Throughout our conversation the two of us moved in the general direction of the lockers. The nearer we came to the scene of my most recent embarrassment, the more gawky I felt—like a mini–growth spurt was shooting me up several more inches. And trust me, I’m plenty tall already.
People had started noticing us too. Well, not me so much, but certainly Logan. Notables kept greeting him in passing, and he nodded back casually while I tried not to freeze or trip.
My enthusiasm over studying earned me another one of his “you are an amusing freak of nature” looks. I felt myself go redder. Not an attractive flush either. My face gets ruddier, which makes it more difficult to see my freckles but does not create any other positive changes.
“Well”—I tried to undo some dork damage—“I mean, no one actually looks forward to homework on the weekend. But I should be able to squeeze you in …”
Why is it that popular kids magically show up just when something can be taken out of context to sound sexual? Spencer, another hockey-playing Notable, strolled over just in time to cut me off mid-babble by saying, “That’s what she said.”
Which I admit was a little funny—juvenile and overused, but still, funny. My face turned another shade of tomato while Logan grinned and went into guy mode.
“Hey, Spence, how’s it going?”
I instantly felt like a third wheel. I couldn’t talk about hockey or partying or anything else Notable. It was better for me just to keep my mouth shut.
“Just bombed a Geometry test,” Spencer said, unperturbed. “Maybe next time, I’ll borrow her.”
Spencer grinned good-naturedly while he gave me an appraising once-over.
“I doubt she’s your type,” Logan said as if I weren’t standing
right there
. “You really don’t want Mack here nagging about your grades. That’s what your parents are for. Besides, I’m not sure how well you’d handle the pressure. We just got your Woodshop grade up to a B so you can stay on the team.”
I could really learn to hate Logan Beckett. For the record: more like “you’re not
her
type.” Spencer was the straight-C student, and if he hadn’t been such a great athlete, he would have been booted out. Well, that, and if his parents hadn’t donated a building to the school. Private schools aren’t the only ones that respond to lots of money. Even in Oregon, bribery can get you anything from a discreet nose job to higher test scores. Not that I would know about either, but I’ve heard stories … and watch cable.
Spencer’s stroll became noticeably more slouched. “You know I hate waking up early for class. Eight a.m.—it’s just not right.”
“Not when you’ve got a hangover from the night before.”
“Damn straight. You going to Kyle’s party tomorrow? The weekend starts on Thursday, man.”
“Today is Thursday,” I corrected helpfully.
And no, it doesn’t.
“That’s great! All the more reason for you to come. Are you down?”
I waited, hoping that he would say, “Sorry, man, but I’ve got too much studying to do.”
No such luck.
“I’ll be there.”
I reached my next classroom (AP Gov) and had to make a polite departure, which is hard to do when the Notables barely recognized your presence in the first place.
“So I’ll see you Saturday,” I said to Logan.
“See you, Mack,” he said without so much as a glance, disappearing around a corner with Spencer before I could protest the nickname. I hate it when people call me Mack. Really,
really
hate it. I was left standing Notable-less with all the other AP nerds, muttering, “Mackenzie, not Mack,” to myself.
Lame.
D
inner at the Wellesley house that night was not pleasant. It didn’t matter that I managed to survive the rest of the day without any awkward encounters with Notables—the damage was done. When I got home, tired from a full day of academic activity and social humiliation, I found an irate brother waiting.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Dylan bellowed.
“Hi to you too,
baby
brother,” I said, emphasizing the “baby” just to piss him off. That’s my job as the older sister. He was already so mad that my latest offense didn’t even register.
“Why were you talking to Chelsea Halloway? Don’t you know she’s out of your league?”
“Don’t you mean out of
your
league, Dylan? I have no interest in joining her ranks. Of course,
you
might have to hit the gym and drop a few IQ points to really fit in. I’d also recommend steroids. I’m sure your future
BFF
Alex Thompson can get you a prescription.”
“Alex Thompson does
NOT
use steroids!” he yelled defensively. “Just—don’t screw this up for me. Your actions reflect on me. So why don’t you hang out with Jane and Corey, okay? Leave popularity to people who can actually formulate sentences in public. And for God’s sake, don’t jump football players!”
