Charm and Consequence (8 page)

“I’ll bet it’s awesome,” said Angel. “And you’re going to be amazing in it, like always.”

“I'm not always good, Angel,” said Lily with a smile. “Remember that awful play I wrote when I was ten?”

“The one where you played all the lead roles and I made those terrible costumes?” asked Angel.

“The costumes were the best thing in it.”

“They were horrible!” cried Angel. “I was a total novice.”

“I was worse,” said Lily. “But look how far we’ve come since then.”

“Sure, but look how far we’ve got to go.”

“We can do it, Angel,” declared Lily, her eyes gleaming. “I know we can. I’m going to be a famous stage actress and you’re going to be a top fashion designer. It’ll happen—you’ll see.”

“I like your enthusiasm,” said Angel, “but I think it’ll need more than enthusiasm to get us over the line.”

“Nah, it just needs you to win the Teen Couture and me to convince Dad that acting is a real career.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” said Angel with a wry smile.

“It’d be a lot easier if he’d stop listening to Margot. Or just stopped seeing her altogether!”

Angel hesitated and then said tentatively, “You don’t suppose you could try to like her . . .”

Lily snorted. “Been there, done that, got burned. Anyway, even if I could bring myself to like Margot again,
nothing
could ever make me like Clarissa! She’s the most stuck-up, spoiled, self-absorbed, wanna-be-famous-for-all-the-wrong-reasons, queen diva who thinks she’s a lot more talented than she is!”

“She must be pretty talented, or she wouldn’t have got the job with Miki Merua.”

“She got the job because Margot pulled strings, like she always does.” Lily scowled. “People don’t see Margot like I do. They think she’s marvelous. It’s like she’s got some weird power that makes people practically fall over themselves to please her. She’s even got my dad sucked in.”

“Maybe when he gets back from South America, you can tell him—” Angel broke off as Lily’s cell phone buzzed insistently.

“Oh, shoot!” cried Lily. “That’s Dad now. I’ll have to go, it’s better reception upstairs.” She waved and ran out.

Angel followed her out the door.

In the kitchen, her mother looked up from cleaning the coffee machine and smiled.

“There you are, Angelique,
ma chérie
.” Ten years in New York hadn’t diluted Simone’s accent and not even her housekeeper’s uniform could disguise her indefinable air of French chic.

“Sorry I’m late, Maman,” Angel hugged her, “but I found it.”

Simone stopped cleaning. “Not the velvet?”

“Yes. Wait till you see it.”

“But where was it?”

“That little shop in Soho—I don’t know how long it’s been there but it’s everything I’d hoped for.” She opened the parcel, cradling the velvet in her arms as her mother reached out to touch it.

“It’s beautiful.” Simone looked anxious. “Did you get enough?”

“Just. It took the last of my savings, but it’s okay ’cause I’ve already paid for the international courier. The ball gown is the last thing I need to make and there’s still three weeks before I have to send everything to Paris.” Angel hugged the fabric to her chest. “I’ll have to work on it every spare minute but I know I can get it done—I must!”

Simone hesitated, then said, “You know how much I believe in you,
chérie
. I know you are talented and passionate about fashion design, but . . .” She twisted a strand of Angel’s tawny hair around her fingers. “Winning the Teen Couture is a big dream,
mon ange
.”

Angel’s blue eyes were earnest as she said, “I know, Maman, but some dreams do come true.”

“Yes, but you’re competing with teenagers from all over the world. Young people trained in fashion design, while you’ve . . .”

“Never even been inside a design studio, I know. But the Teen Couture is my chance to change all that. First prize is $50,000 and a year working in Antoine Vidal’s Paris studio.” Angel’s eyes shone. “Can you imagine? Antoine Vidal—the king of haute couture himself. I mean, he
actually
trained under Christian Dior before setting up his own fashion house and creating the Teen Couture.”

