Awkward Page 3

  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.

  “Um, thanks,” I muttered. “I’ll pay you back later.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Logan said easily. I guess when your college tuition is squared away, you don’t have to be stingy about money. I couldn’t help being a little envious. It seemed so nice to spend money without wondering how much each item would set back your timetable for a college laptop.

  “I’ll pay you back later,” I insisted.

  “Hey, are the two of you dating or something?” Patrick said uncertainly. I choked on my drink, but it had nothing to do with laughter.

  “Good one,” tittered Chelsea. “Like the two of them would be dating!”

  She was a darling. Really.

  “Um, no. No, no, no.” Maybe I should’ve stopped after just one “no.”

  Patrick grinned and I felt my knees weaken. He just looked so sweet with his chocolatey brown eyes all melty—like the mocha Frappuccino I was holding in my hands. I inched a little closer to him. I just couldn’t resist—the smile pulled me in.

  “Just getting some coffee,” said Logan.

  “Yeah,” I confirmed. “Because it increases alertness and is a great study agent. Did you know that coffee has been used as currency before?”

  Patrick shook his head slowly to silently communicate that I was committing a huge faux pas. The girls stared at me in disbelief while Logan sipped his drink and looked amused.

  “Why would we want to know that?” Chelsea asked snarkily.

  “Um ... because it’s interesting?”

  I kept my eyes on Patrick so that my insides would stay soft and gooey. I’d freeze up instantly if I met one of the Evil Trio’s cool-eyed gazes. Logan put his hand on my shoulder (shutting
me up instantly) and said, “I’ll see you guys later.” Then he steered me to the car. I waited until we were both buckled before I turned to him.

  “It would be cool, right?”

  “Yeah, it’d be cool.”

  I hadn’t expected him to agree with me. He was looking at me intently, evaluating with his suspicious gray eyes, and I tried not to squirm in my seat.

  Sometimes it felt like he was the tutor and I was the one failing the tests.

  Chapter 6

  “I had no idea you were into Patrick.” Logan’s voice was bland with just a hint of amusement.

  “Wh-What makes you think that?” I managed to stutter.

  “The way you were drooling over him was kind of a hint.”

  I stared but failed to read his expression. He had grossly exaggerated one little moment of awkwardness and yet he looked so complacent. A seduction attempt? Me? What was he talking about?

  I wasn’t above setting the record straight.

  At a red light, I looked Logan dead in the eyes. “I don’t flirt that way. I have better things to do with my time.” I hoped this sounded cutting and smart. “Now, do you want to use your brain or just let it atrophy?”

  Silence ruled in the car. And I admit it: I took it personally. . . and then I got pissed. It wasn’t the joking teasing of friends because we were NOT FRIENDS. He’s a Notable and I’m an Invisible, and if I’d somehow managed to forget that, his Starbucks analysis had done the trick of reminding me.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” I couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

  He shrugged. How much more noncommunicative can you get.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m fine,” he said gruffly.

  “Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but deal with it! I can’t tutor you if you don’t speak to me. And I need this job so that I can buy a MacBook.”

  “That’s what you’re doing this for?” he asked in disbelief. “A laptop.”

  “Um ... yeah,” I said. “Why’d you think I was tutoring you, for a Nobel Prize?”

  He ignored my question and just looked thoughtful. “Makes sense. It has your name written all over it.” He grinned at my obvious confusion. “Mackenzie saving for a MacBook.”

  I felt my hands tighten instinctively and had to order myself to relax. “Very clever. I’ve never heard that one before.... Oh, wait, yes I have. And I don’t go by Mack.”

  I don’t think he was listening as we pulled into his driveway. A few minutes later, we were settled in his kitchen with our textbooks open.

  “So the French and Indian War,” I tried again, “was between. . .”

  Logan ran one hand through his hair in frustration and looked down at the ornate doodle he had created in his notebook. “The French and the Indians?”

  “Not quite.”

  Exasperation was written all over his face. “Then why is it called the French and Indian War?”

  “Well, because the winners are the ones who pick the name.”

  “So who won, the French or the Indians?”

  “Neither.” The disgusted glint in Logan’s eye made me quickly add, “The British and the Colonists won. It’d be pretty long if it were the British and Colonists Against the French and Indians War.”

  That got an almost-smile, so I kept going. “The British won with the Colonists. They just named it the French and Indian War because that was who they were fighting against.”

  Logan was about to say something when his parents entered the room.

  “Hello, Mackenzie,” his mom greeted me warmly. “How’s the studying going?”

  “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Beckett,” I said, wondering if I should refer to them both as Dr. Beckett or whether that would just make things confusing. “I think it’s going pretty well. Just covering the highlights right now.” I tried to make it sound like everything was under control when clearly it wasn’t. Logan had gotten 29 percent on his diagnostic test. That wasn’t “fine” by any stretch of the word. Nothing from class seemed to be sticking. All Logan had done was create a binder full of drawings. I saw sketches of classmates, ships in peril, and long-necked giraffes all jumbled in the margins. Great.

