless to say, he dumped her. She totally didn’t get what scared him off.

  Anyway, Jewish summer camp was where my girl really shined. For eight weeks each summer, my best friend abandoned me in Boringsville suburbia and hauled her bug-sprayed butt over to the Pocono Mountains to be a counselor at Camp Oakmere. There, she basked in sunshine, Popsicle-stick crafts, and the groping hands of nice Jewish boys. And that’s where Danny Steinberg, the boy she was researching/ stalking, was waiting for her.

  “Why don’t you stalk him in some quieter way? Like something that wouldn’t subject your best friends to this god-awful country music? I mean, is this off the Red Neck Funeral Favorites albu
m or something? Read his favorite book, for God sakes!” Whine on, Ky, whine on.

  “He doesn’t have any books listed,” she said, like there was no shame in Internet stalking. Then again, maybe there wasn’t.

  “Stop being such a little bitch about this,” Brian yelled way too harshly at Kyle. “It’s a classic.”

  “Thank you, Brian!” a vindicated Rachel said, smiling at him in the rearview mirror.

  So we listened to the symphony of Johnny Cash and Kyle’s wails of agony all the way to Brian’s place.

  “So, what’s up for tomorrow?” Rachel asked as we pulled into his driveway. Brian climbed out of the car and bounded up to the house to give us—and Kyle—time to chick-chat.

  I leaned forward between the massive seats. “Well, I’m going to wake up early and say goodbye to Brian. He’s going to that freshman orientation thing in the morning. So I’ll be free later. Want to lie out in my backyard?”

  Rachel nodded. “I’m so there. I need to get rid of these tan lines before camp.”

  “What? Did Danny list tan lines under turnoffs on Facebook?” Kyle has more sass than Pete Wentz has eyeliner.

  I rolled my eyes and hopped out of the car, closing the door on Rachel hissing, “Shut up! He actually has ‘bitchy men who wear too much foundation’ under turnoffs!” and hustled up the driveway and into Bri’s. Neither of them noticed when I turned to wave goodbye.

  Brian’s door was unlocked, as usual. That’s what a Snoozeville this town is. No crime, even when we’re asking for it.

  “Brian?” I said as I stepped into the empty foyer.

  “Yo, I’m up here.”

  I followed his voice up the stairs and found him lying on his bed, shuffling through his iTunes. I nestled myself next to him and he closed his laptop. As he was putting the computer on his nightstand, my arms found their way around him. This was my favorite way to be with Brian: one hand on his six-pack, the other smooshed between the arch of his back and the bed, enjoying the electric seconds just before a long kiss.

  “Emmy babe, I love you.”

  It was moments like this when I didn’t know how I was going to make it without him every day. I loved him. Well, I was like ninety-four percent sure it was love. And yeah, I was pretty sure that he wasn’t The One. I mean, I knew he’d never grow beyond a Superbad-quoting, Madden-obsessed, high school boyfriend. But to throw away ten and a half months? That was longer than most Hollywood marriages. I couldn’t imagine life without him. Who’d take me home from parties when I turned into a pukey, weepy mess next year? Who’d be my date to homecoming? And who’d act like he had a secret to tell and then when I came in close, burp in my face?

  “I love you, too,” I said back to him.

  As I craned my neck up to kiss him, we felt the rumble of the garage door opening.

  “Crap,” he growled.

  His mother was home from work. We quickly positioned ourselves in our typical “We’re not having teenaged sex under your roof” pose—sitting on opposite sides of the bed staring at a textbook. It was only after Mrs. McSwain had already poked her head in to say hello that I realized how stupid we looked.

  “Happy summer, guys! Oh, my big guy is all grown up,” she sing-songed. “How was the last day?”

  In unison, “Good.”

  “Well, that’s nice. Whatcha up to now?”

  “Nothing, Mom, just studying,” he said automatically. Oh, nice one, Bri. Studying on the first day of summer? “Fending off alien attacks” would have been more believable.

  Mrs. McSwain either didn’t care or just chose to ignore it. “You staying for dinner, Em? I’m going to try and do something fun with the ziti from last night.”

  “Um, sure, Geri Anne. Thanks.” I always felt weird calling Brian’s mom by her first name, but after months of her insisting, I finally gave in. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so weird if her name weren’t Geri Anne.

  Once the door closed behind her, he pulled me close again and I rested my head on his chest.

  “Em, it’s going to be so sweet in a few months when I have my own place and we don’t have to worry about parents and shit.” Brian flashed that open-mouth smile that kind of made him look like a mouth breather. But a totally cute mouth breather.

  “Your own place? Didn’t you sign up to live with a roommate?”

  “Well, yeah. But in college, you just hang a sock on the door and boom—sexapalooza!”

  “Real romantic, babe.” I laughed and he pulled me in for a noogie.

  Two

  “Em, hand me the tanning oil, will you?”

  I groped around without opening my eyes until I found the bottle under my lounge chair. I passed it Rachel’s way.

