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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Chris walked through the woods, his legs sore and tired beneath him after two hours of horseback riding. Whenever Chris had some thing on his mind, he rode Credo. Something about her enormous brown eyes, looking at him with such unabashed trust, made him feel like he was less of a shit. Because, for the past week, that's how he'd felt. Every single time an image of Robyn or Kae would pop into his brain, he'd think miserably, I'm an asshole—which was every other fraction of a second. Credo didn't care if he was an asshole, though. She still stomped her feet happily at the sight of him entering the stables, and she didn't ask him where he'd been or who he'd been with or what he was thinking.
He'd headed to the stables right after talking to Kae outside the art studio. Not that he'd done much talking—he couldn't find the right thing to say. He couldn't even find the wrong thing to say—he simply couldn't think of anything to say. A long, hard ride was exactly what he needed to help him figure his shit out and make up his mind.
The only problem was, it hadn't worked. So instead of having dinner in the dining hall and having eighty people ask him, for the millionth time, if he was with Kae or Robyn, he'd decided to hike to the rocky outcropping in the woods, the one off the boat path, near his secret painting spot. Chris sighed as he settled against a cold, dark rock, pulling a cigar from his pocket. He'd snitched two Cubans from his father's black leather cigar pouch while he'd used the restroom last weekend at Le Petit Coq. It was the perfect occasion to light one and concentrate.
Maybe he should make a list. Like pros and cons? Wasn't that what people did when they couldn't make their minds up between two alternatives? But the idea of breaking Robyn and Kae, two living, breathing girls, down into lists made him want to shoot himself in the foot. Or the head. Okay, maybe not that.
Chris took a giant puff just as he heard a sound out on the path. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment, waiting to see if a teacher would appear to get him in trouble. But then a very red-faced Aubrey Graham materialized, wearing a sweaty white shirt and black running shorts, his vinyl squash bag slung over one shoulder and silver cell phone in hand.
"Sorry, dude," Aubrey muttered, running a hand through his sweaty, disheveled hair. He gave Chris a little apology wave with the fingers of one hand and started to turn around.
Chris suddenly realized he didn't really want to be alone. "You don't have to go, man. You can, uh, sit down."
Aubrey looked at him for a moment as if it might be a trap, but then he took a step forward and nodded in the direction of Chris's cigar. "Got another?"
Whenever Aubrey spoke to him, Chris got the feeling he was trying to make his voice sound an octave deeper.Chris unzipped the front pocket of his black vest and pulled out the second Cuban. "It's all yours."
"Light?"
Chris handed him his cheap plastic lighter with the hula girl on it and Aubrey nodded at it. "Nice." He lit his cigar and leaned awkwardly back against one of the rocks. He glanced around rapidly, like he still wasn't sure what he was doing here. "So . . ." Aubrey inhaled deeply. "How's it been?" he asked through a mouthful of smoke.
