Awkwardly Ever After (18 page)

“You know who you are, Sam.” It almost came out like an accusation.

She laughed, but there was a dark undercurrent to the sound. “Yeah, I know some of it. The basics, maybe. I can correctly fill out standardized test forms.” Her voice dropped to a steady monotone. “Seventeen years old, Caucasian female, no arrest record, founder of the school LGBTQ club, and cofounder of the baking club. I can also recite my name, birth date, and social security number. That doesn't mean I know who I am beneath all of that garbage.”

“It sure seems like you do,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, well, I can fake it with the best of the Notables. But what you do have to fear is a life spent wondering what could have been if you'd been willing to fight for what you want.”

She was right.

She was totally, completely, painfully right about everything . . . except maybe the Roosevelt quote. Because I suspected that deep down it was the fear of confrontation, the fear of losing to the Notables, the fear of making a colossal mistake, that was what kept me clinging to the shadows. It's what made me perfectly happy to be ignored for the next three years of my high school sentence.

I couldn't lie to Sam, not when she had me pegged. She wouldn't have believed a half-truth anyway.

“I'm not a fighter,” I admitted. “I refuse to do anything that would land me in detention with you. I want to keep my academic record sparkly clean.”

Sam shoved my arm good-naturedly. “Yeah, well, rumor has it you're really good at creative problem-solving tests. Maybe it's time for you to apply those techniques to your life.” With her knuckles, she rapped the helmet I was still holding. “Let's take you home.”

It was the best idea I'd heard all night.

I
didn't exactly get my beauty sleep.

Sam's words reverberated around my head for hours and I kept searching for a brilliant comeback, for some pithy line that would make my cowardice look noble. I wasn't taking the easy way out, simply exercising precaution. I wasn't letting my fear stop me from living to the fullest, merely listening to my instincts.

And my gut was telling me that I had no business getting cozy with a Notable who would probably dump me with a text. A guy like Spencer King could probably manage it with less than three emoticons.

I didn't need that weighing down my life.

Except the rest of my body didn't seem to have gotten that memo, because when I wasn't stewing over Sam's rant, I was replaying every second I had spent on Spencer's couch. In slow motion. And there were a handful of memories I had stuck on repeat.

The feel of his hands tightening around my waist, of my fingers sinking into the softness of his hair . . . yeah, all those details haunted me well into the night. Well, into the
morning,
truthfully. And when I wasn't obsessing about our seven minutes in heaven, I was re-creating the intensity of his eyes as they lasered in on me when he asked if I was going to take my own advice.

Even spending an hour giving my parents a detailed account of the evening—well, minus a few events, of course—couldn't imbue me with a sense of normalcy. Usually their grilling put everything into perspective for me. Their intensity might make me roll my eyes, but I never doubted that they cared. The Notables could use me as the punch line for their jokes—none of it would change the way my parents saw me. That might not count for much, but it was enough for now.

Still, showing up to school the next day wasn't easy. Not when I had to ignore all the kids twisting in their seats to get a good look at me on the bus. Everyone was whispering, and I couldn't tell if they were speculating about my relationship with Spencer or if I was being paranoid. So I tried to distance myself from everything. To act like a sociologist studying an interesting ritual from some poorly documented tribe. Everyone on the bus deferred to someone higher up in the pecking order, until the person closest to Notable status—some jock whose family couldn't afford a set of wheels for him—smirked and then pointedly looked away from me.

I couldn't tell if that was because I was too far beneath his notice even to acknowledge with a withering comment or because he feared retribution in the form of Spencer King if he opened his mouth and the wrong words came out.

Either way, the attention twisted my stomach and made me want to hide deeper in the loose gray sweatshirt I was wearing. I closed my eyes, which only heightened the prickly sensation of being examined from all angles. It made me hyperaware of my body, specifically my breathing. Every time I thought about Spencer, it hitched. And every time I considered pretending that yesterday had never happened . . . it sputtered. As if it couldn't believe I was even considering that as a real possibility.

Maybe because it wasn't.

Not now that I thought I might have an answer to the most important question I'd been asked the day before.

