Sk8er Boy Read online

  “Come in.”

  My mother enters the room, all pearl necklaces and Chanel No. 5, as usual. Before she became an English teacher and mother to me, she was a fashion-magazine model, which is more than likely how she nabbed my rich, older father back in the day. Once when I was spying in her bedroom, I found her old modeling scrapbook stuffed in her underwear drawer. She was beautiful back then, I’ll give her that. A smooth-skinned, dark-eyed Italian beauty. Very Sophia Loren. I bet she was super disappointed when I came out of her womb all Irish and freckled, like my dad.

  She frowns disapprovingly at my sprawled-out position on the bed.

  “You know, you have a very nice desk,” she says, gesturing to the mahogany nightmare on the far left of my bedroom. Like I said, she was a model, so she’s big on the whole posture thing.

  “I sit at a desk all day, Mom.” I tug on a blond braid in frustration. Why can’t she just leave me alone? I mean, what does it really matter whether I study on my bed or at a desk?

  Her frown deepens, but she doesn’t pursue the subject. “Well, I just came up to tell you that Magda should have dinner ready in about five minutes.”

  Magda, our housekeeper/cook, is from Mexico and makes the best meals known to mankind. Spicy Spanish dishes that deliciously burn my lips when I take a bite. The Evil Ones are constantly nagging her that she’s going to give me heartburn and to make my meals milder, but I can usually convince her to add extra spice when they’re not looking. Magda’s cool like that. In fact, she’s the only person in this household I can respect.

  But right now, though my stomach is growling, I really want to finish this poem.

  “Can I eat up here?”

  Yet another frown from Mom. I wonder if I should mention the wrinkle potential of all this scowling on her delicately aging complexion.

  “That is up to you,” she says stiffly. “However, I think it would be nice if you decided to socialize with your family.”

  Socialize. Right. Is that what they’re calling being lectured to these days? ‘Cause I know from experience that’s all that’s going to happen during dinner if I attend.

  Don’t chew with your mouth open, Dawn. Use your napkin. Do you really need so much butter on that roll? After all, you don’t want to start gaining weight.

  But again, this is a battle I won’t win. So I close my Algebra book and nod my head. “Fine. I’ll be there in a minute,” I say, purposely using my most exasperated tone.

  My mother droops her shoulders, as if I’m some awful burden she has to bear on a daily basis, and exits the room. When the door closes, I pull out my half-finished poem and read it through one last time. It’s really good. One of the best things I’ve ever written.

  Somehow I have to find a chance to finish it before the deadline.

  Chapter Three

  Oh, this is just great.

  All I wanted was fifteen minutes to finish my poem. So I skipped gym class. I mean, people skip gym class all the time. The teacher never notices. But the one time I don’t show up, he pays attention. And the next thing I know, I’m being summoned to the assistant principal’s office and assigned detention.

  The Evil Ones are so going to kick my butt.

  I trudge into Room 102, aka after-school prison, and plop down at a desk near the back. Several other far more deserving juvenile delinquents are already here. The kind of kids who have tattoos and skip class to go smoke behind the school. They stare at me with their overconfident smirks, perhaps wondering why the girl who hangs out with the cheerleaders is doomed to join their ranks this afternoon.

  At least I’ll have time to finish my poem, though it’ll have to be published posthumously, seeing as I’ll be dead by the time they put out the magazine. The Evil Ones will see to that. And no, I’m not exaggerating. You should see what they do when I get a B on my progress report. And that’s nothing compared to detention.

  But I can’t do anything about that now. So I pull out my poem and a pen and start writing. It’s a bit distracting, what with the gum snapping and whispers of the other inmates, but I somehow manage to tune out most of the noise and concentrate on my verse.

  “Hey, that’s pretty good!”

  I look up with a start. I’ve been so wrapped up in my world that I hadn’t realized the new girl, the supposed Satan-worshipper who drinks snake blood, has sat down at the desk beside me and is eyeing my paper.

