Jenni James - Pride and Popularity

“Hi, Mom,” I called out as I dropped my backpack on the dining room table.

“Chloe? Is that you?” she called from the back of the house.

“Yep. Where are you?” I followed the smells and wandered into the kitchen, where I saw loads of cookies on cooling racks on the counter. Shortbread cookies, my favorite. “Hey, can I have a cookie?” I hollered.

“Sure,” she answered.

Yes! I grabbed three extra-big ones.

“But only one. They’re for my meeting tonight.”

Aw, darn. Reluctantly, I put the two smallest cookies back. As I munched, I went in search of my mom.

“Here you are.” I found her in my fifteen-year-old sister’s room, holding a big, black trash bag. I watched, dumbfounded, as Mom tossed anything and everything she could find into it.

“What are you doing?” I gasped. There went Cassidy’s favorite CD and iPod.

“I’ve told Cassidy over and over to clean her room or I was going to clean it for her.” She groaned as she bent over to chuck my sister’s winning soccer cleat into the bag. “For three weeks I’ve been patient.” In went the other cleat. “So I figure now is the time to teach that girl a lesson.”

Wow. Cassidy is gonna be mad. I stifled a giggle. “So what are you going to do with the bag?”

“Put it out by the trash bins and tell her I’ve thrown it away.”

Holy cow! “You’re serious?” I wonder what my room looks like. I hope it’s clean.

“Yeah, I’m serious,” Mom said, pushing back her blond curls as she stood up. “This room is disgusting, and she’s going to start taking care of it or suffer the consequences.” I’m pretty sure my room was clean when I left this morning. Maybe a towel on the bed or something? Mental note: Check room ASAP and remove backpack from table. Mom’s gone batty again.

I’d have to be blind to not see how determined my mom was on this, so I let it go and changed the subject. No reason to get her upset at me, too.

“Well, today’s Wednesday, so I’ll be out four-wheeling later,” I reminded her. Then, deciding to stay on her good side, I asked, “Do you need me to do anything before I go?”

“You mean other than your homework and chores?” Mom grinned as she tossed Cassidy’s curling iron in the bag.

“Uh, yeah.” I wondered how much all Cassidy’s stuff was worth.

“I am not really going to throw this stuff away. I’m just putting it out by the trash to make her see how serious I am. So stop looking at me like that.” In went Cassidy’s favorite shirt and jeans.

Well, that’s a relief.

“Actually, there is something you can do for me. I need you to go and pick your sister up from her ballet class in about fifteen minutes, so I can finish this up.”

“Oh, okay.” If I started now I could get farther into that book I was reading for English. “I’m gonna do some homework before I head out.” I turned to leave.

“I almost forgot. There was a call for you right before you came home.”

“A call?” I turned back. “Who from?”

“I don’t know. It was one of your friends. I think he said—”

He? It was a he?

“You guys were in the same club or something. His name was like Tyler or Tanner or—”

“Taylor,” I interrupted. “Did he say what he wanted?” What is with this guy?

“No. He did ask for you to call him back, though. His cell number is on the kitchen counter by the phone. He sounded like it was kind of urgent.”

“Oh, it’s probably just a question about something in art class today.” I shrugged. “Thanks.” I made my escape.

He hasn’t even been home a full day, and already he has caused so much havoc to my well-being that I don’t think I’m going to be able to last an entire year. It’s ridiculous.

I wandered into the kitchen and glanced at Taylor Anderson’s phone number. This is Taylor’s number. I have his personal phone number. How many girls would kill to have this number? Briefly I thought of selling it on eBay or something. I bet I’d make a mint. Ugh. How much weirder can this day get?

Reaching over, I plucked the cordless phone out of the charger and started to press the buttons with trembling fingers.

Why does he want me to call? Does he really have something important to ask like Alyssa thinks, or is he just trying to unnerve me again? You know what, I can’t handle this. Before I could push the last digit, I hung up the phone. If he wanted to talk to me that bad, he could call again.

I collected my backpack and crammed the offending number in my pocket. Then walked in my room and attempted to breathe normally again. Looking at my watch, I saw I only had twelve minutes left. So I picked up the assigned book, crashed on my bed, and tried to lose myself and my crazy thoughts in Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. 

Five minutes into the book, I still couldn’t concentrate. I knew it had nothing to do with Miss Austen’s writing ability and everything to do with a certain “urgent” phone call I needed to make. I pulled Taylor’s phone number from my pocket and stared at it.

“Ugh. Please go away, Taylor Anderson,” I said out loud. “I don’t know why you find it so hilarious to pick on me, but do me a huge favor and leave me alone. Seriously, you can have any girl you want. Why drive me nuts? It makes no sense.”

Great, Chloe. Just awesome. You’re having a conversation with a crumbled piece of paper, which won’t answer back no matter how long you stare at it. The only way to truly get answers is to call. So call already!

