Is Bridgeport big enough for Kae, Robyn, Alex and Jasmine? They're all beautiful, captivating, and a little bit crazy... but there can be only one It Girl.
[ Based on the It Girl series by Cecily Von Ziegesar ]
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Thursday morning, Chris strode across the quad, barely glancing down at the puddles left over from yesterday's rain that hi Timberlands narrowly avoided. His eyes were glued to his notebook, the one he used to jot down notes from Mr. Wilde's lectures. Problem was, he was often more interested in sketching what he saw outside the window than paying attention to what his teacher had to say about manifest destiny and the Articles of Confederation. Chris flipped through the pages of sketches and his own barely decipherable writing and sighed. Twenty minutes of cramming was not going to help him pass this test.
Even though he'd known about the test for two weeks, Chris hadn't been able to bring himself to study. There were just too many other more important things. How could he be expected to hit the books when the leaves were changing color and Credo could smell the brisk scent of autumn and practically begged him to take her out riding? When winter came, it would be too cold to paint out in his secret spot in the woods. He had to take advantage of it now. He didn't understand people who spent their whole lives doing things they thought they should do—they were never happy, were they?
He closed the notebook and lit a cigarette. The email from his dad this morning had irritated him more than he wanted to admit. He hadn't yet told his dad about breaking up with Robyn. Not that he ever confided in his dad. Chris and his father were exact opposites. Jefferson Linford Brown, graduate of Bridgeport, Vanderbilt, and Yale Law School, partner in a high-profile southern law firm, father of four boys, three of them so far following almost perfectly in his footsteps, while the youngest one was an artsy fuckup who could barely manage to study for his first major AP History exam.
Chris grabbed his phone and punched in his father's private extension. "J. L. Brown speaking," his father's voice boomed, his Southern accent more pronounced than Chris's.
Chris exhaled a puff of smoke and watched it float up into the trees. "Dad. Hey."
"It sounds like you're smoking," his dad observed, forgoing more common greetings like, "How are you? Good morning! Good to hear your voice, son!"
Chris flicked his cigarette to the ground. "Nice to talk to you too."
Mr. Brown sighed. "I hope you're not calling to try and extract yourself from our dinner appointment on Friday night."
Dinner appointment? Never have a lawyer for a father. "No, dinner is fine." Chris lay down on top of a nearby picnic table. The warm sun had baked it dry after yesterday's downpours, but the table still felt a little damp through his jeans and blazer. Still, it was much easier to talk to J. L. Brown when lying down. "But I'm not going out with Robyn anymore. And I'm sort of seeing..."
"Are you kidding me?" His father's voice raised a stern octave when he was upset. Chris felt his body tense up and his brain sent an apology to his lips before he could do anything to stop it. Luckily his father barked out orders over the top of it and Chris realized he was talking to his secretary.
