Disclaimer: I don't own The Clique, Boys Over Flowers, or any brands mentioned. Also, I don't own Edith Wharton's "The Age of Innocence," as you may have already realized.
Chapter Four
While wiping down the shiny marble counter with her faded blue rag, Layne stifled a laugh. I recounted the events of school that day to her. Namely, me punching Derrick Harrington. Both of us were dressed in the standard waitressinguniform: black pants, white tops and an apron with the William's Diner logo emblazoned on the pockets. Layne's butt-length hair was pulled back into a migraine-inducing bun; a must when you worked around food. My own hair was similarly styled and I was struck by how alike we looked. Identical, even. Except for our eyes. No matter how hard we tried to pretend we were sisters, our eyes would always be different. Mine, a shocking shade of amber that belonged in the bottom of Chuck Bass' shot glass. Hers, a watery green that fit in with summer's dewy grass.
"Your school is so much more fun than mine." Layne's lips turned up into a positively Pretty Committe-esque pout. "Public education sucks."
"Hear, hear!" I closed my eyes and nodded my head profusely, as if I was singing a gospel song in church.
The diner was a ghost town. Dad would've been devastated if he saw, but he generally allowed Kendra, my mom, to run the family business. William was my father's name and his father's and multiple that by a thousand. To be truthful, the place was in horrid condition: faded awning, a patio overrun with feral felines, four measly booths and a bar-thingy attached to the counter, where the few costumers we got liked to sit and sip our overpriced, insta-coffee while repeatedly saying, "Isn't this place so quaint and authentic and genuine?"
"I cannot believe you punched Derrick Harrington," Layne said his name in a faux-posh accent that belonged in a Charlie Sheen sitcom rather than our life, "in his pretty little face!" Through maniacal snickerings, Layne managed to choke out, "You know you're practically dead now, right?"
Until then, I hadn't realized I wasn't alive. I checked my pulse. Steady.
And then it hit me. The F4. Red notices. My life as a no one was officially over. Hello, notoriety. Is this what it felt like to be R. Kelly? Then again, punching the most popular boy in school was hardly equal to child porn charges. At least, not by any normal standards. If only OCD was a normal school.
"I," (dramatic pause) "don't fricking care that the F4's ordered a mob hit on me. In fact," (another dramatic pause) "I couldn't care less."
"Well that's good," Layne said, good-naturedly, an easy smile playing on her ChapStick'd lips. "'Cause I think they're here."
I spun around on the soles of my New Balance sneakers, something that I knew would scuff Kendra's recently-waxed linoleum floors and would quite possibly get my head bitten off in the foreseeable future. "What?"
Peeking through the foggy window, was: Josh, looking ruddy-cheeked and unnaturally sunny in his Dodgers cap; Kemp, biting his lips which looked kind of "kissing swollen" (or at least that's what those YA novels say. I don't know from experience. My lips are one hundred percent virgin.); Cam's earphone-clad self looking...curious; and the great Derrick Harrington. Looking...completely unreadable.
It's Kemp who initially meandered his way over to the clearly marked entrance. Gulp. They're going to kill me here? In front of Layne and all these cust — Oh wait. The place is completely empty.
Face down — Wowee! Aren't these shoes loverly and interesting and good lord, what is that stain from? —, I traipsed clumsily over to the table they chose; the one with the best view of passers-by and the other "quaint, authentic" shops across the street. Did they come here for me? Or is the universe playing a horribly mean trick on me?
"May I take your orders?" I muttered, the words jumbling together like some kind of impossible Facebook word game. I don't meet their gazes. Focus on the shoes, Massie. Look down! Down!
"I'll have..." The sarcastic voice stopped. I looked up. I had to.
"Yes?" I prompted, my eyes locking onto those of Mr. Sarcastic, no matter how much my brain was willing them not to.
"Actually, I've suddenly realized I'm completely not hungry at all. Good bye."
And with that, Mr. Sarcastic, Derrick Harrington, set aside the laminated menu and power-walked out of the diner, the other guys trailing behind him like laptops, alternating between wild grins and bemused smirks. Well, then.
--
Forty minutes earlier...
"Gin!" Kemp pronounced, dropping his hand of cards with a proud, toothy smile. Groans rippled through the round table like roars. Kemp Hurley had never met a card game he couldn't dominate at. A heredity trait, no doubt.
"Kcuf." Josh's own hand fell to the floor as his phrase was met with complete confusion.
"Explanation," Cam demanded, his voice barely above its usual whisper. He left his cards face-up. Derrick smirked in satisfaction. Cam had crap cards, anyway.
"K-C-U-F," he spelled out his earlier word. Similar confusion. "Man, it's the f-bomb backwards! The Dad is all on some religious kick. No swearing. New Hotzhouse rule. There's a Swear Jar and everything, like some Bible Camp or whatever."
"A Swear Jar?" Derrick repeated, incredulous. He hadn't seen his mom in weeks; never met his dad. There had never been many rules at the Harrington household besides Lucy Harrington's One Golden Rule: Don't be an idiot. She figured that covered all the bases and the rule was established when Derrick's older sister, Penny, was eight or so. Ever since then, Derrick had learned how NOT to be an idiot. Which basically meant not failing school miserably, not disgracing the Harrington family name (Seriously. What was this? The Age of Innocence?) and getting into an Ivy League.
Josh simply nodded his floppy-haired head. No other words were needed.
"This game is so lame." Kemp leaned back in the high-backed chairs Derrick's mom's assistant had ordered from some antiques sale in England. Altogether, the four chair set was supposedly worth over four thousand dollars. Not including shipping and handling, of course.
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
All eyes zoomed to Derrick's. He rolled them pointedly. "Agreeeeed."
"Where to?" Josh shot up like a rocket, grabbing his messenger bag and looping it around his neck. "Your house is awesome, but c'mon," he grinned, "we're the F4. We're young. Rich. We must have better places to be."
"Actually," Kemp contradicted, without looking up from his jet-black, limited-edition Sidekick, "we don't."
"I have an idea." Derrick's face lit up. He knew the perfect thing to do.
"Cool."
"I'm game."
Cam sighed, apparently he was no big supporter of Derrick Harrington's "ideas." "Doesn't seem like I really have a choice."
--
"That's kcuf-ingawesome." Josh was in awe. Derrick's plan was flawless. Foolproof. And it sounded like a decent distraction from schoolwork and the crumbling marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Hotz.
"Are you positive that's the, uh, right way to solve this?" Cam, needless to say, was not in awe. Derrick's plan was seriously flawed. A fool's idea. It just sounded like a distraction from schoolwork...albeit one that would end up harming someone.
"Definitely. When have I ever not solved a problem the right way?"
"This morning," Kemp listed, "yesterday, last week, tomorrow, tonight—"
"Okay. So maybe in the past my plans haven't been perfect, but this one is. Oh, and we're here. Time to scope the prey in it's natural environment."
"This is kind of like that movie, you know? She's Got That? She Is That?"
"You mean She's All That?"
"Cam, I don't even know how you remembered that. But this is completely different. Let's go."
I know DH is seeming like the bad guy, but isn't that what everyone thought of Chuck the first few epis of Gossip Girl? Massington fans, hold your Thoroughbred horses. Sorry for the filler chapter; I "pinkie-promise" some drama to come.