Okay, I admit that stung. Getting reprimanded for my lack of social skills by my middle school brother was flat-out embarrassing.
“How did you find out about that anyway?” I asked, pretending to be nonchalant about the whole thing.
He looked completely disgusted with me. “You’re kidding, right? Every time you humiliate yourself, I get a text about it. Do you have any idea how expensive you are? I owe Mom fifteen bucks a month for unlimited texting, thanks to you.”
“You just wanted it so you and your little friends could discuss Chelsea Halloway’s miniskirts. Not that you have a shot in hell with her.” I ruffled his hair. “I don’t think she’s looking for a younger man right now. Middle school isn’t exactly what she wants in a boy toy.”
He shoved my hand away and glowered. “I’ve got a better chance with her than you’ve got with Logan Beckett.”
I nodded in agreement. “Right, again. But here’s the difference: I’m not interested in Logan Beckett. Or anyone in the Notable crowd.” Except for Patrick, but my little brother
really
didn’t need to know that. “Which means I can humiliate myself—or you—in front of them whenever.”
Dylan stared at me in horror. “You won’t say a word about me, understand? Not one word!”
My mom picked that moment to enter the room. Our yelling at each other (well, more Dylan’s yelling at me) had gotten her attention.
“What’s going on?” she asked tentatively, as if she didn’t really want to know. In all honesty, she probably didn’t.
“Nothing new. Mackenzie humiliated herself in public. Again. Can’t you make her stop or ship her off somewhere? Or
something!
”
“There’s nothing wrong with your sister, Dylan,” Mom said firmly. “She’s just special.”
That was not what I wanted to hear.
“Special Ed, maybe,” Dylan muttered nastily.
The two of us glared at him.
“Well, it’s true!” he said defensively. “That’s why she’s taking so many AP classes. Too bad socially, she has the IQ of a …”
But my mom didn’t let him finish that sentence. “Let’s all calm down before dinner. Dylan, your sister is not going anywhere—get used to it. And Mackenzie—” My mother paused. “Why don’t you try a little harder to … um … blend in at school.”
You know you’re awkward when your
mother
points out your ineptitude.
“Gee thanks, Mom,” I said sarcastically. “Blend, huh? You know what? Why don’t I practice ‘blending’ and disappear right now.” I headed up the stairs to my room, hollering behind me, “Now you see me,” and slamming the door to signify the “now you don’t.” But I couldn’t hold a grudge against my mom. So I sulked over my homework for an hour before I went downstairs to set the table, empty the recycling, sweep the kitchen floor, and wipe down the counters. That’s how life works in a single-parent home—you pull your weight. My mom really didn’t need to come home from work to deal with stupid bickering matches.
She wasn’t entirely wrong either. I did “blend in” more at school the next day. I just happened to flee for the school library whenever someone asked about the whole Alex Thompson
CPR
debacle. The librarian was pretty cool about letting me camp out in the back with the latest arrivals. I thought the whole thing would blow over. I figured if nothing major happened on Friday, then by Monday I wouldn’t have to try to be invisible. People would just naturally ignore me again.
Saturday morning and everything seemed perfect. I woke up early, grabbed my Rollerblades, and skated until my mind was beautifully blank. The only time my brain ever really slowed down was when I slept or skated. That’s why I made a point of visiting the local elementary school blacktop at least once a week. If I didn’t, I’d never be able to maintain my well-ordered, superstructured lifestyle.
Then I had to get myself ready for an encounter of the Notable kind. I tried out a pep talk as I tugged on my most comfortable pair of jeans. I told myself it didn’t matter if Logan Beckett was a smug, arrogant, annoying jock, because I was a strong, confident, capable woman who could tutor the hell out of him. That I’d never be stuck as a waitress in a crappy suburb in Oregon, trying to raise two kids on my own … like my mom. I’d figure everything out in college, and someday I’d look back at high school and think,
God I hated tutoring Logan Beckett. Paid off though.
That’s what I told myself as I stood outside the Hamilton house and waited for Logan to pick me up.
