Populazzi. Part 32

"Whatever. People are selfish. Give them the chance and they'll take what they can get. Look at you." Trista didn't say it accusingly, just as a fact of life that confirmed her philosophy. "Always a.s.sume you're on your own and everyone else wants to bring you down. It's the only way to stay the best."

Another night, Trista and I were playing Wii Fit while we talked. I was working on the tree pose, but I kept losing my balance. "Look away or something," I told her. "I can't do it when I know you're staring at me."

"That's a problem. If you want to be really popular, you have to a.s.sume you're being scrutinized every second, because you probably are. You have to thrive under that pressure."

She executed a perfect tree pose.

During another session, Trista made us ice cream sundaes in the bas.e.m.e.nt kitchenette.

"You know one word that'll help you be like me?" she asked.

In my head I started running down the alphabet: Artificial, Bogus, Conniving, Devious...

"No idea," I said. "What word?"

"Magnet." She dropped a cherry on each of our dishes, then set them on the counter so we could dig in. "Everything about me is a magnet. Like the way I look. I look good, right?"

"Well, yeah. You're really pretty."

"I'm beautiful. I work at it. Beauty is a magnet. Not just to get guys either. Women are more impressed by beautiful women. It's a fact. Know how my mom got my dad?"

"She was beautiful?"

"She was beautiful. And she's going to lose him unless she gets beautiful again. He warns her about it every day."

"He does?"

Trista nodded. "She gained weight. She was a size two when they met. Now she's a ten. Know what he gave her for her birthday?"

I had no idea.

"Box of s.e.xy lingerie," she said. "All size twos."

"Subtle message." I wasn't sure what had the bigger yuck factor: the message or the fact that Trista knew all about it.

"I thought it was pretty straightforward," she said, completely missing my sarcasm. "He's not attracted to her at this weight. She has fewer friends, too. I've seen their high school yearbook-she was it. Now she has maybe two good friends, tops."

She took a big bite of the sundae, and a question started nagging at me. "Trista," I asked, "are you going to throw up when we're done?"

Trista thought about it. "Probably not," she said. "Real bu-limics are like that: they disappear after every meal and get rid of it. That's not me. I only do it once or twice a week. Three times at the most. And it's only after a binge, not just a meal or a dessert."

"What's the difference?"

"Are you kidding? Okay, once when I was really stressed out, I took the car and hit McDonald's for a Big Mac, large fries, and shake, DQ for a dipped cone, and Dunkin's for a half-dozen donuts. Downed the cone and the fries in the car, the rest back here."

Ew.

"Exactly. Who wants all that in their body? I had to get rid of it. That one sucked, though-too much doughy stuff-almost impossible to get up. I didn't think I'd be able to do it, which was a complete nightmare. Can you imagine?"

"No," I replied honestly.

"Now I'm smarter. I choose things that come up easier. Soft-serve ice cream, giant bowls of cereal with milk, that kind of thing. And lots of fluid."

It was weird. She was talking about the intricacies of her bulimia like it was a hobby, not a disease.

"But ... it's really bad for you, isn't it? I mean, does it hurt?"

"Sometimes, but if you do it enough, it's harder to trip your gag reflex, which comes in very handy, if you know what mean.

I did know what she meant, but somehow juxtaposing it with vomiting made the whole thing highly unappealing.

"Maybe you should talk about this with your parents or something," I said. "Maybe they could help."

"Oh, yeah, that'd be great. I went crying to Mom after my first time. It was, like, ninth grade and I'd eaten a whole box of Frosted Flakes-no milk, I didn't know-and scratched the h.e.l.l out of my throat to get it up. I was totally freaked and I told Mom, but she didn't say a word, just kept filing her nails. I finally begged her to say something, and she goes, 'What am I supposed to say? What kind of mother do you think it makes me if my daughter's a bulimic!'"

"Wow," I said. "Okay, so maybe not her, but-"

"People don't want to see your weaknesses, Cara. And you can't let them. Not if you want to be a magnet."

She looked at me as if to make sure I'd gotten the message, then went back to her sundae. "I like talking to you about this stuff, though. It's nice."

It was nice ... which was weird. Trista and I had been having so many late-night conversations and she'd opened up so much to me, I felt closer to her than I ever had before. Claudia was my reality check. She reminded me that the only reason Trista was being so honest and genuine was that I had dirt on her. If she could have, she'd have thrown me to the wolves in a heartbeat.

The magnet thing became Trista's favorite metaphor for popularity. She brought it up again toward the end of March, right before spring break.

"So I've been thinking about our transition of power," Trista said, lining up a tricky shot on the b.u.mper pool table.

"What about it?"

She sank the shot and lined up another. "It won't be easy for people to buy it. I'm so magnetic that, no matter how magnetic we make you and no matter how much I try to sell it for you, I'm not sure it'll work."

"Are you going back on our deal?"

"Will you forget what you saw?"

I just looked at her.

"Exactly," she said, sinking another shot. "So I can't. But I had an idea: a big public way we could officially set you up as the new me."

"What's that?"

"The spring party." Trista put down the pool cue and plopped onto the couch. "Every year I throw a party after spring break. Everyone knows about it, but the actual invitation list is very selective. Big but selective. The party is epically CHIW-the kind of thing people talk about for months. If you really want to be me, this year you throw that party. I'll help, but we'll make sure everyone knows it's yours. Your magnet-tude will skyrocket."

I liked the idea a lot. I'd been wondering how we'd get everyone to see me as the new Supreme Populazzi, and this seemed like the perfect plan.