  Up close, I realize she has several piercings to go along with her already punk-rock look—a diamond stud in her nose and a silver hoop embedded in her eyebrow. Her face is pale white, almost as if she’s powdered it, and her eyes, a striking blue, are rimmed with a ton of black.

  “You read my poem?” I ask, feeling my cheeks flush. I mean, sure, I realize that if I win the poetry contest lots of people will end up reading it, but still, her peeking over my shoulder without permission seems a grave invasion of privacy. And what if she goes and tells everyone that I, Dawn Miller, friend of the Ashleys, was seen writing poetry in detention? I might as well put in my application for the loserville lunch table right now.

  Then again, she said it was good. Since I’ve never shown my scribblings to anyone before, I’ve never gotten an unbiased opinion on them. I mean, sure, I like them, but obviously I’m a bit prejudiced.

  “Are you just saying that?” I ask. “‘Cause you so don’t have to.”

  She shakes her head, causing her straight black hair to flip from side to side. “No way,” she says. “I never say things I don’t mean. Life’s too short.” She pauses, then adds, “I was assuming it’d be bad, actually. But I guess you can’t judge a Barbie by its cover.”

  I frown. “I’m not a Barbie.” I just hang out with them.

  She shrugs. “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Honestly, I don’t care either way. But you are a good writer.”

  A good writer. She thinks I’m a good writer. No one’s ever told me that before. I feel a warm pride settle over me and I decide to ignore the Barbie comment. Or at least prove her wrong.

  “Thanks,” I say. “There’s this poetry contest I want to enter it in and—”

  “Oh, the one in Faces?”

  I stare at her in shock. “How do you—?”

  “I read Faces all the time. It’s a great mag.”

  Wow. She actually reads literary magazines. My friends wouldn’t be caught dead reading literary magazines. In fact, we have a saying: If it’s not Cosmo, it’s crap.

  “I’m Dawn,” I say, extending a hand.

  “Starr.” She shakes my hand. I notice she has on black fingernail polish that’s half flaked off.

  Starr. What a cool name.

  “You’re the headmaster’s daughter, right?” I ask, assuming at least that part of the Satan-worshipping, snake-eating rumor is true.

  “Yeah. Got kicked out of my European boarding school and so I’m stuck in this hellhole now.”

  Wow. I wonder what she did to get kicked out. It had to be something pretty bad, I’d think. What would it be like to be a bad girl? Not to care what people think of you? To break the rules and buck authority? I bet her parents don’t dare schedule her life. And if they try, she probably laughs in their faces and then goes out and gets a new tattoo, just to spite them.

  “… and first day here, Sister Wart Nose catches me smoking in the bathroom and sentences me to detention,” Starr is explaining. “I mean, for smoking! In Europe, everyone our age smokes. Massachusetts is so puritanical. It drives me absolutely insane.”

  I nod sympathetically, not sure how to respond. Of course I’m not a smoker, so I can’t relate. But suddenly, I have the undying urge to impress her somehow. Make her see I’m more than just an airhead who happens to be able to write. Which is odd, since most people at Sacred Mary’s do everything in their power to try to impress me and my crowd, not the other way around. But Starr doesn’t seem to care that I’m one of the Populars. On the contrary, that status seems a negative in her book. Which makes her seem even cooler, somehow.
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  “That ring rocks,” I say at last, noting the silver spider on her index finger. One thing I’ve learned from the Ashleys—when stuck for something to say, compliment their wardrobe. Works every time.

  She smiles and waves her hand in the air, allowing the ring to catch the light and sparkle. Evidently even punk-rock chicks aren’t immune to flattery. “Thanks. I got it at this really cool thrift store in Boston.” She pauses for a moment, as if deciding something. Then she says, “You know, I’m planning on heading there after detention, if you want to come.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You’re going to Boston? How are you going to get there? Do you have a car?”

  “Nah.” She shakes her head. “I’m only fifteen. No license. But there’s a train about a block away.”

  She planned to hop a train? I try to imagine what The Evil Ones would do to me if they found out I’d hopped a train to the big city. Would they kill me quickly or devise a slow, torturous death to make sure I’m really, really sorry I disobeyed?

