Populazzi. Part 27

"I hereby lift your punishment and return all privileges. Which leaves only one important item to discuss: American or provolone?"

The answer was obviously provolone. As we huddled over the steaks and cheese fries, Karl told me he had already faxed my report card to Dean Jaffe at Northwestern, who was very impressed. The dean had cemented his plans to come to Philly, and we were officially on his books for lunch April twenty-fifth. I did my best to give lip service to what I knew should be some of the greatest news ever.

Truthfully, though, I had no room in my head for anything but visions of my new life as a fully functioning member of the Populazzi.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

"Oh my G.o.d, you could not possibly be any cuter!" I squealed. Yes, squealed. I defy any human being not to squeal when faced with a twenty-pound love-pig of a black fuzzy mutt with little white paws, a little white bib and chin, and wide pointy ears that moved completely independently of each other, and either flopped down or perked straight up depending on his mood. This was Riley, Trista's dog, and at the moment he was lying on his back, begging with his front paws for me to go back to scratching his belly. Of course I obliged.

My grounding had been lifted yesterday, and today was our day of celebration. I had already done a little celebrating last night: I'd used my freshly returned credit card to buy the laundry list of clothing and accessories Trista had been e-mailing me. I was smart about it, though. I had my mom come check out all the links first. Given Trista's impeccable taste, Mom loved everything. She was especially impressed by Trista's responsibility in suggesting lower-cost alternatives to each item. She gave her explicit approval of every purchase and had even been inspired to do some shopping for herself.

Today the guys had an away game, and Gemma had gone off for several weeks to play in some tournaments. That left Trista, Ree-Ree, Kristie, and me. We caravanned to Trista's house, but I had to call Claudia, so I put her on speakerphone and kept the cell in my lap so Kristie wouldn't look through her rearview mirror and wonder if I was hiding a secret cache of other friends.

I was especially thrilled to have Claudia on the line when we pa.s.sed through an automatic gate and pulled into Trista's driveway-or more accurately, Private Road.

"Uh, Claude? The street is named Trista Way."

"Of course it is!" Claudia gushed. "Is it a shallow road? Is it beautifully paved in gold but rotting away underneath? Is it lined with street signs telling you what to do?"

"Okay ... I see goats."

"Goats?"

"Goats. There is a pen of actual goats to my right."

"Do you think they eat the goats?"

"I do not see Trista eating goat."

"What would you do if she served you goat? She's Supreme Populazzi. You'd have to eat it."

"Ugh!" I made a formal declaration that when and if the time ever came that I was Supreme Populazzi, I would never make anyone eat goat.

"Hey, Claudia," I said as I neared the end of Trista Way, "remember how I told you Nate's was pretty much the biggest house I'd ever seen?"

"You take it back?"

"I take it back."

It honestly seemed silly to refer to Trista's house as a "house." It was more like three or four houses pushed together, all united by a network of columns and ma.s.sive turrets. Seriously, turrets. If we were living in another century, I'm fairly certain the place would have qualified as a castle.

Of course it had its own parking lot. As I pulled in behind the other girls, I hung up, swearing to call Claudia back the second I left. I walked toward the three-story archway hooding the entrance and wondered if Trista's room was in a turret. Had it been me, I totally would have chosen a turret room.

"Cara!" Trista called. "This way! My house is over here."

"Your..." I jogged to catch up with her, Ree-Ree, and Kristie as they walked down a cobbled path. "I'm sorry, did you say your house?"

"Present for my sixteenth birthday. I got to move into the guesthouse."

The guesthouse was down a long hill from the main house, and the pool sat between the two buildings. Trista's place was a perfect miniature of the main house, complete with mini columns and an arched entranceway. No turrets, though. The grand tour took all of five seconds and included two rooms: The Hang and The Hole.

The Hang was Trista's bedroom/hangout room. It was carpeted in plush blue s.h.a.g and housed her queen-size bed, covered with layers of brown and blue patterned comforters and pillows, one small worktable and a chair, plus several brown and blue beanbags and oversize pillows. The wall opposite the bed held a wide shelving unit filled with books and keepsakes, all surrounding a large wall-mounted flat-screen TV. A small but beautiful bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower/ tub branched off The Hang. When I fantasized about my ideal dorm room at Northwestern, I dreamed it would be exactly like The Hang.

