Infinite (Strange and Beautiful, Book 1) (5 page)

“I’m sure she was too embarrassed to actually say anything,”
he’d chuckled. “I mean, denying it would just be lying, I’m sure.”

But he’d gone on to say that the next time he took one of her
classes, she’d always put him on the spot, probably in much the same way she
was doing with me now, and he’d just scraped by with a C- in her class.

It was disheartening that Miss Barkley couldn’t have associated
me with Skylar instead of Luke. While my sister wasn’t the best student, she’d
never done anything, as far as I knew, to piss off Miss Barkley, and she’d
passed with a B in the class.

 I couldn’t exactly explain this theory to Mom without ratting
out Luke, so I was stuck with a weak, “I don’t know why she hates me,” which
Mom refused to believe due to her biased belief that no one could possibly
dislike her children.

Tegan, at least, believed in my theory. After all, she was there
to witness my daily torture. Thankfully, Tierney was nice enough to help me
with my essays. She had infinite patience as I stumbled my way through various
papers.

Tegan also pointed out that it was weird that I enjoyed writing
short stories and poetry, but I struggled so much with writing essays. I tried
to explain that it wasn’t the same. “I write stories and poems because I enjoy
it, and they’re mostly just for me,” I said. “I’m not getting graded on them
like I am with essays.”

Tegan had smiled sympathetically, but I could tell that she
didn’t fully understand what I meant since she never wrote for fun. Also, she
was a good student and didn’t struggle like I did with improper grammar and run
on sentences.

When Miss Barkley handed back our first essay, my paper looked
like it was bleeding from all of her comments and corrections. I’d been so
upset after class, and when Tierney met us at Tegan’s locker, she’d offered to
start editing my papers for me after Tegan had explained why I looked like
someone had killed my non-existent puppy.

Sometimes I felt jealous of Tegan’s relationship with Tierney.
They got along so well and were actually, honest to God, friends. Sure, they’d
fight occasionally, but Tierney had never denied being related to Tegan.
Sometimes I’d try to imagine having that kind of relationship with Skylar, but
the idea seemed so foreign to me. Besides, I figured I probably wouldn’t spend
as much time at Tegan’s house if Skylar and I were friendlier, and that would
be a major loss because I loved staying over at Tegan’s, which is what I had
done pretty much every weekend since school started.

When I’d ask if I could stay at Tegan’s, Mom would always ask,
“Are you sure it’s okay with Tegan’s parents?”

Probably because Mom couldn’t fathom the idea of having one of
Skylar, Luke or my friends over every weekend, I don’t think she actually
believed me when I’d always reply, “Yes, I’m sure they don’t mind.”

But Trista and Travis Tyler probably weren’t like most parents.
For one thing, they were really cool and fun. They’d do things as a family, not
every weekend but often enough. They even had family game night (Thursday), and
it wasn’t unusual to go camping, bowling, attend some kind of race or sporting
event or visit an amusement park over the weekend. And they never hesitated to
invite me along.

Last winter break they even let me go with them on vacation. We
stayed at a ski lodge for five days. Because it was pretty much a disaster any
time I had skis on my feet, I spent most of my time playing in the snow, making
snow families or snow angels, with then seven-year-old Tatum or getting my butt
kicked at checkers, by the fire in the lodge, by then nine-year-old Tanner.

But, alas, after spending four consecutive weekends with the
Tylers, Mom decided I needed to spend the weekend at home. A normal teenage
girl probably would have whined and complained and begged and pleaded to spend
the weekend camping with her best friend, but it was pretty much decided that,
normal, I was not. Also, I knew my parents would say no anyway, so I didn’t
bother to argue even though, aside from practically salivating over the idea of
a s’more, I really wanted to go camping with the Tylers.

Instead I sat at home on my rump and reread
Harry Potter and
the Half-Blood Prince
for the umpteenth time. I was of the opinion that
J.K. Rowling really needed to get the next and final book out already. I’d
nearly wet my pants when I finished
Half-Blood Prince
and was in
complete denial about a certain character’s death. I’d spent too many nights to
count online reading theories about how the series would finally end.