  “And how are the two of you?” I asked in an attempt to deflect attention.

  “Oh, just fine,” his mom replied as she pulled out sliced turkey from the refrigerator and began making a sandwich. The Beckett house was nothing if not pristine, expensive, and classy. Which is what you get, I guess, when you have two doctors and one child instead of one waitress raising two kids and depending on child support from her cheating ex.

  “Any excitement at the hospital?”

  “Nothing too interesting. A few kids with alcohol poisoning needed their stomachs pumped. Apparently there was quite a party last night.”

  Even the adults were more clued into the party scene than me.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I replied honestly, like the studious good-girl type I am. “I’m not a drinker. Not really my style.”

  Logan looked me squarely in the eyes. “No kidding. I never would have guessed.”

  Jerk.

  “Well, isn’t that refreshing,” his mom said chipperly. “That you know your limitations and stay within them.” She turned to her son. “Isn’t that nice.”

  “Yeah.” He looked like he was stifling the urge to laugh. “Very nice.”

  We both knew why I didn’t drink—you can’t if you aren’t invited to those kinds of parties.

  I almost said something when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get that,” said Logan’s dad, who popped open a can of Diet Coke and strolled to the door.

  “Hi, Mr. Beckett.” I recognized the voice as one of pure evil—a girly tone accustomed to treachery and debauchery. I’m lying. All I could tell was that it belonged to Chelsea Halloway. The rest was merely a well-informed hypothesis.

  “Logan, you have a friend here to see you.” The emphasis his dad placed implied that maybe “friend” wasn’t the best term to describe their relationship. Not that it was any of my business.

  I closed the AP US textbook and mentally psyched myself to deal with Chelsea. I don’t know what it is about the girl (maybe her perfectly coiffed hair or her impeccable makeup), but she always intimidated me. It didn’t matter if I saw her at school, or Starbucks, or in Logan Beckett’s kitchen, the girl reeked of Superiority. Or whatever the latest fragrance was from Victoria’s Secret.

  “Hey, Chelsea,” I said casually when she finally entered the kitchen. I stood up and moved toward the banana bread muffins. The Dr. Becketts had told me to make myself at home on my first day of tutoring, which meant I didn’t have to ask every time I wanted to raid their refrigerator. I get a mean case of the afternoon munchies.

  “Hey,” she replied before abruptly turning to Mrs. Beckett with a dazzling smile that said, I am beautiful and just the type of girl you want your son to date.

  Suck-up.

  “How have you been, Mrs. Beckett?” Chelsea asked sweetly.

  “I’m doing well, Chelsea. And you?”

  Chelsea flicked her hair back over her shoulder. It moved like a freaking Pantene commercial. “I’m great.”

  “Do you and Logan have plans later—once Mackenzie is done tutoring?”

  I was surprised to hear my name mentioned. I was blending in with the refrigerator as I snagged a Diet Coke. Still, Mrs. Beckett didn’t seem the type to forget the geek when a popular girl entered the premises.

  “Actually, Mackenzie is helping me with an essay,” Chelsea replied confidently. She did everything confidently. She and Logan would probably go on to produce very confident offspring.

  “Are you up for that, Mackenzie?” Mrs. Beckett asked me kindly. “You’re not too overworked?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. What else could I say? The truth?

  “Sorry, Chelsea, but my brain is fried. You’re on your own with the essay. I guess that means you’ll start a nasty rumor about me in the girls’ locker r
oom. I should have called to cancel, but you don’t give Invisibles like me your phone number.”

  Yeah. That’d go over real well.

  “I’m fine. Logan can take a break, maybe flip through some flashcards, while I help Chelsea. Then we’ll attack the textbook again,” I said instead.

  Mrs. Beckett nodded as she put the finishing touches on her sandwich. “All right, well, good luck.” And with that she pulled her husband out to the pool, leaving me on my own with two Notables. I needed all the luck I could get.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m not sure I can help you with this.” Which, as far as realizations go, totally sucked. It’s just not fair when the prettiest, most popular girl at school is also intelligent. I mean, come on! The girl had to have some flaws (besides her tendency toward evil), otherwise I’d have to suspect that she was secretly a cyborg from another planet. But so far ... nothing. I didn’t even know why Chelsea wanted me to look at it, unless it was all some ploy to spend time with Logan.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Chelsea asked defensively. She sat up straighter in her chair, breaking the clear view of her cleavage that Logan appeared to have been enjoying.

  I could have told her, “Nothing is wrong with it! It’s a solid essay. No worries, Chelsea, your English teacher will love it.” But that wouldn’t be the whole truth.

  “Well.” I pointed to the book in front of me. “You think the main character, Janie, in Their Eyes Were Watching God found true love, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, when I read the book, I didn’t think it was about love at all.”