Not because I’m embarrassed of my own house,
I assured myself as I paced the edge of the sidewalk like walking a balance beam. But if Logan Beckett happened to think that the Hamilton’s Victorian-style home were mine … there was no harm in it. I didn’t want his pity at the sight of my own weed-riddled, paint-peeling, aesthetically unappealing house. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was the cloying sympathy everyone poured on after the divorce. It was all, “Oh, isn’t that awful! Up and left with the ballet teacher! Whatever will you do? You poor, poor dears.” I had very nearly screamed when elderly ladies pinched my cheeks and assured me that “Daddy’ll be back, darling.” He wasn’t, and I needed him as much as I needed a black eye.
I could’ve used a car though. That way I wouldn’t have had to wait for Logan to pick me up—late—looking like the party had just ended. Even exhausted, he still looked attractive—just sort of sexily rumpled. I’d have looked like death warmed over. The few all-nighters I pulled cramming for AP tests last year taught me that if I didn’t want people suggesting I see the nurse, I would need a minimum of six hours’ sleep a night. Less than that and people ask if I’m ill.
“Want anything?” Logan asked as he pulled into the Starbucks parking lot. I was a little impressed that he’d been polite enough to ask.
I fumbled in my backpack for my wallet. “A mocha Frappuccino would be great.”
“What size?”
“Um … a small?” Okay, so I didn’t really understand how Starbucks sizes worked. It’s not my fault they all sound enormous.
I had just gotten my wallet in hand when Logan opened his car door.
“Wait a second!” I ordered, as I rifled for the cash to foot my bill.
He looked caught between amusement and annoyance as I fumbled for quarters. “Don’t worry about it.”
Shows how much he knew about me. I always pay my own way.
But before I could protest, Logan was striding away. I considered following him and shoving my crumpled one-dollar bills, quarters, and dimes onto the counter when the time came, but paying him back later seemed like a less embarrassing plan. Then I saw Patrick Bradford walking in my direction and stopped thinking altogether.
Patrick
. He was heading right toward me, and I hoped with every pathetic fiber of my being that the two of us could talk so he’d finally realize how perfect we’d be together. It was an opportunity I couldn’t miss. Mustering up my courage, I opened Logan’s car door and stepped out onto the curb.
“Hey, Patrick!”
No, I wasn’t the one who called out to him.
I turned to see Chelsea Halloway sitting with her two best friends outside the Starbucks. Jane and I had nicknamed the duo Fake and Bake, since Steffani Larson was a product of Clairol Blonde,
MAC
cosmetics, and (rumor had it) a very discreet plastic surgeon, and Ashley McGrady has been hitting the tanning beds ever since sixth grade. I wondered if Starbucks was a Notable postparty tradition to counteract the alcohol consumed the night before.
I didn’t know what to say. No guy would rather spend time with me than bask in the glow of their attention—not even Patrick. Not that Chelsea and Steffani would gush over him the way they did over other Notable boys (cough, Logan), but that was only to be expected. After all, Patrick was still on the Popularity Fringe between Notable and Not able. Which explains why he just nodded at me and kept walking without saying a word. Or maybe he thought it’d be best for me not to come to Notable attention.
The girls giggled at something Patrick said, and I couldn’t help wishing they would choke on their lattes or get massive brain freezes. I felt like such an idiot plastered against the side of Logan’s shiny black car while I stared slack-jawed at the Notables. There was no way the Evil Trio had missed me. And yet none of them so much as waved in my direction. I was still standing there when Logan walked out holding our drinks.
“Logan!”
Again, not me. The squeal came from Chelsea, and since she was bringing over her essay in a few hours I thought she was overdoing it. Not that Logan seemed to mind. He just raised an eyebrow at her enthusiastic greeting. Maybe that’s how girls like Chelsea got boyfriends: by showing lots of enthusiasm and cleavage.
“Hey, man.” That came from Patrick. I tried not to laugh. It just seemed so … forced, like he had wanted to say, “Yo, dude. What’s up?” but knew he would sound like a moron, so he was settling for moron lite. Which, in my opinion, was totally adorable.
I took a deep breath.
Okay,
I ordered myself,
time to stop being such a wimp.
Any second Logan was going to hand me my drink and the other Notables wouldn’t be able to pretend they hadn’t seen me.
So I made the first move. I walked right over to the group of them, keeping my eyes on the mocha Frappuccino the whole time so I could act cool. That didn’t work so well when it was in my hands.