Awkward Page 6

  I couldn’t let him fire me. I had to escape before I was out of a job or a best friend who looked intent on fighting with a football player. I grabbed Corey’s shoulder.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said lamely. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What the hell do you mean it doesn’t matter?” he seethed. “They think they can body check you and get away with it?” He swore loudly and rather eloquently to my way of thinking.

  Alex Thompson just grinned. “Payback. Although maybe I have to spend some time on top of her for us to be even.”

  I felt sick, and not just because my head was ringing and my every movement was probably being filmed. Alex actually thought it was fine to knock me down and joke about forcing himself on top of me ... and all because of a minor accident. This was his way of proving his manliness.

  I stepped toward him carefully.

  “Don’t you ever think about touching me or my friends ever again,” I told him in a voice that I managed to keep both cool and even—barely.

  “Or what?” he sneered.

  “Or I’ll show you just how much damage a good girl can do.” I smiled. “Believe me, I can hurt you without laying a finger on your skin.”

  I turned back to Corey and Jane, who were staring at me with open-mouthed amazement. “You guys ready to go?”

  They nodded and the three of us made our exit. For the first time in the past two years I’d spent in high school, I felt vaguely cool.

  Too bad the feeling didn’t last.

  Chapter 11

  “You handled it well.” I tried to figure out what the hell Logan was talking about as we walked from Mr. Helm’s classroom, where we had agreed to meet, to the parking lot at the end of the day.

  “Handled what well?” I asked, rubbing my temple to fight back the rager of a headache that had kicked up a notch as I’d left the cafeteria.

  “Alex and his friends.”

  I noticed he didn’t say “my friends” and wondered what to make of it. Had my brain not felt diced, strained, and broiled, I definitely would have analyzed that for deeper social significance. Instead, I just shrugged.

  “Could’ve done worse.”

  He grinned, much to my surprise. “No kidding.”

  I couldn’t help smiling back. “I got the last word. Did you notice that? And I actually made a pretty convincing threat.” I tried not to notice the way his dark hair flopped in his eyes as he unlocked the car and I slid in. “It sounded credible to you, right?”

  He pulled out of the lot. “Sure, but I doubt you could really hurt the guy.”

  I leaned back against the seat. “It was the first thing that came to mind. But I suppose I could do something and get away with it. It’s hard to believe the valedictorian, or future valedictorian,” I corrected myself, “was the catalyst for anything.”

  He tapped the steering wheel in time to his music. “I guess.”

  “The reason it worked was because I left the threat to his imagination. Will I mess with his locker, or his report card, or his college transcript? Impossible to know. What we imagine is usually far more intimidating than reality. Psychological warfare.”

  “So you psyched him out. Personally I prefer just going at it.”

  “What?” My head jerked up and I leaned forward. I’d been distracted by idly wondering what it might be like to have his hands on the back of my neck, or lifting my chin to angle for a kiss. Thoughts I had no business thinking about a Notable, particularly one who was going to date Chelsea (again), marry her, and show up to the ten-year reunion with their perfect six-month-old baby.

  “Fighting,” he clarified. “A few good hits on the ice and I feel much better.”

  I imagined launching myself at Alex in the cafeteria, fists clenched. I bet I could have done some damage ... before I was dragged to the infirmary.

  “I’m a pretty good fighter,” I commented. “I had to learn to throw a punch or I’d always be stuck watching Monday Night Football.”

  “Older siblings?” Logan asked, and it hit me just how little we actually knew about each other.

  “Younger brother. Dylan. Plays quarterback at the middle school and idolizes any guy who wears pads.”

  Logan considered that for a second. “Skinny? Reddish hair?”

  I stared at him. “Yeah.”

  He shrugged. “Good kid. I coached him at a sports camp over the summer. Listens to instructions.”

  “Your instructions, maybe,” I said. “He doesn’t exactly fall over himself to do me any favors. Although, he was pretty great last night when I got the call from ...”