  “Come with me!” Starr says eagerly. “I know some killer used record stores.”

  I shake my head. “I’m already missing gymnastics ‘cause of detention. My parents will totally kick my butt if I miss my Japanese tutoring as well.”

  Starr raises a pierced eyebrow. “Oh,” she says, her tone a bit colder than before. “I understand.” But she doesn’t sound like she understands. In fact, she sounds more like she thinks I’m the lamest girl on the planet.

  Boring Barbie, that’s me.

  It’s so not fair. I never get to do anything fun. Run off to the big city on a whim. I suddenly envy Starr and her laissez-faire attitude on life.

  Envy her and want to be her.

  Maybe I could call my tutor and tell him I’m sick. And then call The Evil Ones and tell them I’m going over to one of the Ashleys’ houses to work on a class project after my lesson. That should buy me at least ‘til nine o’clock. Plenty of time to hit Boston and get back before they realize I’m gone.

  I feel a strange thrill well up deep inside. You know what? I’m going to do it.

  For once, I’m going to be a bad girl.

  “Maybe I will go to Boston with you,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual as my excitement takes hold. “Sounds like fun.”

  Chapter Four

  Boston is a whole new world with Starr as my tour guide. Sure, I’ve been to the city before. The Evil Ones take me shopping for school clothes every autumn and to the Nutcracker every Christmas. But those experiences pale in comparison to Starr’s Boston.

  After getting sprung from detention, I drop my poem and entry form in the mail and then Starr and I head to the train station. Luckily we don’t have to wait long since I’ve suddenly developed this huge paranoia that my dad’s going to drive by and catch me. But of course he doesn’t. Still, my heart’s beating a mile a minute as the whistle blows and the train pulls out of the station. No turning back now.

  Starr fills the half-hour trip with wild tales of boarding school (wow!), her environmental concerns (gas guzzling SUVs—bad; hybrid, environmentally friendly Toyota Prius—good), even (yay!) politics.

  And bonus—she never once mentions shoes, jeans, or anything remotely related to fashion, which is soooo refreshing.

  When we arrive in Boston’s North Station, we take the subway to Newbury Street where we hit Urban Outfitters for funky clothes, Silver Nation for retro jewelry, and then Mystery Train, a used record store for tune’age.

  In Mystery Train’s low-lit basement store, Starr contents herself to flip through the seemingly endless bins of used records, pulling out and examining obscure recordings I’ve never even heard of. Bands with names like Joy Division and Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus.

  “This is a great album,” she says, holding up a recording from a band called The Cure. “And it’s not as hardcore as the others. In fact, even a Barbie like you might appreciate it.”

  I take the album from her, wishing she’d cut the Barbie crap. There’s a pair of bright red lips on the cover and songs like “Torture,” “The Snake Pit,” and “A Thousand Hours” listed.

  “Sounds like a barrel of laughs,” I say. “Do they, um, have it on CD?”

  Starr blinks. “You know, records are the authentic recordings of the music as it was meant to sound, before electronic enhancements messed with its purity.”

  “Sure, I get it. But I don’t have a record player.” I shrug. “Is it available on iTunes? I could download it….”

  Starr rolls her eyes. Why do I feel so incredibly unhip around her? I mean, she’s the one who listens to vinyl— even the ancient Evil Ones have moved on to CDs. But her purposeful, pig-headed rejection of technology just makes her seem even cooler for some odd reason.

  She yanks the record from my hands, pulling it from its dusty, cardboard sleeve and sets it on an empty turntable against the wall. Then she places the needle on the record and hands me the attached headphones.

  As I put them over my ears, a dark, intense music bombards my senses. A man purrs and wails in a powerful, soul-wrenching voice. It’s so deep. So beautiful. Like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I close my eyes to better take in the sound. It may seem completely corny, but I get the feeling this kind of music could change someone’s life, if they let it.

  “What do you think?” Starr asks a few minutes later, as she pulls the headphones from my ears. I reluctantly relinquish them, blinking my eyes, still a bit dazed.