The Hole was technically a kitchen, but as Trista explained, her parents hadn't bothered renovating it for her, since they knew she couldn't cook. They also hoped she'd go to the main house and sit with them for meals. Everything in The Hole was stark white, which showed off every smear and stain, both new and ancient. You had to enter The Hole single file; it couldn't hold more than one person across. Still, it had a working sink, fridge, oven, a fully stocked pantry, and two stools that put you at the perfect height to munch on a bowl of cereal at the end of the counter.

There was more. A full wall of sliding gla.s.s doors along the far side of The Hang opened to a tented cencrete patio filled with electric tiki torch heaters and padded double chaises. It was like an additional room. There was a small doggie door built into the sliders, which is how I first met Riley. The pooch bounded in the second we arrived, ready to leap all over us and lick us to pieces.

That cemented it for me. Trista's place was perfection. I never wanted to leave.

"And now," Trista said, "the Liberation Celebration Libations!"

Trista ducked into The Hole and emerged with a stack of red plastic cups and a bottle of champagne. She handed the bottle to me. "Pop the cork?"

I had never popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, but it wasn't a problem. The girls cheered and Trista poured ... and I started to panic inside.

I couldn't drink champagne. I'd be driving home in a couple hours. If champagne made me feel anything like the beer I'd had with Nate did, I'd be a swimmy mess in about two minutes. Still, I'd look like a complete loser if I was the only one saying no to the champagne, especially since it was in my honor.

Kristie must have seen the look on my face. She leaned in close and said, "We're all driving, so we're just taking the tiniest sip to celebrate."

"Yeah." Ree-Ree lounged back in her beanbag and gazed wistfully at her red plastic cup. "We don't really raid The Hole unless we're staying over."

"Which they do every Sat.u.r.day," Trista said. She plopped down in a beanbag next to me and clinked my plastic cup. She drained her drink-she was already home. "Sat.u.r.day's club night. Friday sometimes, but Sat.u.r.day for sure. Always okay to crash here Sat.u.r.day night, so it's cool to GYBO."

"Get Your Buzz On." Kristie giggled.

"Grab her cup, Cara!" Ree-Ree said. "KBG!"

"KBG?" I asked.

"Kristie Buzz Giggle," Kristie said, shoving her cup in my hands. "Don't let me drink any more."

"I'll take it." Trista downed the little bit of champagne left in Kristie's, Ree-Ree's, and my cups.

"Shall we bring out ... the List?" Ree-Ree asked. Without waiting for an answer, she walked to The Hole and came back with a creased piece of yellow legal-pad paper. The front was split into four columns with the scrawled headers "Trista," "Ree-Ree," "Kristie," and "Gemma." Under each was a list of names, and next to each name was a small H or S.

"The List of Conquests," Ree-Ree said. "All the guys we've ever fooled around with. 'H' means hookup; 'S' means s.e.x."

I ran my eyes over the sheet of paper again. Gemma's and Ree-Ree's lists were far longer than the others' and peppered with far more S s. Kristie's was next longest, and every name was followed by an H. Trista's had only four names, ending with Brett's, the only name to be awarded an S.

"Gemma's pulling way ahead of me." Ree-Ree tsked. "Marsh and I might need to take another break. Or who knows?" she said to me. "Maybe you'll beat us both out."

She flipped over the paper, and for a second I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge looking at his own tombstone. Next to the fresh column Ree-Ree created for me were three other columns, all scratched to oblivion with ballpoint ink. I wondered what my predecessors had done to earn their excommunication.

"All right," Ree-Ree said. "Shoot."

I was grateful I'd seen the other side first. I wouldn't lose face by having a short, virginal list. Still, I couldn't name only Nate and Eddie. And even if I thought Archer might be an acceptable hookup for someone in the Populazzi-which I didn't think he was-his wild freak-out at the touch of my lips was hardly something I wanted to publicize.

Yet that, as Claudia had told me, was the beauty of being new to Chrysella. I could say anything, and no one would know. I gave a list of six names "from my old school," mostly guys I'd had crushes on at one time or another. I also included Fred Crumston, Claudia's and my least favorite teacher, who always had at least one string of spittle connecting his upper and lower lips. They vibrated when he spoke. Just picturing it made me nauseous, but I knew how much Claudia would laugh when I told her about it later. I ended with Nate and Eddie.

Ree-Ree sighed. "You are so offering no compet.i.tion."

"Because we're not competing; we're immortalizing," Trista said. "So what's the craziest place you've ever fooled around with a guy?" she asked me.