When I first started reading the
Harry Potter
series, I
used to pretend that I was related to Hermione Granger. I thought it was
coolest thing in the world that we had the same last name. I’d accidentally let
this belief slip to my dad, and, because he had no imagination whatsoever, he
ruined it for me by explaining that when our ancestors came to the United
States from France many years ago, they changed the spelling of our last name
from Grainger to Granger. Then, as if to add insult to injury, he had to add
that Hermione wasn’t even real.

Ouch, way to kill the dreams of an eight-year-old, Dad.

From then on out I kept my theories to myself, and sometimes I
still liked to pretend that Hermione was my British third cousin twice removed,
or something like that. Even though I had no idea what that even meant. Family
genealogy lingo totally confused me. Why were people removed? It sounded like a
form of disownment or something.

After spending the majority of Friday night and part of Saturday
morning rereading
Half-Blood Prince
, I decided to move on to another
book to distract myself from my impatience for the seventh
Harry Potter
book.
I decided I really wanted to reread another of my favorites,
The Perks of
Being a Wallflower
by Stephen Chbosky.

I considered Charlie to be on of my comfort characters, which
were just characters I thought I could have been friends with if they existed
in real life. Never mind the minor flaw that Charlie was a high school freshman
the year I was born.

It had been a while since I’d read it last, and, because I’d
never been neat and tidy like Mom, my room was what I liked to call “organized
chaos.” Even though it looked like a mess, I usually knew where things were,
but after searching high and low for my copy of
Perks
, I came to the
conclusion that, aside from maybe needing to clean up some of the chaos, the
book wasn’t in my room.

I tried to recall where I’d last seen it. Then I remembered I’d
reread it late last spring while vegging out on the couch. Of course I knew Mom
had cleaned the living room many times over since then, so I decided to ask her
if she’d seen it or put it somewhere.

Mom was in her bedroom doing what she loved to do during her
downtime: scrapbook. Mom had an obsession with documenting everything in
scrapbooks. She had one for each of us—and by “us” I mean Skylar, Luke, and
myself—from every year of school. Then she had them for holidays and other
special occasions. I found the whole thing kind of odd because she never seemed
to stop and smell the roses so to speak, but I guess maybe she was just too
busy and scrapbooking was her way of taking it all in after the fact. Or maybe
she just wanted to do something pretty with all of the pictures that would otherwise
sit untouched in boxes under hers and Dad’s bed.

“Mom? Have you seen my copy of
The Perks of Being a
Wallflower
?” I asked from the doorway.

“Lime green cover?” she asked without even looking up.

“Yes.”

“In the living room in the magazine rack,” she replied as she
cut some cardstock.

“Thanks,” I replied and started to walk away.

“Sky has friends over, so try not to bother them,” she called
after me.

“Okay,” I mumbled.

I almost asked her why she insisted I stay home this weekend if
I was supposed to make myself scarce, but I bit my tongue because she was,
obviously,
very
busy. Besides, she’d probably just tell me, “Don’t be
smart, Cecilia.” I had never understood that phrase. Don’t be smart?  Was I
supposed to be stupid instead? Besides, most of the time when people told me
not to be smart, I wasn’t trying to be anyway.

I walked downstairs with extreme caution. After all, I didn’t
know where Skylar was, and I wasn’t supposed to, God forbid, bother her. When I
heard laughter from the kitchen, I thought it was safe to enter the living
room. As I made my way down the short hall to retrieve my book, I decided I’d
go sit under the oak tree in our backyard and read.

I’d been able to see the sun shining through my window upstairs,
and it looked like it would be nice and comfy conditions for reading. As these
thoughts crossed my mind, I stepped into the living room and was surprised to
see a guy I was sure I would have remembered if I’d seen him before seated on
the couch.

I froze for a moment. First, because I wasn’t supposed to bother
Skylar, and, second, because I wasn’t even supposed to admit to being related
to her, and I had no idea how I’d get myself out of that. Short of claiming to
have walked into the wrong house, I thought it might be kind of hard to deny
living here since I was still wearing the sweats and ratty t-shirt I’d wore to
bed the night before, I didn’t think that would be believable. I kind of felt
like Daria Morgendorffer. The way Quinn always denied being related to her made
me think of Skylar and Luke’s denial of me. In that moment, I felt Daria and I
were kindred spirits.

