My Life in Black and White Read Online Free PDF Page A

wasn’t about to set the record straight now. To explain that Pussy Galore was the ultimate Bond Girl would be to admit that I had been trying to flirt with Ryan Dano, which would: A) tick Taylor off even more; and B) be a moot point. Because the guy went to boarding school two towns over. He lived in Manhattan, for Pete’s sake. It’s not like I was going to see him again.
    “So, do you still hate me?” I asked.
    “That depends,” Taylor said.
    “On what?”
    “On how long of a foot massage you’re going to give me for penance.”
    Taylor is a freak about foot massages. She’ll pay thirty-five bucks for a pedicure, not because she cares about her toenails, but because she wants a foot massage. So—even though the last thing I wanted to do after a day of skating was to rub her hot, stinky dogs—I told her that I would. For one hour.
    “An hour ?” Taylor laughed and peeled off her socks, shoving her bare feet right up on the kitchen table. “Go to town, suckaaa.”
    I laughed, too. I knew that for as mad as Taylor could get, she never stayed that way. Not like most girls, who could hold a grudge forever. I knew how lucky I was to be let off this easy, and I vowed to myself, right then and there, never to take Taylor’s friendship for granted again.
    I just didn’t plan on Ryan Dano, Round II.
    I certainly didn’t plan on it happening at church the next Sunday, in front of both our mothers, with him in a blazer and button-down and his hair parted on one side, gelled into submission.
    It happened at the refreshment table after the service, while I was pouring myself a cup of punch. “Alexa?” my mother said, approaching from behind and placing a gentle hand on my arm. “Honey, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
    I was used to her doing this to me. My mother was the only person in our family who went to church regularly. My dad, being Jewish, went to temple, but only on the holidays, and Ruthie had declared herself an atheist in fourth grade so she didn’t go anywhere. Whenever my mom could convince me to join her at church, she had to introduce me to everyone and their dog.
    So I picked up my paper cup and turned around slowly, preparing to meet some white-haired biddy in a hat. Instead, it was a blonde in a brown pantsuit.
    “Sharon,” my mom said, flashing her best hostess smile, “this is my daughter, Alexa. Alexa, this is Mrs. Dano. I just recruited her for the soup kitchen committee.”
    Out of shock, I sloshed a little punch on the floor. But then I recovered, murmuring, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dano,” in precisely the manner I’d been taught.
    “Aren’t you darling.” Mrs. Dano smiled and propelled Ryan forward with one hand. “This is my son, Ryan.”
    I figured Ryan would say something like, “Actually, we’ve met,” or “Hi again,” or—this was almost too horrifying to contemplate—“Wazzup, Pussy Galore?” But he just shot me that crooked little smile and made me slosh even more punch on the floor. “Hey.”
    “Hey,” I said.
    At which point Mrs. Dano announced that Ryan would be starting school at Millbridge Junior High next week—ninth grade, same as me—and wouldn’t it be great if the two of us could get to know each other beforehand?
    While I was reeling from this information, my mom was smiling so hard I thought her face might crack. This was her dream come true: me talking to a boy. Not just any boy, either, but one who dressed in quality fabric and went to church with his mother.
    Sure enough, my mom and Mrs. Dano turned and moseyed off together like old friends, even though they’d just met, leaving me and Ryan alone at the refreshment table.
    For a minute, I didn’t know what to say. Then I was like, “I thought you went to Weston.” And he was like, “It’s kind of a long story.” And I was like, “Well, we’ve got time.”
    We talked for an hour. As I listened to Ryan tell me about his dad—how he’d lost his job on Wall Street over a