Whisper (3 page)

“Warm tones are great for making hazel eyes pop,” said Bree, her own green-contacts-wearing eyes wide with seriousness. She was the only person I knew who went to the library to study fashion mags.

“Really? What’s good for brown eyes?” Helena leaned on her elbows and frowned. “Or are those just hopelessly boring and unpoppable?”

Parker turned to me. “It’s a beautiful necklace,” she said quietly. I knew she meant it because I could Hear her wishing she had one like it.

I started to feel a little bad about dissing the jewelry box last year. Maybe Dad’s plan all along had been to fill it with goodies. Maybe it had belonged to his great-great-grandmother and he’d been saving it all these years for me. It would be just like him to do something like that and never bother to explain.

Mom came around with full plates, none of which looked remotely alike. She placed poached eggs and toast at Parker’s elbow, yogurt and strawberries in front of ever-dieting Helena. And for me there was a stack of banana pancakes dusted with powdered sugar.

“Gosh, Mrs. Stefani, how do you always know what I’m craving?” Bree asked as she dug into her waffle.

“Oh, I know you girls pretty well by now.” Mom winked at me. “Tuck in!” Then she glanced at the clock—seven twenty-one—and hugged everyone and said she’d see them at the party tonight.

As soon as she was gone, something really weird happened. It was like the good mood drained out of our group, like she was somehow holding us up with her cheeriness, and without her we all slumped into gloom.

That was bad. We didn’t have time to be gloomy, realistically speaking. It was nearly seven thirty, and Mom was gone, and we’d been loud before with all that giggling and screaming, so we were seriously tempting fate now.

Icka was a very deep sleeper. But even she couldn’t sleep forever.

If I’d been thinking “proactively”—as Parker would say—I would have stood up and hustled us out of the kitchen, backpacks on and out the door. Instead, I sank into my chair and toyed with a forkful of pancake for two minutes that we just didn’t have. I blame it on my friends’ Whispers. They were the upsetting kind. The kind where something’s wrong and I couldn’t do anything to help, and I couldn’t even bring it up because I wasn’t supposed to know about it in the first place.

Like Helena wishing her “bad skin” would clear up. That made me sad, because despite one tiny little blemish on her jawline, Helena’s skin glowed. Its golden tone almost matched her wide-set eyes and the caramel waves that zigzagged to her hourglass waist. She reminded me of
a sunbeam brought to life…yet her Whispers echoed her critical mother’s more every day.

Then there was Parker next to me, staring off into the distance, pining after this senior guy she had a crush on, Ben Williams.

I was still pondering why that one bothered me when I heard a door slam upstairs and then angry boots clomping down the hall.

“You guys—let’s
go
!” I shot from my chair, but in my panic forgot I was wearing the stupid platforms and bashed my kneecap under the table. Tears stung my eyes. By the time my friends glanced up from their shaking plates, Icka was blocking the kitchen doorway.

Parker and the rest sat frozen, staring. People always did that, even after they’d seen my sister a bunch of times.

Hope it’s just a phase.
That’s what our relatives always Whispered when they saw her. Or
I wish she didn’t hide how pretty she is.
And then there were the If Onlys.
If only she didn’t wear shredded, baggy workmen’s clothes from Goodwill. Didn’t store metal in her lip, nose, and eyebrow. Didn’t smoke like
a barbecue
—a vegan barbecue.
Didn’t boycott shampoo.
(She claimed she was “part of the no poo movement,” as if sporting neglected dreads somehow qualified as a movement.)
If only she didn’t coat her eyelids, raccoon-style, with black liquid liner. Didn’t let her pale skin run to pasty
—no,
beyond
pasty. Next door to translucent. But Icka did do all those things, and slouching there in the doorway, she was very far from pretty. She looked like the ghost of grunge.

Beside me Helena sat nervously biting her straw, praying my sister wouldn’t single her out for humiliation.

I bit my lip—my knee was still screaming—and waited for Icka to fire the first shot.

Instead, she stumbled forward, yawning, and slipped past us all without a glance, as if she really were a ghost. At her heels trailed Scarlett, dragging herself across the floor with even less enthusiasm. (The dog had an excuse; she had a bad leg.)

My friends and I managed a four-way glance of panic, but Icka just turned away from us, stretched her arm, and retrieved a sustainable, reusable glass jar of granola from her personal kitchen shelf. “Caaaarbs,” she croaked in an early-morning smoker’s voice. Then she paused to yawn again. I narrowed my eyes. What the hell was going on here?

Since when was Icka too sleepy to be a bitch on my birthday?

There were exactly two possibilities:

A) She was trying to drive me nutso with suspense, or,

B) She was lulling me into a false sense of security so she
could spring some evil plan at my party tonight.

Knowing my sister, B seemed a lot more likely.

