Hard to Get (22 page)

My introduction barely warranted a cursory glance, nod, and mumbled “hi” from the object of Britt's affection. Or maybe that should be “affliction.” See, Britt has a lifelong case of severe boycrazyitis. One I seriously doubted would be cured anytime soon.

“Lauren's the one who convinced me to come over and say hi to you,” Britt continued, tilting her head up at Greenleaf Guy.
“Usually I'm totally shy about talking to cute guys.”

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing at that one. Britt, shy with guys? Hardly. She's pretty much fearless, not to mention completely lacking in the capacity for shame or embarrassment. Everyone says that's why guys are drawn to her like dogs to a fire hydrant. Not that she isn't cute—she is. But even if a guy doesn't notice her pixielike face, her perfect skin, or her great legs, she makes damn sure he notices
her
.

To keep from blowing her cover, I wandered off a ways and pretended to be fascinated by a display case showing an astronaut in full bubble-headed regalia. Britt and I, along with the rest of the junior class of Potomac Point High and those of like half the other schools in our county, were at the National Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. Why, you ask? Good question. The answer is, we were being subjected to a ridiculously lame multischool field trip sponsored by some science foundation.

Not that I have anything against the Smithsonian. In fact, I kinda like it, especially
the First Ladies' gowns at the American History museum. But spaceships and black holes and airplanes? So not my thing.

I watched Britt and the guy in the reflection of the display case. I saw her toss her short blond hair around—a patented Britt flirting move. It worked. The guy stepped a little closer, his hands twitching as if he was dying to touch her.

Then I saw Britt glance around with an adorably furtive expression. She reached into her purse and pulled out BBB. That's a nickname I came up with; it stands for Beloved BlackBerry. It could just as easily stand for Britt's Bodacious Bestie, BlackBerry Baby, or Beautiful Best Buddy. Get the picture? She loves the thing.

Anyway, PDAs, cell phones, and all other electronic devices were strictly verboten on this trip, but Britt has never been that good at following the rules. One of the numerous things she and I
don't
have in common. So she and the guy bent over the BlackBerry, her slim fingers flying over the tiny keys.

My gaze drifted away. I knew what came next. Britt would enter the guy's name and number into her log, then add him as a friend on Facebook. I wondered if he'd be
shocked when he logged on and saw that his “shy” new acquaintance had like forty gazillion other FB friends, mostly guys. …

As I amused myself with that thought, I found myself staring at the spaceman in front of me. The bubble-headed look was a little retro for my taste. I automatically started redesigning the space suit, adding a touch of color here, streamlining the fabric there …

See, that's my thing. Fashion. I love clothes. Most of my daydreams revolve around becoming an international fashion icon, showing up on runways from New York to Milan with my daringly original designs, shocking and amazing the fashion elite with my talent and creativity.

Not that I would ever have the guts to actually
do
anything like that. Britt is always on my case about being too cautious. She wants me to actually create every over-the-top outfit I sketch, no matter how wild or weird, and then wear it to school just to see what happens. But unlike her, I'm not a just-to-see-what-happens kind of girl. I prefer to test the waters first.

My gaze returned to the reflective surface of the display case, but this time I was
staring at myself. My ordinary hazel eyes. My perky but unexceptional nose. And my best feature, my long, thick, wavy dark hair. If I ever tried shaking it around like Britt did with hers, would it have the same mesmerizing effect on guys? Or would I just end up looking like I had a gnat in my ear? Thoughts like that never seemed to occur to Britt at all, but my brain produced them so freely that I sometimes wondered if it was a medically diagnosable condition.

“Listen up, people!” Mr. Feldman's voice rang out across the museum. He's the head of PPH's science department and actually a pretty cool guy, despite teaching my least favorite subject and being possibly the worst-dressed high school teacher of all time. And if you've ever been to high school, you know that's saying something. “It's time for a fascinating look at the work scientists do behind the scenes here at the Air and Space Museum,” he said in his nasal voice. “Potomac Point and East Elm students, please come with me. March!”

A couple of other teachers called out similar orders, directing the other schools to their own areas. The horde of high schoolers filling the museum's airy atrium started
dividing itself into smaller groups like some giant amoeba splitting into different parts, and I started preparing myself for more tedium. See, wandering around on guided tours of the museum's endless array of flying machines, as boring as it was, was actually the fun part. In between, we were stuck listening to a bunch of lectures about stuff like quarks and wind shear and who knew what else. Speaking as someone who can barely stay awake in science class, I couldn't think of a suckier way to spend my day.

Britt bounced over to join me as I started shuffling along with the crowd following Mr. Feldman. “What did you think of Trent?” she demanded eagerly. “Isn't he the awesomest? Talk about love at first sight!”

“Sort of like the other three guys you've fallen in love with so far today?” I paused, feigning deep thought with one finger to my chin. “Or was it four? I've lost count.”

“Mock me if you wish, Lauren,” she retorted. “Trent might very well be the love of my life. I would hope my best friend might at least
try
to be happy for me.”

“If you make it to your two-week anniversary with that guy, I'll be ecstatic, trust me,” I told
her as we filed into some backstage part of the museum. “Not to mention shocked.”

Britt stuck out her tongue at me. We had to stop talking for a while as some dude started droning on about the scientific method. Or something like that. I had to mentally redesign not only his wardrobe—I put him in classic dark pinstripes with a floral tie for a splash of color—but also those of everyone else in the room just to keep from dozing off.