But the strategy had come from Trista, so I was suspicious.

"You really want to do this for me?" I asked.

"Of course not. But you know my secrets, so I need to keep you happy."

She was right. "Okay," I said. "Let's do it."

"Great. Where? Not your house. I've been to your house."

"What's wrong with my house?"

"It's fine ... for a house. But not for an epic party. And even if it were, would your parents get out of the way?"

No. My parents would never get out of the way for a party. They would in fact very much want to be in the way and policing every moment. Plus Trista was right: the house was nowhere near epic. I needed a spot like Trista's. Or Nate's.

Or my dad's.

I smiled. "I just might know the perfect place."

Chapter Thirty-Two.

My dad and I had an interesting relations.h.i.+p. I had last seen him a year ago, and I had made him cry. We'd met on neutral territory: a Wendy's. He'd asked me to meet him at his house, but ever since I'd turned thirteen and he boycotted my bat mitzvah because I wouldn't let the Bar Wench get called up for an Aliyah, I had refused to set foot on his property.

I didn't hug my dad when I saw him last. I didn't even smile, which in my pre-Nate-training days was an effort for me. I simply sat across from him, perfectly straight-faced, dipping my fries in my Frosty and regaling him with every story I remembered from my childhood in which he'd let me down. All those times when I was three, four, five years old, totally in love with my daddy and waiting for him to pick me up for a scheduled visit. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Until he'd finally cancel.

I reminded him of my school plays in fourth and fifth grade. He'd come-but he'd been on the phone the whole time, bouncing in and out of the theater.

I reminded him of the times he had picked me up for our father-daughter visits only to run up to his computer the minute we got to his house, leaving me with the Bar Wench, who expected me to help her take care of her whiny sons.

I showed absolutely no emotion as I dragged him through the muck of Memory Lane, and I made him cry. I loved that I made him cry. It made me feel accomplished, powerful, and strong. It made me feel right.

Given that our last two annual visits had played out that way and given my vow never to set foot in his house, it was more than a touch hypocritical of me to try to have a party there. Then again, it fit perfectly with my new philosophy to keep my emotions at bay and do whatever was necessary to get what I wanted.

I described Dad's house to Trista. She thought it sounded perfect, but of course she knew I had to lay some groundwork before I asked to throw a party there. She suggested I use the two-week spring break to reconnect with him, then pop the party thing on him afterward. She also recommended I show her Dad's house so she could see if it was "magnetic" enough. I was pretty sure it was, but Trista's taste was dead-on, so I agreed. I called him at his office to make an appointment.

"Leonard Engineering," his secretary answered.

"Um, hi. Is Lenny there?" I asked.

Yes, my dad's name really is Leonard Leonard. I long suspected that this was the actual source of all his problems, and he might have been a far better husband, father, and person if his parents hadn't been so cruel.

"May I ask who's calling?" the secretary asked.

"Sure. It's his daughter, Cara."

"His ... daughter?" She was clearly unaware that Leonard Leonard even had a daughter. Nice.

"Just a minute," she said. "I'll see what I can do."

To his credit, my dad picked up the phone right away and managed to sound like he was happy to hear from me.

"Cara! Hey! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I sifted through his tone for snarkiness but found none, so I gave him the story Trista had worked out for me. It sounded disingenuous to me, but she knew what people needed to hear, so I went with it. I said now that I was almost a senior, I'd been thinking a lot about what came next-college, probably moving away-and before it happened I wanted to try to make things better between us.

Dad got weepy. I didn't feel any sense of accomplishment about it this time, just awe that Trista's skills were so well honed. Dad a.s.sumed I'd want to meet on neutral ground, but I said no, the house was fine.

"Even if Lisa and the boys will be there?" he asked.

I choked back gagging noises and painted a smile on my face, even though I was on the phone. "Sure! I'd love to see them."

A couple days later, on the first day of spring break, Trista and I drove to my dad's house. She seemed pleased when we pulled into his driveway. "Very nice. This could work for you."

The house was nowhere near as vast as Trista's, but it was big and it was impressive. Dad and Lisa had worked with an architect to design it from the ground up, so it was a modern marvel of skylights, angles, and gables. Trista led the way to the front door and rang the bell.

I knew I was doing this for a greater purpose, but I still felt very weird being there. I was glad Trista was with me-she'd make it easier. I had a feeling I could hang back and let her do all the talking and everything would be perfect.

Dad opened the door and seemed shocked to find a supermodel on his doorstep when he'd been expecting his daughter.

"Hi," Trista said.

"Well, h.e.l.lo," Dad replied, and I saw a flirtatious twinkle in his eye that made me nauseous. I leaned in close to Trista.

"Hey, Dad! Sorry, I should have told you I was bringing my friend."

"Oh!" He quickly rearranged his body language from provocative to paternal, then gave me a hug. He turned to Trista. "You must be Claudia, right?"

I doubled over laughing. Both Dad and Trista looked at me like I was a mental patient, but I couldn't help it. Eventually I pulled myself together.

"Sorry. No. This is Trista Camello. From my new school, Chrysella. Trista, this is my dad."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leonard," she said.

"Call me Lenny."

I waited for it.

Nothing. Trista didn't even flinch. Was she just being polite, or had she really not caught the Leonard Leonard thing?

"Can I get you girls something?" my dad asked. "A soda maybe? A snack?"

"A little water would be great, thanks," Trista said, and as we followed Dad into the kitchen, she leaned close to my ear. "Your dad's cute," she whispered.

"Ew. Stop. He is not."