  “Awesome,” I say, though the word seems kind of inadequate to express how the music has affected me.

  “A little different from your average Bieber, huh?”

  I frown. “Just ‘cause I’ve never heard of this band doesn’t mean I like Justin Bieber, you know.”

  “Okay, then, what kind of music do you listen to?” The question has a definite challenge embedded in it and I feel my face heat as I try to figure out how to answer her. I never tell anyone what music I listen to. I’m afraid they’ll just make fun of me. But Starr is different….

  “Let me guess,” she says, regarding me with unabashed disdain. “Usher? Dave Matthews? Taylor Swift? Beyonce?”

  “Actually, I prefer the classics,” I admit at last. What the heck, it’s better than having her assume I like Dave Matthews. “Rolling Stones, The Animals, Beatles, David Bowie.”

  “Oh! David Bowie rocks,” Starr says, eyes shining and disdain quickly fleeing her face. In fact, she actually looks a bit impressed. Score one for Barbie.

  “You like him?” I’ve never met anyone under thirty who liked David Bowie. “I’ve had a total crush on him since I saw Labyrinth when I was a kid.”

  “Oh, yeah, he was way sexy in that movie,” Starr agrees. “I never understood why Jennifer Connelly chose saving her baby brother over him.” She steps forward, in total actress mode. “Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen.”

  I giggle at her rendition. “For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great. You have no power over me,” I continue, in my best dramatic voice.

  “He’d have a heck of a lot of power over me wearing those tights, I’ll tell you what,” Starr says with a laugh. She lifts the record off the turntable and puts it back in its sleeve. “You know, Barbie, you’re not half as clueless as I’d guessed.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I roll my eyes, but I’m secretly pleased.

  “I’m going to buy this for you,” she says, holding up the Cure album. “And I’ll even give you a break and get it on CD.”

  “You don’t have to,” I start to say, but she waves me off.

  “It’s all good. I like educating people about music. Music’s very important.”

  “I agree,” I say with a smile. I feel so relieved to have shared my secret music obsessions with someone who wasn’t going to ridicule them because my list didn’t include Eminem.

  The clerk rings up her purchase and we le
ave the store. It’s getting dark, so I suggest we catch the next train back. Don’t want to get home too late and feel the wrath of The Evil Ones.

  Because if I don’t get caught this time, I’ll be able to play bad girl again. Something I definitely want to do.

  Chapter Five

  “So if you were given a thousand dollars and could only pick one shoe store to spend it in, which would you choose?”

  Just another Lunch Topic of the Day at the Ashley table. Sigh.

  “Louboutin, without a doubt,” declares Ashley #2, swishing her long blond hair behind her.

  “Really? I would have thought for sure you’d go with Manolos,” Ashley #1 says, raising her perfectly arched eyebrows. She stabs at her salad with her fork.

  “What about Steve Madden? He makes cool shoes,” Ashley #3 pipes in. She’s chowing down on a huge, juicy burger, as usual. I have no idea how the girl keeps her perfect size-five figure the way she eats.

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t be caught dead in cheap-o Steve Maddens.”

  “Yeah, but you could get like fifteen pairs for a thousand dollars instead of two pairs of Manolos.” Ashley #3 explains the math slowly, so the other two can grasp it. “That’s like, ‘buy two, get thirteen pairs free.’”

  “Wow. Thirteen free pairs of shoes …”

  I stifle a yawn and resist the urge to bang my forehead against the table. Instead, I scan the caf, looking for Starr. I see her across the room, sitting with a couple of the computer nerds. They look like they’re having a very animated conversation and I’m pretty sure it’s not about shoes. I feel a stab of jealousy, but quickly squash it. After all, it’s not like I invited her to come sit with me at lunch and she has every right to make other friends.

  “Earth to Dawn! Come in, Dawn!”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, turning back to my friends. “I’d go with Kate Spade.”

  The Ashleys nod knowingly. “Ooh, good choice,” says Ashley #1. “Like those pink strappy sandals, right?”