With infinite slowness, Icka unscrewed the jar’s lid and popped a handful of cranberry granola into her mouth—right there at the counter, without the aid of bowl, spoon, or soy milk. I saw Parker’s nose wrinkle at the matted blond dreads hanging down the back of Icka’s work shirt and felt embarrassed we were related. A tiny part of me couldn’t help feeling sorry for Icka too. If Parker ever looked at me with such withering disgust, I’d positively shrink. Bent on her skinny forearms, my sister did look smaller—like her actual height, five five, instead of a seven-foot-tall avenging goddess.

And that’s when it occurred to me that as long as she was busy chewing, my friends and I had a chance to
escape.

“Come on.” I jumped up, wobbling on my platforms. “Let’s go!”

Parker nodded and dove for her purple Eddie Bauer bag. Bree stood too, and Helena rushed to follow, slamming in her chair. So far Icka hadn’t turned to look at us, kept crunching her granola. My heart flip-flopped. Was it possible she was more interested in whole grains than in ruining my life?

She must have Heard that spark of hope, because she spun around. A funny little half smile like an Old West gunslinger. The drowsiness was an act. She was wired. She was just waiting for me to build up hope so she could smash it. These little mind games were what she lived for.

Her leering eyes met mine. “Joy-Joy! You finally look like what you really are. A freak.”

Reflexively, I shrugged, though my hands were shaking. Icka knew how much I hated it when she said things like that, making little veiled references to our shared secret in front of my friends. Luckily, Parker already had my gray Timbuk2 bag by the strap and was coming over to help me put it on over my costume. I saw Helena scrambling into her jacket in the doorway, ready to skitter from the room.

Why oh why was Bree still standing by the table?

Then I Heard it:

I wish someone would tell loser girl to shove it.

Oh. My god.

Bree had crossed her arms, was glaring at Icka. “Why would you say that,” she demanded, “to your own sister on her birthday?”

Helena and Parker widened their eyes at her, but Bree had gone to a different middle school. She had only met the rest of us a month ago. She didn’t fully understand what Icka was capable of.

“If you want to be a bitch to me, fine,” she went on. “I can give back as good as I get, whatever. But, oh my god, this is
Joy
! Girl couldn’t be mean if she tried. My little puppy has more mean in him. You should be ashamed, seriously…what the hell is wrong with you?” I couldn’t get over the outrage in her voice. Outrage for
me.
Part of me wished I could cover Bree’s mouth—or maybe just grab her and run out of the house with her, like people carried cats
out of blazing buildings. But at the same time, gratitude was bubbling up inside me. Bree, who I’d only known for a month, was standing up to Icka, standing up for me. “So don’t go calling Joy a freak,” she finished, “when we all know you’re the only freak here.” I felt like bursting into applause.

“She’s right.” Parker gave me a sheepish look.
I wish
I’d
been the one to speak up.

I gave her a small smile to let her know all was well between us. Anyone who knew Icka would know better than to engage her.

Icka stared at Bree, taking in her highlighted hair, her curve-hugging pink V-neck sweater and black pencil skirt. “No offense,” she said, “but who are
you
supposed to be?”

Bree squared her broad shoulders as if ready for a fight, then she squinted, confused. “Um, what?”

“Icka, you know Bree.” I didn’t know where Icka was headed with this either, but I didn’t like the sound of it. “She’s been to our house like ten times—”

“Whatever—I don’t need a full report.” Icka still had Bree pinned with her gaze. “I’m just saying, don’t get too comfortable. You obviously won’t be in this clique long.” She said all this seemingly without malice, gently even, like a doctor announcing that a healthy-looking patient had brain cancer. Then, at our collective stunned silence, she broke up snickering. “What, people? Hello, am I the only one who can see this little experiment in diversity can’t
last? I mean, look at her…now look at the rest of you. Do-gooder alpha prep”—she pointed to Parker—“mousy beta prep”—Helena—“and freak posing as prep”—guess who. “Just where do you think you’ll fit in, Miss
InStyle
Is My Bible?”

Bree was blinking over and over, wishing Icka would shut up. Helena flinched and stared at the wall. Parker’s frown traveled from Icka to Bree, as if she were considering my sister’s words despite their source.

And the terrible thing was…well, I didn’t want to be thinking this, but Bree really
was
a little different from the rest of us. She was from Southern California. She’d gone out for cheerleading “to meet people,” which sounded like something you’d say at a beauty pageant, but that was just how Bree talked. She wore emerald green contact lenses despite having perfect vision and sported a polished, almost varnished, pink mouth even in P.E. class…I shook my head. Bree was our friend. Icka was just baiting us, as usual, with stupid mind games, adding a drop of truth to her lies to help them slide down smoother.

“I am so sorry about her.” I folded my yellow-gloved arms. “I mean, we’re all different in our own ways,” I added, trying not to think of my own huge, secret difference. “It hasn’t stopped us from being friends, right?”

