Awkward Page 4

  That definitely got her attention. “What are you talking about?” she asked disgustedly. “It’s about how she turns to the wrong men before she finds the right one.” That last part was clearly delivered for Logan’s benefit, beneath lowered lashes. Even I could tell it was a come-on.

  “I thought she was pathetic.” That got a scowl from Chelsea and an amused grin from Logan. “She jumps into abusive relationships until she has to shoot her rabid husband. I thought the real message was ... guys are dogs.”

  Logan raised his eyebrows at the last part of my critique.

  “Hey,” he said calmly. “Not true.”

  “Sometimes it’s true. Not all guys, obviously, although present company might not be an exception.” Chelsea’s eyes bored holes into me, but Logan grinned.

  “Well, thanks,” Chelsea said, leaving the words “for nothing” lingering unspoken in the air.

  “Sorry, I can’t be more helpful. So, Logan, how’s the French and Indian War?”

  “Thrilling,” he told me straight-faced. “I wonder how it’s going to turn out.”

  I grinned. “I’m betting the Colonists win.”

  “Way to spoil the ending.” He closed his textbook, so I had to flip mine to the right section.

  “It’s actually pretty cool. If you look at the Battle of ...” But Logan wasn’t listening to me. Chelsea had leaned forward while pretending to concentrate on her essay. Yeah, guys aren’t dogs. Right.

  The rest of the tutoring session was pretty uneventful. Mainly because every time Logan started paying attention to either me or the textbook, Chelsea dropped her pencil and had to lean way over to pick it up. Or she tossed her long hair behind her so it swung softly right back to the front. It was pretty clear her essay was the last thing on her mind and that Logan didn’t mind the show.

  With Logan having the attention span of a guppie as Chelsea pretended to be an extra on 90210, the study session fizzled out. I felt like a failure. It was pretty obvious that the stuff just wasn’t sticking. So it was really fortunate that I was tutoring Logan again on Sunday.

  He dropped me off in front of the Hamilton house, and I headed home once the sleek black car disappeared. Dylan was waiting for me outside.

  He looked like someone had died. Really. I took in his ashen expression and I burst into a full on sprint, ignoring the thud, thud, thud as my textbook slammed against my back.

  “Dylan, what’s wrong? Is Mom okay?” I called out.

  He didn’t say anything until I reached him, and then he merely grabbed my arm and yanked me into the house.

  “You’ve got to see this.” Dylan led me straight to our family computer. It was about a billion years old and took forever to start up again. Dylan brushed the mouse aside, and the screen saver of Dylan, my mom, and me happily laughing at the beach dissolved. What I saw behind it made me want to throw up all the banana bread I’d eaten.

  A YouTube video with a blaring caption that announced:

  Mackenzie Wellesley: Most Socially Awkward Girl Ever!

  That alone made me want to curl into a little ball until my mind numbed. The video below made me feel even worse. It was the whole scene, right there, recorded for the enjoyment of millions. All Dylan had to do was click and I could relive it frame by frame, watching myself smack Alex Thompson with my backpack, look horrified when he didn’t respond, and then sling my leg over his stomach so I could try to do CPR. Worst of all, while I had been pounding on his chest, Alex was staring with undiluted horror and surprise ... and weakly trying to fend me off.

  How had I not seen that? I must have been so intent on my CPR that I didn’t notice him trying to swat me off. Every time he moved to unseat me, the force of one of my timed compressions sent him right back to the cement. The speakers played my desperate apology loud and clear.

  “Are you all right? I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t see you until I knocked you over ... in front of everyone.”

  I blanched. I hadn’t realized just how badly I’d screwed everything up. I never wanted to go within fifteen feet of Alex again.

  And beneath the video was a whole set of comments. The very first one read simply: Ha! LOL! What a freak.

  I stared at the screen in silence as the words began ringing in my head. Whatafreak, whatafreak, whatafreak. I was having a hard time breathing, and I knew that any second I would start to cry.