  “Uck, I had no idea I was this pale, Emma, seriously. I look like a piece of paper. Someone’s going to try to write an essay on my—Ahh! Omigod omigod!”

  I ripped my sunglasses off to see Rachel flapping her arms hysterically, covered in blood.

  “Omigod, Rachel, you’re bleeding!” I mentally ran through how to do CPR. I’d taken a class for the lifeguard job, but I couldn’t remember any of it right now. Not like it would help with bleeding appendages, though.

  “I’m not bleeding, you idiot. I’m covered in fucking taco sauce!”

  I’d accidentally handed her the bottle of picante we’d poured over our midafternoon nachos. I laughed with relief as she kicked and screeched for help.

  “Will you please do something? I don’t want to ruin my towel. It’s the only one that matches this suit!”

  “Well,” I said, passing her my used napkin, “I could get Ajax out here to lick it off! Jaxy! C’mere, boy!”

  My half-ton Newfoundland came loping into the backyard, leaving a trail of slobber in his wake.

  “Gross! I’m not Jenna freaking Jameson!” she yelped with disgust as she dabbed herself off.

  I put my earphones back in, waiting for her to calm down. Normally she’s really mellow, but every once in a while Rachel has a shit fit that makes Naomi Campbell look like a Sunday school teacher. I think it’s because she’s an only child. Everyone says people without siblings are selfish, but that’s not true. Rachel is the most generous person. She’d give her Chihuahua a kidney if it needed it.

  “Hey, have you heard from Brian yet?” she asked, after she finished desaucifiying herself. “How’s the orientation going?”

  I realized with a stab of alarm that no, I hadn’t. “Uh, no. Not really.” I bit my lip nervously, and then quickly added, “But he’s probably just busy.” What could he possibly be doing? “He’ll call by dinnertime, right?” He said he’d call me as soon as he got to campus. That must have been six hours ago. I felt one of my nausea-inducing panic waves hit me.

  “Em, don’t stress. He so will.” She sounded like she meant it, but I couldn’t really see her eyes. She was still wearing her faux Diors, even though the sun was pretty much gone. The shades were a purchase made at the Boca flea market while visiting her grandparents in their retirement community. Ky and I call them the Velveteen Sunglasses because she acted like if she loved them enough, one day they just might turn into real live Diors.

  “Really, stop the freak-out,” Rachel commanded. “Let’s think about something way more important, okay? You only have a few more days until you’re the big one-eight! We still haven’t planned anything. We’re not leaving these lounges until we figure it out.”

  “Uck, I don’t know. I don’t even want to think about it.” My birthdays were never something I was happy about. Wait, no—I was always amped for them, but then they always turned into a disaster. Like in second grade, when I had the bowling party and little Rachel dropped nine pounds of bowling ball on her foot, broke all her metatarsals, and had to go to the hospital. Even back then, a party just wasn’t a party without my bestie, and I was miserable for the last eight frames. I saved her all of the butter cream flowers from my birthday cake, and we spent the rest of my birthday together dipping fingers into frosting roses in the ER while he
r cast set. And then there was my first boy-girl party in sixth grade, where I caught Paul Wechter—my boyfriend at the time—making out with Lexi Brown in the laundry room, and we hadn’t even made out yet. Totally traumatic at the time, but I guess it doesn’t matter now because Lexi got sent away to boarding school and Paul turned into one of those weird goth kids that draws red tears on his face with a Sharpie and smokes in front of Burger King at lunch. They’re even at Burger King every day during the summer, puffing away and partaking in group misery. Anyway, the point is that I normally build up my birthday so much and it turns out to be the worst day of the year. But I was turning eighteen this year, so despite a lackluster track record, I had to do something cool.

  “Oooh! I know, get everyone to go to Wild Waters and have a big pool party. They just put in that new slide, too. It’s supposed to be sick.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “A water park? Rachel, I’m becoming an adult, I don’t want to be in a urine-y wave pool surrounded by thirteen-year-old boys. Besides, didn’t someone break their nose there last summer on that twisty slide thing? That’s the last thing I need: ‘Welcome to adulthood, here’s a nose job!’ We could go dancing?”

  I knew that was a stupid idea as soon as I said it. I danced like a donkey on Rollerblades and Rachel was even worse. The only thing she knew about rhythm was based on Dance Dance Revolution. And a girl who danced in a perfect square faster and faster just made everyone uncomfortable.

  “Um.” Rachel absentmindedly rubbed on more SPF 4. “Oh! We’ll make Jackie take her dad’s party boat out on the lake and have a booze cruise! No parents, we’ll just float around all day and tan and get drunk.”

  The idea of cutting loose and splashing around with my friends for eight hours was definitely appealing but…

  “Isn’t that illegal? Like, that’s considered drunk driving. I really don’t need a DUI on my permanent record the very day I become a legal adult. Besides, my parents would so not dig that, and I doubt that we’d even be able to get alcohol. I feel like everyone with fakes is going to be away the entire summer.”