“E
xact
ly,” Bree said, falling on the word like she’d been waiting to say it to the first person who spoke in her defense.

Icka moved straight to her next attack. “Kinda shocked
to see
you
here, Helena. I thought your family was all about the doing nothing on birthdays.”

Helena stiffened, then glared at me. I knew what she was thinking, that I’d blabbed to Icka the story of how her mom and stepdad spaced on her birthday last year. No doubt she was picturing the two of us snickering about it together, thinking that underneath the “teasing” we were, secretly, close—BFF sisters—and that I wasn’t the nice, kind person they all thought I was. I dug my nails into my palms so hard I winced, but what could I say? There was never any point with Icka. I’d repair the damage later, like always.

“Nobody talk to her.” I almost didn’t recognize the commanding voice as my own. “Just head for the door.”

We speed-walked into the foyer, Icka chasing behind. “Wait, I forgot to tell you something!” None of us was stupid enough to turn. “A message for the Joyster,” she yelled anyway. “Your boyfriend called last night.” Ha! I’d never even had a boyfriend, so her ruse was pathetic. I opened the door and stepped aside so my friends could go through. Helena propelled herself down the porch steps. I wondered if she’d dare come back for tonight’s party.

“Did you not hear me? I said Ben called.”

I saw Parker flinch, and Bree hesitated in the doorway. My stomach dropped.

“Ben Williams, remember? Your True Love, TM?”

Parker’s dark, intense eyes were fixed on my sister’s blue ones.
I hope this is just what I think it is, another lie.

“She’s such a liar! Icka, be quiet.” I turned to Parker. “I would never—”

“Joy, I know, believe me.” Parker pointed a French-manicured finger at Icka’s chest. “You. Are lower than pond scum.” Her voice shook with anger. “Like I’m really supposed to believe Joy would steal Ben from me?”

“That’s crazy,” I echoed. And it was: I wasn’t some kind of frenemy who’d steal my best friend’s crush. Besides, though Parker was too kind to point it out, Ben with his sexy olive eyes and basketball-star coolness was far out of my league…he
belonged
with someone amazing, like Parker.

Icka snorted and shrugged. “Well, don’t take my word for it, check it out yourself.” She fished a scrap of paper from her hip pocket. “This guy called, okay? It was around nine. Joy and Mommy Dearest were off at QFC,” she added, “buying flour and sugar and rich creamery butter with which to kill our guests. There.” She held out the scrap so we could all see the phone number scrawled on it.

Parker turned to me in confusion. “That’s Ben’s number.”

I felt a funny chill run through me.

Suddenly everyone outside was staring at me, not at Icka. In the silence, I felt myself blushing—blood filling my cheeks so I could feel my pulse everywhere. Was it possible that Ben had really called? I reminded myself that while Icka was a good liar, she was even better at using the truth as a weapon. Stretching it, torturing it on the
rack…till it fit her purposes. Despite the cold October air blowing in, my face felt hot as July. I was grateful for the clownish makeup.

Not that it mattered but…if Ben
had
called, what would he call about? We had no classes together. The only time I talked to him was when he stopped by our group’s quad bench at lunch, to flirt with Parker. Could it be he’d decided Parker was too…perfect, or something? Decided he liked me instead? Not that it mattered.

“He must have called to get directions to the party,” I said lamely.

“I already gave him directions,” Parker snapped. “When
I
invited him.”

“Well, one guy out of three point three billion.” Icka winked at me. “You’ll meet more at Stanford.”

“Shut
up,
Icka!” I turned to Parker. “I’m so sorry about her. Maybe Ben lost the invite. Or something.” I was desperate to reassure her. To smooth the wrinkle out of her brow, put a smile on those set-in-stone lips. But I couldn’t think of anything reassuring to say—the situation looked pretty damn suspicious! Icka had planned it that way, and she was much smarter than me. Besides, if Ben had really called, then there was nothing I could say to make Parker feel okay about it. Helena was staring as if seeing me for the first time. Bree’s eyes had narrowed to poison darts of suspicion.

“Whatever, it doesn’t even matter.” Parker flashed me
the frosty, businesslike smile she saved for customers at her mom’s nail salon.

I blinked back tears. This birthday had started so well…how did Icka manage to knock it all flat in minutes? It was hardly the first time she’d been nasty to my friends or spoiled our fun, yet somehow today she’d upped the stakes. She must have been plotting this for weeks, I realized, all alone up in her room, hating me for having friends when she had nothing. So she attacked my friendships. Nudging our group toward chaos. Hinting that I was disloyal. Hacking at the bonds that held us together, that held
me
together. Was her goal to make me as miserable and lonely as she was?

Icka pinched a glob of granola off her dirty shirt and popped it in her mouth.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
She pulverized it, drawing out each grinding chew as if her teeth were crushing rocks.

“We should go before the first bell rings,” Parker said, not looking at me. “I don’t want to be late for math.”