So, I gritted my teeth and fumbled in the pocket of my sweatshirt for my wallet, as I disembarked from the bus and headed straight for my two least favorite people in the world: Fake and Bake—Ashley and Steffani—I mentally corrected myself. I was going to do this right because I refused to have any regrets.

Which meant treating others the way I wanted to be treated.

Even if they so didn't deserve it.

I forced myself to straighten my shoulders instead of slouching as I stood in line to buy tickets for prom. Ashley was in charge of the cash box, or at least she was in charge of sitting behind it and looking perfectly . . . perky. And judgmental. Both girls belonged in a teen magazine with price tags coming off every item of their clothes.

I took a deep breath. I could do this. All I had to do was stand in this stupid line and fork over twenty bucks. Then I could put phase two of my plan into action after school when I might be able to get some privacy. Five people ahead of me. Two of them were nuzzling each other and looking all doe-eyed and in love, which meant that I only had to wait for four purchases to be made. Assuming that it took no more than three minutes to complete each transaction, I should be free and clear—with time to spare—within the next twenty minutes.

I could survive being an object of curiosity for the Notables that long.

“Hey, you're in the wrong line, Fatty. You have to get your cookies from the cafeteria.”

I flinched, even though I knew Alex Thompson would probably award himself five points for that small display of weakness.

“Stop, Alex,” Ashley called out from the table.

Everyone turned to stare at her in amazement. She was the last person I had ever expected to defend me, and it looked like no one else at Smith High School saw that one coming either.

And then she smiled nastily.

“That's no way to treat a pregnant girl.”

“She's not pregnant,” Steffani giggled. “She would have to have sex for that to happen. And who would want to sleep with
her?
”

“Oh yeah? Then how come I can see her baby bump from here?”

Alex guffawed right into my ear and I totally froze up, just like I had the first time in the cafeteria. My palms went all sweaty and I began calculating how many points I would lose if I cut and run. If I sprinted toward the English building and didn't stop running until I was safely ensconced in the library.

But that'd be quitting and I wouldn't get what I wanted if I didn't fight for it.

So I cut the line.

I stalked right over to the desk with the huge sign that read

PERFECT PROM
in sparkly letters with little hearts bouncing around the words, and I slapped down the twenty.

“Two tickets please,” I gritted out. And then I shoved up my glasses because even though I wanted to channel a total badass version of myself, I still needed to be able to see without squinting.

“I'm sorry,” Steffani said coolly, “but prom is for upperclassmen only. Not for geeky freshmen.”

“I'm taking a junior. Now give me the tickets.”

“Well, that puts a new spin on ‘putting out,' ” Ashley said snidely. “Isn't the guy supposed to pay? I guess this is part of the bribe for taking you, huh? You know, I almost feel sorry for you.”

My breath whooshed out of me as if I had been walloped right in the stomach.

She feels sorry for me.

For some reason, that's what did it. I leaned forward.

“You know what, Ashley? There are days when I feel sorry for myself. Days when I wake up and I look in the mirror and I feel like crap. And I hear people like you in my head telling me that I'm worthless. And there are days when I believe it.” I paused for that to sink in before I continued. “Here's the thing: I may wage a daily war against my mirror, but I will
never
look back on high school and know that I intentionally made other people feel like crap. That's something you will have to live with. So . . . feel free to choke on your pity. I'm going to be just fine.”

I inched the twenty across the table closer to her, noting the slack jaw with a fair amount of pride. Maybe she was shocked to hear the geek stand up for herself. Maybe she wasn't as heartless as she let on and my words would haunt her for years to come.

I didn't care anymore.

They didn't matter. Not to me. I hadn't been exaggerating when I had told Spencer that there were people who cared about me. Really freaking awesome people like Sam who liked me already. I had friends who didn't need me to change in order to earn their affection.

“Freak.” Alex pitched his voice so that everyone within a fifteen-foot radius would hear.

I nodded as I scooped up the tickets Steffani had hesitantly laid out on the table. “Of course I'm a freak. Now ask me if I care?”

“I care.”

I whirled around. I'd read that in combat situations, when soldiers were in a state of battle readiness, suddenly everything would intensify: colors, tastes, textures, even seemingly unimportant details. I had thought the adrenaline rush from facing down the Notables was already pumping as much adrenaline into my system as I had on reserve, but apparently the sight of Spencer stalking toward me activated some untapped reservoir.