  I let my sentence dribble out as it finally hit me what was missing: the press. I had spent the entire day fearing the questions of doggedly persistent reporters, but there wasn’t anyone around. I’d had literally fifteen minutes of fame before becoming old news.

  “They’re gone!” I could have floated the rest of the way to Logan’s house.

  “Who is?”

  “The newspaper and television people. They all cleared out.” I leaned back in my seat with a sigh of relief. “I can go back to being a nobody. Wonderful.” I wasn’t even being sarcastic.

  Logan pulled into his long, elegant driveway—his whole life was surreally perfect. “You want to be ignored?” he asked incredulously.

  “Well, yeah,” I said, stating the obvious. “If the choice is between being ignored or being ridiculed and body checked in the cafeteria line, it’s not exactly a tough call.”

  “What about a third option?”

  I just stared at him. “We go to the same high school, right? For me, there is no third option, which is why I’m studying so hard for college.” Logan didn’t say anything as we got out of the car. “What are your plans?” I asked curiously.

  “College. Somewhere. My parents want me to check out their alma mater, USC, but I’m not sure it’s for me.”

  I nodded. “It’s weird, isn’t it? The way adults expect us to have it all figured out. Once I get into college, that’s it. I have to become a history major, then a historian. When, for all I know, I might end up loving sociology and moving to Australia to study aboriginal culture.”

  “Aboriginal culture, huh?” he said. “Well, you don’t think small.”

  “Nope,” I agreed as we walked into his house. I pulled out my textbook and laid it in front of us on the kitchen table. “Now, where did we leave off?”

  Chapter 12

  I woke up the next morning exhausted. Working with Logan on AP US cut into the homework time for my other classes. I had a boatload of work due for AP Gov and was operating on five hours of sleep. I’m not a morning person. I wake up early physically, but I’m always close to snapping at someone. So when I came downstairs and found that Dylan had finished off the milk, my bad mood darkened. I pulled out some Eggos and shoved them into the toaster.

  Then I heard the scream.

  It sounded like Dylan had broken a leg, pulled a tendon, and smashed every metatarsal in his foot—all at the same time.

  “Dylan?” I hollered. All my stupid big sister instincts had jumped into overdrive. “Dylan, what’s wrong?”

  When I found him sitting in the computer room, pointing to the screen, I could have killed him.

  “Are you kidding? You scared the crap out of me, you jerk.”

  Dylan just stared blankly oblivious to my outrage and kept pointing to the screen.

  “I don’t care what it says about me, okay? It’s over. After today I’ll be old news. Got it?”

  But Dylan shook his head and clicked the screen.

  For a second I was confused. Dylan was watching YouTube, but instead of me, the screen showed the latest music video from the rock band ReadySet.

  I’m guessing you already know about them. I mean, come on, it’s ReadySet we’re talking about here. Their songs have been huge ever since the band used inventive music videos to launch themselves into popularity. At the very least you’ve heard of their lead singer, Timothy Goff,
the eighteen-year-old taking the music industry by storm.

  I’m still impressed with how they handled the footage—the brilliant way they worked me into the music video for their high-energy song “Going Down.” The camera slowed with Alex midair before the drums burst into action the instant he connected with the ground. It was all so artistic: the changing background colors, the splicing, the close-ups ... everything. It looked like my CPR Incident had been choreographed for the song. Really, the lyrics fit that well. Especially the lines:

  You fell like a girl from a looking glass.

  You swore that you’d always come back.

  But I’ve got a scribbled-up document.

  It says that you’ve gone away.

  My expression, the naked panic on my face, gave the song depth as well as humor. A perfect blend and an instant hit.

  I was so screwed.

  “Th-That doesn’t mean anything,” I told Dylan. But I knew I was wrong. They had even incorporated my “AM I KILLING HIM RIGHT NOW?” into the song. And it sounded great.