I had no story of my own, so I adopted an entertaining rumor I'd heard about a Pennsbrook couple after hours at Sesame Place theme park near Yardley. It involved a Big Bird costume and Ernie's Bed Bounce. The girls loved it and jumped in with their own favorite stories.

The afternoon whizzed by, but Trista wouldn't let me leave until she'd fully briefed me on the parameters of my new life as a nongrounded member of the Populazzi. The Hang was the after-school spot, and if I could convince my parents to let me stay for dinner, that would be ideal. Trista always preferred to have food delivered and eat in The Hang with her friends rather than in the big house with her family. I promised to try, but since "Family Dinner Every Night" was a major tenet of Mom and Karl's parenting credo, I doubted it would happen.

"We can help with that," Trista said. "Tell your parents we're coming for dinner tomorrow night." She turned to Kristie and Ree-Ree. "Got that? Tomorrow after school, Cara's house."

My brain ran over every inadequacy of our new house. But Trista hadn't asked if she could come over; she'd declared it. End of story.

"The under-twenty-one clubs in the city are Super-LA," Trista continued, "so you'll need a fake ID. You'll probably never use it. A lot of the bouncers know us and are cool. It's just in case. I'll shoot you a link. Send a hundred dollars cash, upload a picture, and it's done. You can even overnight the money and have them overnight the ID. Whole thing takes less than a week. We've all used it; it's great."

It was dusk by the time I had to leave for dinner. Kristie and Ree-Ree were staying and had no desire to brave the cold, but Trista offered to walk me to my car. "I'm glad you were sprung," she said before I got in.

"Me, too. Thanks for helping."

Trista shrugged off the compliment, then reached out her arms. I thought she was going to hug me goodbye, but instead she placed her hands on my shoulders and fixed me with a stare. She was smiling, but her fingers dug into me a little, the pressure just this side of painful.

"The most important thing, Cara? No secrets. Ever." She squeezed her fingers a bit harder, as if pus.h.i.+ng the message into my body. Then she released me with a cheery "See you tomorrow!"

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

"Oh my G.o.d, it's t.i.tus Andronicus. Don't eat anything she cooks in The Hole; it'll be made from the bodies of the scratched-out List girls."

I was on my way home from Trista's, and I'd just told Claudia about the shoulder-digging moment.

"I know!" I said. "But she was only like that for the one second. The rest of the time was amazing. And I'm kind of okay with the threatdown thing. It's like the Mafia: I'm family now, so I need to remember who's Boss. It's weirdly cool."

"How are you getting the ID money?"

Claudia so knew my life. I've never had a job. Karl believed the school year was better spent studying. During summer vacations, he felt volunteering at the animal shelter, taking creative writing courses, and traveling with the family would look better on my Northwestern application and give me more personal essay material than slinging popcorn at the movies or waiting tables.

The only downside to this was that I never had more than about twenty dollars in cash. It hadn't been a problem before: Mom and Karl always gave me what I needed; I just had to ask for it first. Call me crazy, but I had a feeling that asking for fake ID money wouldn't go over well. I could lie, but it had to be a lie where the only answer was a hundred dollars in cash. If they told me to put whatever it was on my credit card, I was sunk.

Luckily, I had thought this through before Claudia asked.

"Only answer: Mom's stash."

"My thoughts exactly."

Mom had no idea I even knew about her stash. She kept it balled up in an old lopsided ceramic cookie jar I'd made for her in third grade and which now sat on a high shelf in the back of her closet. The stash was a huge wad of hundred-dollar bills, which she'd secretly peeled off Karl's casino winnings. Mom didn't need the money; she and Karl had a joint account. Claudia and I figured she tucked it away so she could feel a little bit independent.

We'd raided the stash before. Never more than one bill, and only for really important things, like the matching birthstone necklaces we once got for each other at the exact midpoint between our two summer birthdays. Mom never noticed. The wad was big enough that a single hundred here or there made no difference. She wouldn't miss the one I'd use for the fake ID.

The next day at school I was a wreck. Not about the money and the ID-I was petrified about the Populazzi girls coming over. I'd asked Mom and Karl about it at dinner the night before, and they'd agreed immediately. The mere mention of Trista appearing on our doorstep was enough to get Karl to toss aside his newspaper for the rest of the meal. Mom was just as excited and grilled me about delicacies Trista, Kristie, and Renee would most enjoy.

I suppose I should have been happy about their enthusiasm, but it only made me more nervous. Honestly, I didn't know what worried me more: super-rich Trista's horror at our average-size lifestyle or Karl finding some fatal flaw in one of the girls that would make him ban them from my presence.