  “There’s only one solution,” Dylan said hoarsely. “You have to move. Maybe you could stay with ... someone.”

  I didn’t stick around to hear anything else. I went straight to my room, crawled into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and pretended I was far away. It didn’t really help. If I’d had any idea what was in store for me, I never would have left my room again.

  Chapter 8

  My mom told me it wasn’t a big deal. I don’t know if she actually believed it, but she said that the popular kids just felt intimidated by my intellectual prowess and not to take it personally. Right. That’s why people were laughing at me on the Internet.

  My mom had just finished telling me that no one looked at YouTube when Jane called to give me a heads-up. Not that she had to, because I kept running downstairs every couple of hours to see how many more people had viewed it. When I saw the number shoot to around thirty thousand I stopped. Every time I saw the number or scrolled down to see new comments, I could feel my blood pressure skyrocket.

  It was good to hear Jane’s calm voice.

  “Um, Kenzie,” she said when I picked up. “Listen, we have to talk.”

  “Let me guess. I’m already the high school laughingstock?”

  She paused, weighing her words carefully. “Well, yeah... .”

  I could always count on Jane to be honest.

  “So what do I do?” I asked, cutting to the point.

  Another pause. “Do a better job finding your inner vampire slayer?”

  I stared at the phone. “That’s it? That’s your advice? You’re supposed to figure out a way to fix everything! Get with the program.”

  She laughed. “Sorry, Kenzie.” Her voice became serious. “How are you handling this?”

  “I’ve been hiding in bed. I’ll be fine—just one more moment of humiliation to add to the list.”

  Jane started laughing again. “Oh, Kenzie. It’s not even the worst one. Remember in elementary school when you farted during yoga?”

  That’s the problem with having friends who have known you forever: they know every single slipup.

  “Or two years ago when you got nervous talking to the exchange student and ended up spraying his face with spit?”

  “Yes,” I said dryly. “But thanks for that lovely walk down memory lane.”

  “I’m just saying, this too shall pass.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  “So how did the tutoring session go today? None of the Notables mentioned the video, did they?”

  “Nope.” I grinned. “I saw Patrick at Starbucks.”

  “Oh, God. Gag me with a spoon.”

  Which wasn’t really fair, since I listen to her talk about her crushes all the time. I keep asking Jane what she has against Patrick, but she just says, “Oh, nothing.”

  So I chose to ignore that little comment. “Then I went and studied with Logan. Which was ... weird.”

  “A conversation between you and a Notable felt awkward! No way!”

  I laughed. “Point taken. But this time it was different.... Okay let me back up. He made this snarky comment about me throwing myself at Patrick.” Jane let out a small gasp of surprise. “I didn’t! But here’s the weird thing: I totally snapped.”

  “How so?” she asked seriously. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just let him have it. I momentarily forgot he was a Notable and acted more like I do around you.”

  “Oh, so like a general pain in the ass?”

  I grinned. “Thanks. That’s so sweet of you to say. Really.”

  “So was he surprised?”

  I th
ought it over. “Sort of. He seemed kind of amused. I think it actually shattered some of the tension.”

  There was silence from the other end of the line.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Jane said finally.

  I laughed. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Just be careful, ’k, Kenzie? Because you are not allowed to transfer schools. Corey and I can’t survive high school without you.”

  And that’s why Jane and I have been best friends since elementary school.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Unless Dylan kills me in my sleep... .”

  This actually didn’t strike me as unfeasible. Dylan had refused to speak to me. The only reason my mom gave him space was because he’d refrained from swearing. He said I was humiliating and a blight on his social life, but no actual swear words were uttered.

  So I gave him Sunday to cool off. I did my homework, tutored Logan, and waited for Dylan to calm down. But on Monday he wouldn’t meet my eyes over breakfast.

  “Morning,” I said to him, just to break the ice.

  Dylan grunted back noncommittally.

  “Look, it’s not like I had anything to do with this mess. So you can act like a petulant five-year-old or grow up and cut me some slack.”