She took her mother’s hand. “And tomorrow night I might get to see him—all because you convinced Jean-Pierre to hire me as a waitress last summer.” Angel hugged the velvet. “Imagine—tomorrow night—me in the same room as Antoine Vidal. And maybe, just maybe, I might make the final in the Teen Couture and get to meet him!”

“Yes,
chérie
, I know.” Simone’s soft brown eyes were sombre as she cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. “And I know how much you dream of it all. It’s just that . . .” Her face grew sombre. “You and your papa were so close and now he is gone. I don’t want you to be hurt by anything more. Some dreams can be dangerous.”

“Not this one.” Angel’s voice rang with confidence. “I know I probably won’t win, but something good will come of it, I’m positive.”

Her mother looked skeptical. “I hope you are right,
mon ange
.”

END OF SAMPLE

Look for HOW TO DATE A NERD coming from Swoon Romance this Fall.

HOW TO DATE A NERD

Cassie Mae

Chapter One

If I say I’m sick, don’t kiss me!

Rules of keeping up your popular rep:

Number one, the shorter the skirt, the better.

Number two, natural hair color is a thing of the past.

Number three, high heels are an extension of your foot. To go without them would be like losing a toe.

Number four, guys are disposable, and should never be used more than once or for an extended period of time.

And number five, never
ever
reveal you collect
Star Wars
memorabilia, you know every line from
Lord of the Rings
, and you actually know the birth dates of all the Harry Potter cast members.

Yeah. I’m a total closeted nerd.

I'm not cool with pity glares in the hallways, painful jabs, and social scars. No thanks. It's much easier to keep my true nature hidden beneath layers of eyeliner, skimpy outfits, and even, I must admit, a rockin’ body. Though the pushup bras tend to do most of the work.

Welcome to high school. Where everyone tries to be someone else.

Well… everyone except Zak.

Here’s the DL on my next-door neighbor. He’s labeled King Dork because he wears nerdy shirts and talks in geek code. The front pocket of the plaid overshirt he wears always has at least three or four Pokémon cards in it. And if it’s not that, it’s a graphing calculator he has to keep shoving down so it doesn’t fall out. There’s a
Star Wars
keychain always clipped to the back of his holey jeans and he sometimes carries a Wii controller in his back pocket.

And I’ve got it bad for the boy.

It’s not just the fact that he was the one to introduce me to the awesomeness of the Elvish language, the hidden mysteries of World of Warcraft, and the magical world that lies beyond Platform 9 ¾. He pulls off sexy geek so damn well! His dark, like
super
dark eyes and his matching hair, which flops around his forehead when he’s laughing too hard, combined with his nice height, and
swoon
… He’s like the Peter Parker of my high school.

I may be the only person who finds his nerdiness just so hecka irresistible. Everyone else treats him like some dead bug on the sidewalk. I know how it is, and I have no idea how he handles all the verbal abuse.

Middle school Zoe—Geek Zoe, I like to call her—was made fun of and tormented so much she spent most nights crying into her pillow. High school was the break I was totally looking for. A chance to freakin’ rewrite myself into someone who’s socially acceptable. The summer before school started, I grabbed loads of magazines and watched all those teen movies that so aren’t as awesome as
Star Trek
, but worked for my status education. And apparently, I was doing this popularity thing all wrong. I had to be, like, a major bitch to people, and I’d end up getting the hottest guy in the end.

Took some work, but I think I got it down. I should win an Oscar for how awesome I am at the fake personality.

But freak, it’s been two years since I was de-geek-a-fied, and I still find myself trying to stifle the urge to buy Comic Con tickets, and try not to act jealous when I see Zak dressing up for the event.

Don’t get me wrong, my life is pretty darn fantastic and a whole heap better than the alternative, which is getting my emotional butt kicked around. So the fake persona is definitely worth it.

There’s a huge party tonight. Lots of alcohol and boys, but like every party night, I try to show off this hot bod first to my neighbor, who can see straight into my open window.