I should have had more confidence in Trista. She spent all our free time that day pumping me for added information about Mom and Karl. Thus armed, Trista, Kristie, and Ree-Ree made it impossible for my parents not to fall even more in love with them. First they hung out with Mom in the kitchen. Mom was making her signature turkey chili, and Kristie dove in to help, chatting about her own favorite "cold-weather recipes" while gus.h.i.+ng over the genius of Mom's.

"This recipe actually reminds me of one of my favorite chefs," Kristie said. "Have you ever heard of Cat Cora?"

"Are you kidding?" my mom asked. "Here, I want to show you something."

Mom flung open the cabinet in which she kept all her cookbooks and pulled out everything Cat Cora had ever written. Of course, I'd already told Kristie Mom had those books, just like I'd told her Cat Cora was mom's culinary role model and the main reason she never missed an episode of Iron Chef America. Yet Kristie's interest had sounded so genuine, Mom didn't question it.

"I've been to her restaurant at Disney World," Ree-Ree said as she and Trista bustled to set the perfect table, which was arranged around a beautiful floral centerpiece they'd brought along themselves.

Ree-Ree had never been to Disney World. With the exception of a few vacations with Trista's family, Ree-Ree had never left the tri-state area.

"Oh, Kouzzina! I've been dying to go there!" Mom said. "How did you like the food?"

Ree-Ree wasn't much of a student, but she'd clearly studied the restaurant review Trista had e-mailed her. She didn't miss a beat discussing its ins and outs.

Mom could have spoken to the Populazzi all night, but the moment Karl came downstairs for dinner, my brilliant friends turned all their attention to him. Kristie asked a million questions about Northwestern, which she and Trista both said they'd decided was their first-choice college. Ree-Ree told story after story about her grandfather, whose high-roller exploits at the Atlantic City blackjack tables were legendary. Trista commiserated about the Philadelphia Eagles' devastating Super Bowl loss and discussed exactly what "their" team needed to do to get back on its feet.

I was in awe. By the time they left and Trista gave me a final wink, Karl would have been more than happy to let me move in with any of them.

"I am very impressed, Cara," he said. "I like your new friends quite a bit. You're an excellent judge of character."

Actually, Trista was the excellent judge of Mom's and Karl's characters, but it netted out to the same thing: total freedom. I went right to Trista's every day after school. On Friday, I brought an overnight bag-I'd be staying for the whole weekend. Kristie and Ree-Ree were, too. They almost always did on weekends. Now I'd have the same regular routine.

We didn't do anything special on Friday. Since we didn't have to drive, Trista made all kinds of concoctions in The Hole and we drank them up. They tasted much better than either the beer or the champagne I'd tried. Trista used so much juice that everything was fruity and delicious. I wouldn't have even known I was drinking alcohol until everything got so swimmy that I had to lie on a beanbag and wait for the room to stop spinning. It wasn't a horrible feeling, though-as long as I didn't try to stand up, I could still laugh and have fun.

Sat.u.r.day we didn't wake up until the middle of the afternoon. I'd never slept in like that unless I'd had a high fever. I did have a little headache but nothing too terrible. Trista hadn't let me go to bed before I'd had a full bottle of water and a couple Tylenol: hangover protection, she'd said.

We were all starving, so Trista called over to the main house and begged the housekeeper to make and bring over ma.s.s quant.i.ties of pancakes, bacon, and coffee. At three in the afternoon, the four of us were sprawled out all over The Hang, still in our pajamas and stuffing ourselves with piles of greasy, salty, syrupy deliciousness as we laughed and watched lame shows on TV. It was the first time I felt completely relaxed and at home with the Populazzi. As if they really were my sisters.

We got dressed and lazed around for several more hours, until it was time to get ready to go out. Sat.u.r.day night was club night. Trista had been right: my fake ID had taken no time at all to arrive. I'd had it sent to Trista's house. Just before I'd ordered it, I realized my parents would attack any nondescript envelope addressed to me. Even though we were on good terms now, they'd still either open it or a.s.sume it was junk mail and shred it. When I explained the situation to Trista, she said her parents wouldn't even see the envelope. The housekeepers sorted anything addressed to Trista out of the family mail right away and delivered it to her little house.

The first time I saw the ID, I was shocked by how perfect it looked. I held it up next to my real license, searching for inconsistencies. If anything, my fake ID looked better, since I'd uploaded a slightly nicer picture. Not too nice, though, since Trista had said that could make bouncers suspicious.