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“This is Chloe Hart. My mom said you called?”

“Uh, sh–she did?”

“Yeah, she said you called just a few minutes ago and wanted me to call you back at this number.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you saying you didn’t call me?”

“Um, no. Why would I call you?”

Ouch. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. “Taylor, if this is some sort of joke—”

“Just because I give you a hard time every now and then doesn’t mean I’m the type of guy who would joke like this.”

“You mean someone else called and left your . . . you’ve gotta be kidding me. I’ve been totally hoaxed! Who in their right mind would do this? Look, I’ve gotta go.” I heard him snicker. “Wait, are you laughing?” That little . . .

“No.” More snickers.

“Taylor . . .” I growled.

“Okay, yeah, I am. You have to admit this is pretty funny.”

Funny? “You would think so, since I am positive it’s your fault.”

“My fault? How can this be my fault?” More chuckles.

“You’re a smart guy, figure it out.”

“Wait, you’re serious, aren’t you? You truly believe somebody who wanted to play some sort of prank on you, would do so because of me?”

“Yes.” Duh. “Look, Taylor, this has been fun and all, but I need to go.”

“Wait. Before you go, will you at least explain yourself?”

I was beginning to lose my cool. “You know what? I can’t deal with this. You think everything is a game. Don’t worry. I won’t call you again.”

“You can’t hang up like that. Tell me what’s going on in that fiery little head of yours.”

“See what I mean? This is a joke to you, isn’t it?”

“Chloe Elizabeth Hart, if you hang up this phone without telling me what in the world you’re talking about—”

Elizabeth? “How did you know my middle name? No one knows my middle name.” This is such an invasion of privacy. There has to be a law against this!

“I have my sources, and if you don’t fess up I’ll be sure to call you that from now on.”

Blackmail? What, are we in junior high now? How in the world did this day go from bad to worse? This has got to end, and if the only way to make sure it happens is to sit on this phone a couple minutes longer, then—

“Fine! Don’t you see that every time you talk to me it causes people to think things they don’t need to be thinking? And I’m not talking about me, either—I’m talking about the whole student body, now gossiping about—about this, this . . . situation! When you draw attention to me, then everyone assumes I am free game to torment, which apparently has already begun, hence this phone call. You just came back today. Holy cow, Taylor, if this keeps up I can’t imagine what people will think to do to me next. Thanks to you and your mocking, I am fast becoming the biggest freak in this school!”

“Let me get this straight,” Taylor said. “You’re angry with me for flirting with you?”

“Bingo. He has a brain cell.”

“A brain cell? What is that supposed to mean?” Disbelief and resentment colored his voice. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, princess.”

“Don’t you dare call me prin—!”

“There are a whole lot of girls that would love to have the attention you got today.”

“Of all the egotistical things to—”

“But I chose to focus on you,” Taylor interrupted again. “Mainly because I thought you were more fun and lighthearted than you apparently are. In case you are not aware, I have a girlfriend.”

“You—!”

“So if this is some sort of twisted excuse to make me see you differently and fall in love with you, then the game is up.”

This is like talking to a rock. I can’t believe I’m allowing myself to be insulted by a stupid, stubborn rock! Calm down, Chloe. Keep your voice calm. Deep breath. There. “Taylor Anderson, I am only going to say this one time, so listen carefully. You can have Anne. She’s yours. As a matter of fact, you can have any girl in the whole flippin’ town, for all I care. Except me. So seriously, don’t even flatter yourself.”

“Chloe, wait!”

I didn’t even bother to say goodbye before I hung up the phone. Jerk! Stupid, selfish, unreasonable imbecile! I let out a weary sigh and began rubbing my temples to try to release the mounting pressure. This isn’t working. As I opened my eyes, I glanced at the clock.

“Oh, no. Claire! I’m late.” I grabbed the keys to Mom’s Volvo and scooped up my purse, then yelled, “Bye, Mom!” and dashed out the door.

Reeling over the unbelievable conversation I’d just had with Taylor, I nearly collided with the neighbor’s trash can as I backed up the car. This is so Taylor’s fault. First he makes me late, and then he tries to distract me so I almost crash the car. I wonder if I could sue. I cannot believe the ego that guy has, seriously thinking I was trying to trap him into falling in love with me. As if!

After I sped out of the driveway, I felt something wet on my cheek. “What in the—?” I touched my face and realized and I was crying. For crying out loud, Chloe. What are you crying for? I laughed at the double meaning. You’re just angry, that’s all. Sheez.

My twelve-year-old sister, Claire, was waiting for me on a bench just inside the door of Chavez Ballet Studio. “For your information, Mom usually picks me up at 4:15, not 4:30,” she announced as I opened the studio’s front door. “It’s not good to be late, Chloe. It makes you seem undependable to people.”