Seventeen hours later, we were finally released back into the main part of the museum. Okay, maybe it wasn't quite that long. But it felt like it. Most of the other schools hadn't yet emerged from their torture chambers—er, lectures—so the place had a weekday-morning-at-the-mall sort of feel. Not that I'd ever have the guts to skip class to go shopping, of course.

“So are you saying you don't believe Trent and I are meant to be?” Britt asked, picking up right where we'd left off.

“I'm saying I don't believe in love at first sight.” We'd had this same discussion so many times it was practically scripted. “There's no way you can tell if you're going
to hit it off with someone just by looking at him.”

“Trust me, babe. I can tell.”

Britt sank down onto a free bench, casting an appraising eye toward a good-looking artsy type standing nearby looking at one of the displays. When a Goth girl with a nose ring came over and wrapped one skinny arm around him, stretching up to lick his earlobe, Britt shrugged and returned her gaze to me.

“It's called sparks,” she informed me. “And I know them when I feel them.”

“Right.
Every
time you feel them.” I smirked. “And sorry, but I'm just not willing to believe that sparks and raw animal attraction equal true love.”

She grinned back at me. “Don't knock it till you try it. Your love life could stand a little more raw animal attraction.”

“If you say so.” It was a familiar exchange. Britt wasn't trying to be mean about my love life—or relative lack thereof. I knew she truly didn't understand how I could be content waiting for romance to come to me rather than rushing out, grabbing it with both hands, and checking out its butt, like she did.

But that was mutual. I didn't really get the whole “sparks” thing, either. I mean, sure, I sometimes felt a flutter of hormones when I saw a cute guy walking through the mall or something. Same flutter I got when I saw a hot actor on TV or up on the movie screen. That silly flutter just didn't seem like a solid basis for a relationship to me.

One of the other school groups emerged from their lecture. A pair of beefy jock types wearing varsity jackets wandered past where we were sitting, ribbing each other loudly about football. Or maybe baseball. Something with balls, anyway. Britt sized them up as they passed our bench.

“Any sparks?” I teased.

She tore her gaze away from the guys and made a face at me. “Very funny. You know I'm totally committed to Trent.”

For about two and a half seconds she managed to keep a straight face. Then she cracked up. So did I.

“Seriously, though, Lauren,” she said, once we got control of ourselves, “I wish you'd let yourself go and just believe in love for a change.”

“I do believe in love. Just not love at first sight.”

“Okay. But why not at least give the sparks thing a try? What could it hurt?”

“Oh, I don't know. Dying of embarrassment probably hurts at least a little bit.”

“You wouldn't actually die, you know,” she said.

“I know. I'd just
want
to. And then I'd have to go into the witness protection program, and I'd probably end up living in, like, Iowa or somewhere, with a family who eats mac and cheese for dinner every night and wears polyester. And that would be truly painful.”

“Very creative,” she said. “But you're avoiding the question. Why not try it just once?”

“That's not the point. I'm not like you. I don't get sparks.”

“You say it like it's a disease, Ms. Uptight.”

“I'm not uptight. Just sane,” I shot back automatically.

She gave me a look. As usual every thought in her head was written all over her face, and I knew she didn't really believe me. She thought I was just holding back, not letting myself go for it with guys the way she did. But it wasn't like that. I truly
didn't get the sparks she was always claiming to feel with Mr. Right–du-Jour. Or du-Hour. It just hadn't worked for me like that in the past. I'd only had a couple of semiserious boyfriends in my entire life, and in both cases they'd started out as friendships that slowly grew into more.

“Look, you deal with guys and romance and stuff your way, and I deal with it in mine,” I told her.

“You mean Jason and that guy from the pool?” She wrinkled her nose. “Please. Hanging out with a guy for ages until one night you stay up too late watching scary movies and accidentally start making out hardly qualifies as romance.”

She made it sound so sordid. And worse yet, so dull.

“Jason and I were together for almost six months,” I reminded her.

“And then what happened? Things got boring and fizzled out. Real romantic.”

“It still beats your two-week record for a relationship lasting,” I retorted.

She grinned. “Okay, touché or whatever. But listen, seriously? This trip is the perfect time to scope out some fresh meat. There are tons of cute guys here from other schools,
so if you do embarrass yourself, you'll never have to see them again. But it's way more likely they'll be so blown away by your gorgeous face, superhot bod, and incredible hair that you'll end up with more dates than me.”

“If I do, I'll probably end up in
Guinness World Records
.”

“Come on, I'm serious.” Britt reached into her purse for her favorite MAC lipstick. “What's the worst that could happen? And it's not like you're all fascinated by this spaceship stuff anyway.”

I glanced around at the rocket-type artifacts surrounding us. “True. But I'm happy just to sit here and wallow in boredom. You go ahead and scope away to your heart's content. I'll watch and take notes.”

“No you won't.” After reapplying, she capped her lipstick and dropped it back in her purse. “You'll just watch, and then make fun of me later.”

“You know me so well.”

My tone was light, but she responded with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Right. And I know you well enough to know you deserve to find the perfect guy. All it takes is a little effort, a little risk.”

“Well, maybe if I ever actually run into someone who's worth the …”

My voice trailed off before I could finish the sentence. Because I'd just spotted the most jaw-droppingly gorgeous guy I'd ever seen.