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she says.

       Uh-oh. Don’t say it. “Scott.”

      “Yep. And he had the nerve to ask if I wanted to go out for drinks with him and Matt and Chris on Friday. I told him, ‘Sorry, I have plans.’ Can you believe that guy?”

      I can. It’s Scott’s style. He was her boyfriend for seven months only to end it with “I’m not sure if I’m ready for a full-blown relationship.” As if it were a disease.

      Yes, they were once one of those Upper East Side Sunday couples.

      But Scott hadn’t stopped with dumping her. That would be too quick and easy. Over the next few months he kept calling, pretending he was confused, tortured. And in spite of my warning to ignore his calls, she always answered them, hoping that he’d want something real.

      His calls faded, eventually.

      But now he’s back.

      Intelligent woman that she is, I should be sure that she won’t give that loser the time of day, right?

      Wrong. Tracey doesn’t always have the best judgment when it comes to dating, which is why it’s so important that I weigh in. I always wondered if Tracey was messed up by my parents’ marriage (not by their divorce—that was the healthy part). She was sixteen when it happened, and it sent her skidding off in the wrong direction—grades sliding, bad boyfriends, borderline eating disorder. Thank God Mom managed to get her back on track, but I wonder if the scars remain. Is she destined to be attracted to unreliable types like our dad?

      “Don’t you dare, Tracey.”

      “I won’t. What, you think I’m stupid?”

      That’s the thing about being the Oracle. Sometimes you know things you don’t want to know.

      I USED TO THINK SUNDAY nights sucked because the excitement of the weekend is over and a whole week of waking up early stretches ahead of me. Plus, ever since Mom gave me the choice of whether or not to go to church, I usually sleep until noon, so I can never get to sleep at a good time.

      When I realized that my friends were going through the same Sunday-night blues, I decided to take action and organize a weekly get-together. And now, Sunday night embodies everything we love (to hate): the rich bitches, the beautiful people, the trash-talkers, the sex-crazed and the backstabbers. In other words, Glamour Girl. Or, as Mom calls it, potato chips for your brain—they taste good but have no nutritional value.

      We’re in Viv’s basement on beanbag chairs in front of the flat-screen TV, except for Amy, who is stretched out luxuriantly on the sofa in her Don’t Feed the Models tee.

      On the coffee table is an assortment of traditional East Indian faves: samosas, pakoras, badgies. It’s one of the things I look forward to about our Sunday nights here.

      “Your mom is such a great cook!”

      Viv gives me a funny look. “These are from Costco.”

      “Oh.” I suppose it makes sense. Her mom is a doctor at New York Presbyterian and hardly has time to make us food.

      Viv’s parents are strict and traditional and from the same part of India as Gandhi. Her parents are too innocent themselves to know what this Glamour Girl business is all about. That, plus Viv’s quick reflexes with the PVR, makes it possible for us to watch the show here in the first place.

      Poor Viv will never even admit to being attracted to a guy who isn’t Indian, and there are only about five Indian guys at our entire school. I suppose that gives her an excuse for not having a boyfriend—an excuse the rest of us don’t have.

      Well, maybe I shouldn’t include Amy in the not-having-a-boyfriend category. Amy is a blue-eyed blonde, very good-looking, and knows it. She calls Chad her boyfriend, but we all know that he’s a MOB (make-out buddy). I’m not knocking it. Although the Oracle would say such relationships aren’t emotionally healthy, there’s a certain practicality in them. I mean, she’s horny as hell, and so is he. And while he’s a little simple, he has cute dimples and a soccer bod.

      I’m munching on a samosa when Viv pauses the show. Amy curses. “But it was just getting hot!”

      Sharese smacks her knee. “They’re finally gonna do it!”

      Ryan grunts his agreement, hairpins in his mouth. He is braiding Sharese’s hair. She always complained that no white person could do a good job with it, but Ryan has proved her wrong.

      Viv says, “I was just thinking—what would the Oracle of Dating say about this? I mean, isn’t Harrison obviously just using her?”

      Everybody groans.

      Amy rolls her eyes. “The Oracle is full of it! It’s just somebody making a quick buck. Don’t buy into it.”

      “The Oracle didn’t make any money off me,” Viv insists. “I just read her blog.”

      I stuff another samosa into my mouth.

      “I bet the Oracle is some fifty-year-old businessman trying to exploit us,” Sharese says.

      Viv shakes her head. “I think you’re wrong. She’s definitely female, and she knows what she’s talking about.”

      Way to go, Viv! She is my sole defender in a sea of haters.

      You really can’t blame me for keeping my true identity from my friends. I love them, but I know that being the Oracle of Dating would make me the object of constant teasing. I need one thing that’s safe, and just mine.

      two

      “MICHAELA, WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

      I snap to attention. Practice kicks in. Instead of saying, “Huh?” I say, “Sorry, I’m not sure I understand the question.”

      Ms. Goff starts to reword it, but stops when she hears a choked laugh from the seat across from me. “Something funny, Jared?”

      “Nope.” He squelches a smile.

      Ms. Goff goes back to her question, and I manage to answer it, taking the heat off. But as soon as she turns back to the board, I shoot the guy an I don’t appreciate you laughing at me glare.

      He turns his head and looks directly at me, blue eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

      Oh, I get it. He’s onto my little strategy.

      Jared Stewart is a snob if I ever saw one. He doesn’t socialize with many people, and it’s not in a shy, sweet kind of way, but in a why bother way—I can tell the difference. Worse, he’s totally good-looking in an I don’t care sort of way; I’m talking messy almost-black hair, careless clothes and torn-up shoes, obviously vintage. He’s lean, but muscular lean, not coked-up rock-star lean, and he’s got big hands, and feet that have to be at least a size thirteen … and why am I thinking about this?

      The bell rings. Well, it’s not actually a bell, it’s a dingdong over the P.A. system. Speaking of Ding Dongs, thank God it’s lunchtime. By this time every day I’m so hungry I’m ready to play Survivor and chew the bark off a desk leg. Not that the lunch menu in the caf is much better.

      I pick up my books and walk out, sensing Jared behind me. In the hall, he touches my arm, says something. I notice he’s got a red spot on his chin like he shaved over a zit this morning. I can’t help but think that shaving is sexy—that it separates the men from the boys.

      I realize I’m not listening to him. “What?”

      “I said don’t take it personally, all right?”

      “Uh, okay.”

      And he walks off.

      I make my way to the caf, where Sharese and Viv are in line getting food and Ryan is already at our end of the table, playing solitaire.

      Amy has a different lunch period.

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