  Dylan met my eyes. Maybe it was the sisterly protective thing again, but he looked so small—just a scrawny runt with a mop of reddish hair and a sprinkling of freckles. And I was systematically screwing up his life.

  “Mackenzie.” He said my name slowly, as if testing each syllable. “One YouTube clip can go away, but this ... it’s a different story.”

  I wanted to say that I’d already handled the press, thank-you-very-much. But as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. My life was already chaotic before America’s biggest rock sensation used me as some kind of muse. Now anyone who’d missed my moment of extreme embarrassment could catch it repeating endlessly on MTV-2.

  And people would want to know about me. You don’t watch a great music video without wondering about the people in it. That’s why that wedding couple dancing down the aisle became so famous. First it went on YouTube, then AOL, until suddenly The Office was doing a spoof, and the couple was under fire for using a Chris Brown song after he famously beat his ex-girlfriend Rihanna. So then the newlyweds had to go on Good Morning America and donate money to the prevention of spousal abuse. All because someone filmed their nuptials and posted it online. Crazy, but true.

  “I-I have to go to school,” I said flatly. I squared my shoulders and walked straight to the kitchen to fix my mom’s coffee. The whole time I told myself that soon I’d be a regular teenager going to a normal high school outside Portland, Oregon. So what if my fifteen minutes of fame weren’t over yet? I could survive another fifteen.

  Probably.

  I played it cool. I handed my mom the mug and told her I needed her to drop me off at school. She sipped and nodded. But even though she never said, “Mackenzie, I don’t have time to play chauffeur!” I felt like crap. The last thing she needed was more stress in her life. I’d have to make it up to her with more than a cup of coffee. She downed her drink while I ran through my schedule, searching for time I could spend vacuuming, sweeping, and Windexing—after school, tutoring, and homework, but before dinner.

  My mom’s eyes cleared with the coffee, sloughing off the gray mist that comes when she’s only half awake. I wish I had inherited my mom’s eyes, a clear blue, instead of my dad’s boring brown ones. Her flame red hair made me think of leprechauns dancing on gold.

  “Let’s go, then,” she said.

  There were no reporters lingering on our driveway or ankle deep in the lawn that was a continuous clump of weeds. Maybe the ReadySet thing wouldn’t be a big deal after all. That thought lasted until we pulled up to school.

  It was like the day before ... only a billion times worse.

  “What the—”

  I didn’t let my mom finish. If I looked at the veritable sea of reporters, I might lose my nerve. I opened the door to make a run for it. Five feet from the car I was swallowed up in the jumble of business suits, cameras, and sound equipment. I spun in circles, desperately looking for someone I knew—someone to help me. I was panicky, naïve, and unprepared. A microphone was thrown in my face, and I clutched it as I searched for my exit.

  “Mackenzie, what size are you?”

  “Are you a ReadySet fan?”

  “Are you going to their concert Thursday night?”

  “Um.” Too many questions! “Size, uh, twelve, I think? Yeah, I like ReadySet. Who doesn’t? But I don’t have tickets. It’s probably sold out.”

  “Is it true you’re dating the lead singer, Timothy Goff?”

  “I’ve, uh, never even met the guy.” I was tempted to just drop the microphone and bolt, but I was afraid of being charged for any damages.

  “Mackenzie, what are you wearing?”

  I looked down at myself uncertainly. “Um, jeans?”

  “Do you have a favorite designer?”

  I stared at the reporter in disbelief. She looked so polished in a dark blue silk blouse and tailored suit pants. And she was asking me about fashion.

  “It’s from a garage sale,” I mumbled. “I don’t—”

  But there was a whole new set of questions.

  “Where do you want to go to college?”

  “Who’s your favorite celebrity?”

  “How does it feel to be ‘America’s Most Awkward Girl’?”

  “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

  I couldn’t process what I was hearing.