Then there was my third worry, which was I had no idea who this
guy was. I was pretty sure Skylar was still dating Scott, but I supposed it was
possible I’d missed the memo on their break-up. It wasn’t like she really
discussed her relationships with me, or the rest of the family for that matter,
and she did seem to have a habit of ditching guys after dating them for about a
month.

Was Scott’s month up already? I hadn’t thought they’d started
dating until after school started, so by my estimation he should have had
another two to three weeks before he got the ax, which I kind of thought that
was a shame because he was probably the most decent guy she had brought home in
a while. He didn’t have any holes in his face or any obvious physical markings
of a juvenile delinquent, so Dad didn’t seem to mind him when he came over for
dinner occasionally. Maybe that was it, though. Skylar was probably still
pissed off about having to hide her eyebrow piercing and thought she’d rebel by
not dating anyone our father would approve of.

But, no, that couldn’t be it because this guy appeared normal
enough. He was slouched at the far end of the couch. A kelly green
t-shirt stretched across hunched shoulders, and his seemingly endless long,
jean covered legs were sprawled in that careless guy way that girls could never
sit if they wanted to be considered respectable. His long fingers were twisting
together in front of him, as if they were searching for a way to keep busy.

The only thing that immediately stuck out about him was his
hair. It was so dark in contrast to his fair skin, but the sun shined through
the window just behind him and picked up the faintest hint of blue highlights.
On a girl, I would have immediately guessed it was dyed, but the messy, shaggy
I-don’t-feel-like-getting-a-hair-cut way he wore his hair made me almost
certain this guy could not possibly care less about styling, let alone dying,
his hair.

Though his head was tilted down, I could still see his high
cheekbones and, what I had heard described in books many times over as a,
chiseled jaw. Even without seeing his face full on, I knew he was hot, and I
was suddenly thankful for his apparent study of his black Chuck Taylor’s,
because I felt my face grow hot as I realized I’d been staring at him.

By Skylar’s standards that was probably considered bothersome. I
was torn between whether or not I should be polite and say hello or simply get
my book and flee. I was sure Skylar would prefer the latter, but it would
probably make me look even more freakish and incredibly rude, so as I strode
across the room and over to the magazine rack, I pasted a smile on my face and
said, “Hello.”

He jumped slightly, as if he hadn’t realized I was there, but he
covered it up quickly as he straightened in his seat, displaying a long torso
as well as an illustration of a Nintendo game cartridge with the words “Blow
Me” underneath on the front of his shirt. I bit back an amused smile.

“Hey,” he replied, as his eyes, an odd combination of browns,
greens and flecks of gold, flickered down to my hands. Then his full, pink
mouth spread into what could only be described as a breathtaking smile. “Is
that
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
?”

Like an idiot, I looked down at the book. It wasn’t as if I
really needed to check. I knew it was, but I was surprised he knew the book. I
looked back up and nodded.

“It’s a good book,” he commented.

“I know,” I replied. Then I wanted to open my mouth and insert
my foot.
I know?
What kind of answer was that? Now it sounded like I was
trying to be a smart aleck. I felt my face grow hot again and I tried not to
grimace at myself. I hated when Mom made those kinds of faces. She always
looked like she was constipated, and the last thing I wanted was for this hot
guy to think I needed to, but couldn’t, poop.

I took a deep breath and tried to redeem myself. “I mean, it is
a good book. I’ve read it a lot of times. It’s one of my favorites.”

The guy smiled, taking my breath away yet again. “Then I guess I
didn’t need to tell you it was good,” he replied. “I’m Jackson, by the way.”

“I’m Silly,” I said without thinking.

The confused look that crossed Jackson’s face made me realize he
probably thought I was saying, “I’m silly.” With a name like mine,
introductions could be awkward, so I quickly clarified, “It’s short for
Cecilia.”