  He glared at me fiercely, unaware of just how much he looked like our dad when his face contorted. Dylan had been so young when we’d been ditched that he didn’t recognize how many mannerisms they shared. And in our family there was no greater insult than a Dad comparison. I remember the one time I promised Dylan to see his soccer game and didn’t make it. His expression had conveyed anger and hurt, and he’d brushed his sweaty bangs out of his face and said, “Way to pull a dad, Mack.” It had made me feel like crap for a month.

  So I didn’t tell Dylan that he looked like Dad. I just noticed the resemblance and bit my tongue.

  “Of course you had nothing to do with it, because you’re so perfect,” Dylan snapped. “You know what I want? FOR YOU TO LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!”

  Nothing like a supportive, loving family in times of crisis. I let him storm out of the kitchen. It couldn’t be easy having the high school laughingstock for an older sister, and I was a laughingstock. I found that out at school that day. The YouTube video followed me down the halls, buzzing like a nasty swarm of flies. Some jerk even grabbed his friend while I was walking by and shouted, “Oh. My. God! Am I, like, killing him?” in a falsetto voice. I didn’t think it was a particularly good characterization of me. I just ducked my head and considered homeschooling—at least until I was no longer the school’s most recognizable dweeb.

  The only upside was that Corey had returned from his Speech and Debate tournament. Jane had clearly brought him up to speed about my latest (and largest) embarrassment, and the two of them were determined to distract me over lunch.

  “They’re not looking at you,” Jane said irritably when I once again scanned the cafeteria.

  I stared at her. “Um, yeah, they are.”

  “Well, only a little.” Corey shrugged with fake nonchalance. “It’s not a big deal.”

  I slumped back in my chair. “Easy for you to say. No one keeps offering to teach you CPR.”

  Corey just shrugged again. “Could be worse.”

  “Oh yeah?” I challenged. “How?”

  “They could write nasty comments about you in the bathroom. Or haze you in the locker room. Or dump a slushy on you or something.”

  Corey has seen way too many television shows featuring geek abuse. But I decided not to contradict him and concentrated on eating my sandwich.

  By the time I got home, I was exhausted. Tired of alternately straining to hear the whispers and trying to block them out entirely. I was on edge even during my AP classes, and I continuously felt like a bug being examined under a microscope. At least I didn’t have to tutor Logan.

  It was nice being home alone. Dylan was busy with football practice and my mom was at work, so I made myself a snack, cranked up my music in the kitchen, did a few chores, and started in on my homework. I couldn’t resist creating a nice little fantasy.

  It started with me graduating from the hellhole that is Smith High School. Then I’d leave for college on a wonderful scholarship and return without my social awkwardness for the ten-year reunion. That’s when I’d find Chelsea Halloway still taking undergraduate courses at the local community college. That was the fantasy anyway. At the reunion I’d be chatting agreeably with everyone, and Patrick would realize just how much he missed me. Then he’d sidle over with a drink and those melty eyes and whisper an invitation for a walk. I’d smile beatifically and we’d leave the crowd holding hands. And later that night ... well, it wouldn’t be awkward then either.

  My mom came home when I was about an hour into my AP Gov work. She was exhausted, but she started making an enormous casserole that would provide enough leftovers to last a week. She hated to cook, and I tried to escape to my room, knowing that in under five minutes ABBA would be blaring, ingredients would be everywhere, and if I were spotted, my help would be requested. Since I’m an even bigger disaster in the kitchen than my mom, I tried to make a hasty retreat.

  “Mackenzie,” my mom called out, “would you mind cutting up the ...”

  The ringing of the phone interrupted us.

  “I’ll get it.” I leaped for any excuse not to get drafted into kitchen duty. “Hello?”

  “Is Mackenzie Wellesley available?”

  I stared at the phone in disbelief. It was almost never for me.

  “Um, that’s me.”

  “Hi. I’m calling from AOL News. We want to get your thoughts on your YouTube video.”

  “Um,” I replied, “I don’t know what to say about it.”

  “Did you find it embarrassing?”

