Stealing Bradford

Then after she went inside, Eliza continued to unveil her little plan. “Anyway, Gabrielle finally noticed that Bradford was on the outside of things, and she asked me if something was wrong.”

“And?” DJ was actually getting curious now. How did girls like Eliza and Taylor know how to play these complicated games? Was there an Internet site somewhere that gave stepby-step instructions?

“And I told her about Taylor.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Just the truth.”

“As in?”

“I told about some of the pranks she’d played on you when she was trying to get Conner. Then I told about how she’d stabbed Rhiannon in the back to get to Bradford—those weren’t my exact words, of course.”

“Of course,” said Casey, stifling a laugh.

“What did Gabrielle say?”

“She didn’t say much, but it was clear that she didn’t approve.” Eliza glanced up toward the house as if she thought they were being watched and then continued in a quiet voice. “I let her know that we all think Bradford is a sweet guy, but that we’re concerned that he’s fallen for Taylor’s tricks. I told her that I hope he doesn’t get hurt. And I told her that Rhiannon has been hurt deeply, but that she’s taking it like a trooper.”

“Wow!” DJ just shook her head.

“You are good,” said Casey with open admiration.

Eliza might be good, but DJ wasn’t convinced that she was good enough to get the best of Taylor. So far DJ had witnessed no one, including herself, able to outwit Taylor Mitchell. Still, it might make for an interesting evening.

“It’s the volleyball queen herself,” said Taylor when DJ walked in, without knocking, of course. “Do you have a nickname on the team? Like Spike?”

“Funny,” said DJ.

“Seriously, DJ.” Taylor frowned at her. “How can you stand to walk home looking and smelling like that?”

DJ looked down at her gym clothes. “It beats walking home in heels. Besides I prefer the shower here to the one in the locker room.”

Taylor’s brows lifted. “Aha, I get it. It’s Coach Jones, isn’t it? Does she look at you while you’re showering? I’m pretty sure she was gaping at me this afternoon, pretending to be doing office work, but I felt her looking.”

“Give it a break, Taylor.”

“But they say she’s a dyke—”

“Puh-leeze,” insisted DJ. “That’s way more than enough.” But even when she was in the bathroom, she could still hear Taylor making loud off-color comments, like she thought DJ was still listening and then Taylor would laugh at her own pathetic humor.

DJ drowned out Taylor as she took her time showering. Then she carefully dried her hair and put on a little makeup, finally emerging from the bathroom and hoping that Taylor might’ve gone outside for a cigarette or something. But there she was, sitting in the window seat and flipping through a thick issue of Elle. Suddenly, she held the magazine up. “Don’t you think I look like this model?” asked Taylor.

“Huh?” DJ leaned over and peered at the glossy photo of a sultry-looking young woman who didn’t seem to have a stitch of clothing on, although her private parts were sort of hidden within the shot. “What’s she modeling anyway?” asked DJ.

“Prada perfume, but that’s not the point. Don’t you think I look like Kamila Klimczak’s younger sister?”

“You mean that whole blue-eyed blonde thing you both got going on?”

“Not that, you moron.” Taylor stood up and took the magazine over to the mirror, holding it up by her face to examine it more closely. “I mean the bone structure, stupid, the shape of the face, the slant of the eyes, the full lips—can’t you see it?”

Feeling slightly bad for the blue-eyed blonde joke, DJ decided to be cooperative. She went over and stared at Taylor’s face then the model’s. Finally she admitted that there was a definite resemblance.

“I knew it,” said Taylor, now satisfied.

“Who is she anyway?”

“Just a model from Poland.” Taylor returned to the window seat and kept staring at the photo.

“Do you think you’ll be a model?” asked DJ.

“Your grandmother thinks I could…if I wanted to…but I don’t think I want to.”

“Why not?” asked DJ. “I mean I know why I wouldn’t want to, but you seem to like attention, Taylor. I’m surprised you wouldn’t leap at an opportunity to model.”

“It just seems pretty one-dimensional.”

“Meaning it’s about surface looks and not much else?”

“Pretty much.”

DJ wanted to point out that Taylor was pretty one-dimensional too, but she didn’t.

“Of course, the money can be good,” said Taylor. “And you don’t have to do it forever.”

“They won’t let you do it forever.”

“Duh. But I suppose I could do it for a year or two—until I figured out what I really wanted to do. It might be fun.”

“Not my idea of fun,” said DJ as she flopped down onto her bed. “It sounds more like torture to me.”

“So tell me,” said Taylor. “Which of us is prettier?”

DJ sat up and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Taylor held up the photo again. “I mean me or Kamila. Who’s prettier? And be honest, I can take it.”

DJ studied the photo. “Well, to be fair, I know for a fact that the photo has been airbrushed and touched up…”

“Just pretend that I’ve been airbrushed too.”