How to (Not) Date a Popstar |✓|

3.1 Up And Down

Tyler was gone when I woke up the next morning, but he had used one of my lipsticks to draw a frog on the mirror.

Even though I hadn't gotten much sleep, I woke up with that warm, fuzzy feeling you get waking up on Christmas Day. I showered, blitzing through morning skincare and makeup. The girl in the mirror wasn't a wreck from three to four hours of sleep. Her amber eyes were bright and alert, warm brown skin even toned and blemish free. Today, her curls were in French-braids that dipped past her shoulders, a hairstyle that accentuated her heart-shaped face and pointed chin. Being biracial, identifying as white and black, was like walking a tight-rope between two worlds, blind-folded.

I thundered downstairs and into the kitchen. Trina's fiancé, Hudson Espinosa, was dancing to merengue in long-sleeved, navy coveralls as he whipped up breakfast in the kitchen. I joined him, twirling my way to the sink, hands and feet moving in a flurry of rhythm.

Hudson danced at the stove, singing in Spanish as he stirred the scrambled eggs he had mixed with chorizo, onions, and bell peppers. Born and raised in the Dominican Republic, Hudson's red-brown skin was offset by dark brown eyes and shiny, black ringlets that fell to his brows. Hudson was a mechanic; he ran the best auto repair shop in town, and could fix just about anything—even a broken heart. I was introduced to Hudson after moving to the Village. He taught me Spanish and introduced me to Latin culture. He took me to father-daughter dances, gave me advice about boys, and never overstepped the boundaries in our relationship. Hudson was the father I never had.

"¿Para aqui o para llevar?" he asked. Scooping chorizo and eggs on a plate, he added a slice of buttered toast and passed it over.

"Por aquí, gracias," I replied, accepting the plate and taking a seat at the kitchen table.

"Yala. Then you have time to discuss the boy who snuck from your room at 6 a.m."

"On second thought, I'll just take my food to go—" But I sat back down when Hudson raised his brows. "Are you going to tell Aunt Trina?"

"Your aunt is feeling under the weather," he replied, pouring me a glass of orange juice. "I don't see any reason to bother her. This time." He winked.

"Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!" I sighed in relief. "We're just friends," I assured, plowing food in my mouth. "Nothing happened."

"I trust you, cariña. But if your aunt catches you it's curtains for you both." He tapped his nose in warning, then went back to the merengue as I tried to outdrink my cotton mouth.

***

Harbor Village High wasn't like any school I had ever been to, which was really saying something considering the flashy institutes they have in New York City. HVH was an old, renovated castle straight out of a gothic romance. Patterned masonry stone punctuated by mullioned windows and a stately, mansard roof. The campus was lush and green, with a garden entrance leading to courtyard with a bubbling fountain. Small groves of apple trees dotted the campus. Students trampled the red, orange, and yellow leaves underfoot, but otherwise the villainous gardeners kept the sweeping lawn immaculate. They were on constant patrol, waving their shears and cursing the closest students when cigarettes and trash were discovered.

Inside, I navigated the wide, airy halls in familiar ease. Students moved down the halls in clumps, lingered at the bottom of the stairs, or sat against the banks of lockers with their legs sticking out. At my locker, I did the combination and opened the door, trading the books in my backpack for first period anatomy.

The book was plucked from my hands.

"The map of the human body," said Eric, reading the title aloud. "Kinky, Preston." Smelling like soap and cologne, he leaned his tall, athletic frame against the lockers, turning the pages in feigned interest. He wore tan twill joggers, paired with spotless, white Nikes and a matching hoodie with half sleeves. His fade was fresh as the bruise around his eye.

He closed the book with a snap. "Had a fun conversation with your boyfriend yesterday. Seen him around?" Eric leaned against the lockers, shining brown eyes dangerously narrow.

"Tyler's not my boyfriend, and I'm staying out of whatever this is," I replied, taking my book.

"Then I guess you won't have a problem with me and the squad teaching him a lil lesson'," he said, giving dap to a passing member of the basketball team. "You know the problem with celebrities, Aaliyah? They think they can do whatever they want."

"Wow. Sounds like the same problem the jocks are having."

"You got jokes. It's not gonna be funny when I catch up to your boy." Eric grinned, stroking his chin in amusement. He circled me, walking backwards as he shrugged. "Tell him if he wants a real fight, he can catch these hands after school. You can get it too, girl—lookin' all good and shit." He winked and disappeared. Eric was an ass, and shitty at relationships, but he knew how to make a girl blush.

Two hot guys dueling over little old me?

Just call me Helen of Troy.

***

English with Mr. O'Sullivan was the highlight of the day. Girls liked him because he was cute and charming, and the boys liked him because he was funny. Mr. O was from Ireland, with a sharp dress sense and a biting sense of humor. The more he liked you the meaner he was. If he didn't poke fun at your bad hair day, or the way you always had something clever to say to your friends but never the right answer to his question, it would make you feel self-conscious and left out. Desperate, we scrambled to please him.

We were copying Mr. O'Sullivan's notes on Hamlet's madness when the classroom door swung open. My train of thought was derailed when Mr. O addressed his new student.

"Ahh, Mr. Moore—what's the story? I presume you've a good reason for being late to class? Were you attacked by a swarm of hormonal teenage girls? Chased down the hall by paparazzi, perhaps? Or did a dog with a pipe and an old-fashioned vest happen to eat your homework?"

Tyler hoisted his backpack higher on his shoulder, and replied with a good-natured grin. "I overslept."

The class erupted in whispers and laughter.

"Find a seat, Mr. Moore. Next time you're late it'll be detention. Just because you've a great head o' hair and can bang a guitar doesn't mean you can break the rules, ye gobshite."

There were more chuckles as Tyler picked his way through the desks. The students had eyes round as plates, some of them recited Tyler's most popular lyrics in loud sing-song voices. One girl reached in her bag and took a few puffs on her inhaler; even I held my breath as Tyler walked past Robin, whose supreme satisfaction was wiped clean when he walked past her.

If he was tired from staying up all night, I couldn't tell. He walked with his head high, shoulders straight. Brown hair, still wet, slicked back from his face, emphasizing his sardonic, green gaze. His black leather jacket was perfectly worn, the black v-neck underneath stamped by Gucci. He slid into the seat next to mine, and nodded, flashing a white-teeth smile filled with secrets.

"Alright, you muppets—eyes on the board!"

Tyler poked me in the side with his pencil. "I bet Shakespeare got hella ladies too," he whispered.

"Comparing you to Shakespeare—that's a reach," I whispered back, and ignored him the rest of class.

***