I strip down to my underwear so Zak can get a good look and turn up the music on my iPod. It’s pathetic, I know. I’m trying way too hard to get his attention, but I don’t care. It’s not like I can flirt with him at school. Social suicide bomb right there.

Stealing glances out my window into his, I flaunt around my room pretending like I’m getting ready for the party. But I can’t get a good view of Zak and I don’t want to be more obvious than I already am.

Nothing.

Huh, maybe he’s not…

Yikes! I’ve reached my
Lost
playlist and my heart stumbles over itself as I quickly turn the music back down until I can get a more trendy song on.

“Hey, I was listening to that,” a voice says from outside my window. I
knew
he was home. Darn boy, ignoring a prancing half-naked girl next door. Gosh, I thought I was doing this right. I adjust my bra to make my boobs look extra luscious, and then smoothly appear in his line of sight.

Zak is at his computer, books piled next to him. He rubs his eyes and blinks a couple times before staring back at the screen, brow furrowed. Totally not looking at me or my boobs.

“What exactly were you listening to?” I ask, using the seductive voice that guys—well,
most
guys—fall over.

Looking at me—about time—he shakes his head at my revealing attire before reaching over to a cord I can’t see. His blinds shut with a rejected
smack!

Youch.

I examine my boobs, but there’s nothing wrong there. Maybe I have a booger or something.

Nope. No booger, no drool, nothing.

Just me.

Great, now I’m all self-conscious. I’m not gonna even attempt a party appearance.

I throw on my pajamas—the big unflattering ones—and slouch on the bed. Stupid geek boy and the hold he has on me. I shouldn’t care what he thinks.

But I do. Because I care what
everybody
thinks.

I sigh and look out the window again. The sun dips below the horizon, casting orange and yellow streaks across Zak’s blinds, like something out of Harry Potter
.
Just super full of cool magic beans. I wonder if Zak’s still sitting there at his computer, typing away or plunging his nose into one of his thousands of books.

I shake my head. What does it matter what he’s doing? I. Should. Not. Care.

I hop off the bed, slam my own blinds shut and whip the curtains together. My gaze flicks to the shelves lining the wall. They have been carefully constructed to conceal accusing material, with colorful doors that slide across it, revealing some things, and hiding others. Out of habit, I check over my shoulder before I slide open one of the doors, hiding the lines of lip gloss and compact mirrors and opening the section of the shelf holding several books about the X-Men
.

I quickly grab the desired book and a flashlight and slam the door shut again. Some of the lip gloss topples over, but I make no attempt to straighten it. Must get under the covers stat! I curl up in the middle of my bed and throw the comforter over myself.

My sanctuary lies here as I open the book I’ve read thousands of times and purge my mind with paragraphs about the Dark Phoenix. Jean Grey is my idol. No one will ever know, but I most of my wardrobe is based on her.

I don’t know how long it’s been before my phone buzzes on my nightstand. Yeah, my mind turns off to the rest of the world when I ”nerd out”. I turn off the flashlight and pull the comforter off my head, keeping the book hidden as I reach over for the cell.

My stomach used to flutter whenever I read Cody’s name on the caller I.D. but now I feel nothing. I really don’t want to talk to my current boyfriend. He’d just call me some absurd pet name and ask where I was. So I let voicemail grab it.

I hear the text jingle a few minutes later as I am carefully placing my book back on its shelf.

Where is ur sxy ass???? U better get here b4 any more chicks hit on me.

Ugh. I think his ego can keep him company for a while. Still, I let him know who’s in charge of this relationship.

Another rule that’s off the record: stay in control of all the boys you let kiss you. That way they don’t end up in your pants. Nasty.

I’m sick. Thx so much 4 ur concern.

There’s no response, but I don’t care. He won’t be the first boyfriend who found someone new before breaking it off with me. I do
not
put out, although, I don’t care if they tell people I do. Helps with the rep without me actually having to do the gross part. Score!