  “I’m sorry,” I said politely. “Really. I know you guys are just trying to do your jobs, but I need to get to class. And you’re freaking me out.” I blushed and focused on the microphone. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “But you want one of the Notables, not me.” I could have bitten my tongue off at the slip. “I don’t do designer clothes. I’ll never afford them. And with AP tests, tutoring, and high school, I can’t deal with all this attention.” I made it sound like the plague. “So thanks for your time, but I need to go now.”

  I was relieved to see a determined police officer wade her way through the cameras. She looked like a hero on a cop show, with her brisk, no-nonsense walk. She’d probably spent her career proving herself until she was the toughest cop in the area.

  She snaked out an arm to grasp my shoulder as we headed for one of the buildings. “Ignore them,” she instructed me as reporters kept yelling, “Mackenzie, who are the Notables?” and “Is it hard living in a single-parent home?” I saw her nod as other police officers moved in to enforce a media perimeter. A quick glance over my shoulder told me the media weren’t finished with their interviews. A whole circle of reporters listened to the Evil Trio. From the corner of my eye, I saw Chelsea toss her hair into a cascade of gold down her back. She’d look like a goddess while I looked like a geek. Not for the first time I wished Chelsea was famous instead of me.

  The policewoman kept her hand firmly clamped on my shoulder until I was safe from the paparazzi. Even inside the English building, she didn’t ditch me. She steered me over to the nearest drinking fountain.

  “Drink,” she ordered. I obeyed her instinctively. My mouth must have become dry during my impromptu interview—something I’d failed to notice. Just like I hadn’t realized my hands were shaking like hummingbird wings.

  “Feel better?” she asked, once I gulped my fill.

  I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.

  “Good.” She looked at me appraisingly and then shook her head. I thought I caught pity in her eyes. “Next time: head down, shoulders back, no eye contact, no faltering, and you’ll be just fine. Now get to class.”

  I was following her instructions when she called out, “Ms. Wellesley.”

  I turned around.

  “Good luck.”

  She had no idea just how much I needed it.

  Chapter 13

  There were eyes everywhere. No matter where I turned, I met half a dozen stares. Every single movement I made was analyzed—my nervous habit of tucking my brown hair behind my ears was documented. I could hear the persistent clicking of cell phone cameras, and I tried my hardest not to f
linch, hide my face, or flee into the girls’ bathroom.

  In all my time at Smith High School, I’d never felt more isolated and alone.

  At least no one made fun of me anymore. The same jerk who had imitated me in a falsetto voice now eyed me speculatively without saying a word. I was definitely no longer an Invisible. It was like a new category had been created just for me: the Spectacle. Everyone observed but nobody spoke to me. Great.

  Even Jane and Corey were affected. They pretended things were normal, but they were clearly rattled by this new level of visibility. Jane kept scanning the other lunch tables as if expecting an attack. Like some kid was going to scream, “ReadySet should have used me in their music video!” before opening fire on our table. Teenagers had done stupider things for worse reasons.

  “So ...” Corey said conversationally. “Are you going?”

  I looked up from the muffin I was systematically mangling into a pile of crumbs. “Huh?”

  “The ReadySet concert tomorrow. Are you going?”

  “Are they playing nearby?” I asked blankly.

  “Portland, Rose Garden, tomorrow night, seven-thirty.”

  I glanced at Jane. She was still staring at the kids who were staring at us.

  Great.

  “O-kay,” I said slowly. “Cool. But even if it hasn’t sold out, I couldn’t afford a ticket.”

  “I was hoping you could use your, er, connections to score us some seats.”

  I nearly choked on my Diet Coke. “Connections? I don’t have any connections.”

  “Since you’re in the music video, it’s only right that you are invited to the show.” He flashed his slightly wicked grin. “Maybe you could bring some friends who would kill to go to a ReadySet concert. Friends who wouldn’t mind driving into Portland for the show or footing the gas bill.”

  “I get it,” I said, laughing. It’s pretty hard to be offended by Corey—maybe because his ploys are always so obvious. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up, I promise.”