Maybe some of that reaction was chemical. Spencer was unbelievably hot with a scowl twisting his face and his eyes flashing murder. So much for the good-time frat boy in training I had accused him of being. This guy wasn't about to crack open a six-pack or joke everyone into a good mood.

He looked like he was five seconds away from using Alex as practice for body-checking a hockey opponent to the ground.

And while I had no trouble imagining how I wanted a fierce battle for my honor to proceed (Hint: It somehow included Spencer losing his shirt and a much longer display of those fascinating tendons that I had spotted earlier), that wasn't the best move for any of us.

Plus, I was getting sick of other people trying to fight my battles for me.

“Hey!” I said, trying to cut Spencer off at the pass. “I have something for you.”

He nodded brusquely but didn't take his eyes off Alex. “I thought Logan and I made it clear that you should keep your opinions to yourself. I'm happy to give you a reminder, though.”

I darted between the boys, even though it forced me to turn my back on Alex. I was counting on him having the good sense not to provoke an already pissed-off Spencer, but it was never a good idea to depend on the intellect of an asshole. “That's not necessary.”

“Move, Belle.”

I felt a wave of relief at the ease with which my nickname slipped off his tongue. So maybe he didn't hate me for panicking after our kiss last night. Then again, it was entirely possible he was just a staunch defender for the geek population at our school. There was only one way to find out.

“Make me, Spencer.”

That's when I stood up on tiptoe and flung my arms around his neck. I hoped it looked like a romantic gesture that deserved swelling music and the rest of the world to go slightly out of focus, instead of a desperate attempt to stop him from picking a fight with a football player. Spencer looked momentarily poleaxed, possibly because he never expected to feel my body pressed against his again. Then his lips tilted upward into a wry smile. “Now who is cranking the sex up to eleven?”

He was right.

I instantly released my hold and found myself wobbling back on my feet. Everyone was staring at us as if they expected Spencer to make some devastatingly snarky comment and it was just . . . too much. So I took a different page out of his playbook, grasped his wrist, and began pulling him away from the line for prom tickets. Past Ashley and Steffani, whom I could feel glaring fiercely at the back of my head, and away from the lurkers craning their necks to catch a glimpse of my train wreck of a fake relationship.

“Am I being taken aside for punishment?” Spencer's tone was light and easy, and if I hadn't spent all day yesterday getting to know the guy beneath the jokes, I would've believed that he felt nothing more than idle curiosity. “It's because I read the spoilers to
Battlestar Galactica,
right?”

I pulled up short. “You did
what?!
”

“I read the—”

I raised a hand. “Stop talking. I'm going to pretend you didn't just tell me that you single-handedly ruined one of the greatest television shows for yourself, because otherwise we might not be able to be friends.”

Spencer raised that damn eyebrow, and even though it was probably an ingrained natural reaction—completely unrelated to my snarky comment the day before—I felt my cheeks start to redden. “So we're back to being friends, huh?”

I crossed my arms. “Yeah, I thought about it last night. I want to be your friend.” I said it with the same firmness I had used with Alex Thompson only minutes earlier, but it was far less effective now. Maybe because my voice had a new husky quality to it that I'd never heard before coming from me.

Spencer stiffened. “Fine, then—”

“I want to be your friend,” I repeated. “And I want to, um . . . get to know you better.”

I watched his body loosen slightly, but his eyes didn't lose their hard, focused edge. “What does that mean, Belle? Spell it out for me. If you want me to tell you more of my deep dark secrets, then you're out of luck. I'm not into the whole tall, dark, and brooding thing.”

I laughed uncomfortably and I briefly considered bailing. I could probably run to the nearest girls' bathroom without raising too many jeers from the crowd of students I hadn't been able to escape entirely. I could call Melanie for advice from the safety of a stall. She'd drop everything, knock on the door of the handicap toilet, perch on the railing, tuck a strand of her long black hair back behind an ear, and patiently hear me out.

But I was determined to test out my new problem-solving method, and that meant earning points instead of losing them. And giving Spencer an honest answer to the question he had asked me last night. That would earn a whopping one hundred points for me.