  “Of course.” What a stupid question. Like I could possibly watch my attempt at CPR without wishing I could just sink into the floor. The reminder of the video had my stomach feeling queasy all over again.

  “What, specifically, embarrassed you the most?”

  I started pacing. “I don’t know. Probably the way Alex started twitching when I—” The sound of muffled laughter shut me up.

  “Sorry.” He coughed. “Just a few more questions. How do you feel about being the new poster child of social awkwardness?”

  “Sorry, I’m the what? I don’t think I’m the poster child of anything.”

  I heard a chuckle on the other end. “All right, then what’s it like knowing your video has been viewed a million times?”

  I stared at the phone, certain that I had misheard. “Pardon me,” I said politely. “Did you just say a million times?”

  “Of course. Ever since the video hit YouTube, FAIL Blog, Facebook, and Twitter, it’s been getting a lot of attention.”

  I sucked in my breath. Oxygen, I thought weakly, is a good thing. I just had to make sure I kept getting it.

  I paced faster. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”

  “Just a few more questions.” This time it didn’t feel like a request, but I didn’t know how to extricate myself from the conversation.

  “How does it feel to be famous?”

  My mouth fell open in disbelief. “I wouldn’t know. It’s never happened to me.”

  “Well, you are.”

  “No,” I insisted, “I’m not.”

  “Fine,” he said soothingly. “Then how does it feel to have Ashton Kutcher twittering about you.”

  “ASHTON KUTCHER DID WHAT?”

  I didn’t mean to yell it. And I especially didn’t mean to give Dylan a reason to come running into our miniscule office.

  “Am I being Punk’d right now?”

  “You didn’t know?” The AOL guy sounded shocked but recovered quickly. “How does it feel to be the next unexpected sensation on a par with Susan Boyle?”

  “I am NOT Susan Boyle. I’m not British.”

  I turned on the computer to double-check the Twitter thing, and while I waited for the
computer to load my mouth worked overtime.

  “I am NOTHING like Susan Boyle. She has an undeniable talent. Anyone can knock over a football player.” I clicked on Internet Explorer. “So I am NOT famous or important. This is all one big joke, and I’m not going to fall for it.”

  “Mackenzie, what is going on?” Dylan shouted.

  The only sound I could hear on the other end of the phone was the rat-a-tat of fingers pounding furiously on a keyboard to record my quotes. I typed, “Ashton Kutcher, twitter” into Google and then I was frozen staring at the words: Wow this video is hilarious. Wifey and I can’t get enough. And with it was a link to ... me.

  “Oh, my God.” The phone slipped out of my hands and I lurched to the bathroom. I was so upset I almost threw up. Thankfully, Dylan didn’t follow me. He hung up on the AOL guy and waited for me with a cup of water in his hand.

  “You okay?” he asked nervously. I checked out my reflection in the bathroom mirror and could confidently say that I looked like death warmed over. My face was so pale and drawn that I made Evan Rachel Wood in her Marilyn Manson Goth phase look healthy. There was panicked screaming in my head and nothing made sense. I tried to break it down, analyze it, and come up with a plan but wound up gripping onto the toilet. My panic response seemed to be connected to my stomach.

  I took the glass from Dylan, sloshing half of it on myself, but I managed a long gulp before sinking to the bathroom floor. I couldn’t meet Dylan’s eyes.

  “I’m. What am I going to ... is there any. No. I’m dead.” I couldn’t even finish sentences. Dylan hesitated, then sat down and held one of my hands.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mackenzie.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  So he stayed on the floor, holding my hand, and saying the one thing that neither of us believed: everything is going to be fine.

  Chapter 9

  The whole thing exploded from there. My mom found us still sitting on the floor when she called us to dinner. We were studiously ignoring the ringing phone. She reached out to answer it, but Dylan stopped her, took her aside, and explained the situation. The whole thing was so ridiculous, so impossible, that if I hadn’t still looked like I had both feet in the grave she wouldn’t have believed it. I was still having trouble mentally processing. Apparently, I’d become famous.