The Pretty One (14 page)

“So what. He's still thick about other things.”

“Well, what do I say then?”

“How about no thanks, not interested. Sayonara.” Simon has turned his napkin into a little paper hat.

“I'll try,” I say weakly.

“Jesus, Megan,” Simon says, throwing down the hat in frustration. “You have to learn how to say
no
. Unless, of course, you don't want to.” He shakes his head and crosses his arms as he leans back in his chair. “I'm beginning to think you got a little more than just Lucy's nose.”

I feel as if he just slapped me. “What's
that
supposed to mean?”

“It means you've never been a girly girl. That's what's so great about you. You're just you. But you're beginning to act like Lucy with all this so-many-men-so-little-time stuff.”

“I don't think Lucy has ever been like that. She's always had a lot of guys who liked her, but, still—”

“And now you're the one with the guys,” he interrupts.

“Like
who
? George?”

“All the guys notice you now, Megan. Don't pretend that
you
don't notice
them
.”

“Yes, I notice them, but I haven't figured out what to do with them yet. What am I supposed to do? I'm still the same inside, but it's like everyone around me has turned into aliens.” I yank my napkin to my mouth and spit out the chemicals I just consumed while I was chomping on my nail.

But Simon doesn't say anything. He just sighs and looks away.

fifteen

antagonist (noun): the adversary of the hero or protagonist of a drama.

After all the recent hubbub, I can really use some peace and quiet. Since Mom has to work (even though it's Sunday), Dad is out of town, and Lucy is not her usual chatty self, it is quiet. Very quiet. At least until I get an e-mail from George.

From: George Longwell
Subject: Thursday

Hi B-utiful,

Had a blast on Fri. Want 2 see usoon. Maybe Thurs? Dinner? G

“Oh God,” I mutter under my breath.

“What?” Lucy asks. It's her night to make dinner and she has just returned from picking up some ingredients at the store. She leans over my shoulder to read George's e-mail.

“I don't understand this,” I say. “Why would he want to see me again? We had a terrible time.”

“I told you he likes you. He wants to give you another chance.”

“Ugh,” I say.

“So tell him you're not interested. End of subject. Otherwise it's like you're leading him on, playing hard to get. And not only is that mean, it will just make him want you more.”

“What am I supposed to say: I don't know you and I don't want to get to know you?”

“Of course not.” My sister rolls her eyes as she picks up her brush and begins running it through her hair. Lucy is the only person I know who brushes her hair for no reason whatsoever.

“How many times do I have to tell you this? You have to be diplomatic or else everyone is going to hate you. You can't keep acting like you're the same old ugly duckling, because you're not. You have to be extra special nice.”

“Extra special?”
I say, looking at my reflection in the mirror on the vanity.

“All I'm saying is that like it or not, you have something all these people want. And if you don't want them to hate you, you're going to have to turn on the charm.”

Lucy is making this all sound so easy, but I know for a fact it's not. I know this because one time Marla Cooper, the prettiest girl in seventh grade, was totally nice to me one day and I found out later it was only because she wanted to copy my math homework. Everyone who looks like I used to look has a million stories like that and views people who look like how I now look with distrust bordering on disdain. And besides, as informative as all this is (not), it's doesn't help me with the task at hand. “So what do I tell George?”

“I don't know.” Lucy puts down the brush. “But you'll have to think of something. By the way, I got you a box of chocolate-covered doughnuts.”

What? Why would Lucy pick me up a box of doughnuts when we weren't exactly getting along? Not only that, this was like the fifth box of doughnuts she had bought me in the past month. Either the doughnuts were a peace offering or…or…

“Are you trying to make me fat?” I joke. But my question sounds more angry than funny.

Lucy looks at me, stunned. “You are
such
a psycho.”

“I was only kidding.”

“Don't worry about it!” she yells, as she stomps down the steps. “I'll just throw them out.”

The kitchen is directly under our bedroom and I can hear some cupboard doors slam and then the TV turning on. I know I didn't handle the whole doughnut thing all that well, but in my defense, it is a little weird—she never bought me doughnuts until recently. So I pick up the phone and dial my mom's number, anxious to get her advice on how to apologize to Lucy. My mom doesn't pick up and I hang up rather than leave a message. I decide that it's in my best interest to give my sister a little time to cool down, so I slip on my black hoodie and go back upstairs. As I walk into my room I catch sight of my reflection in the vanity mirror. Why am I acting all wishy-washy about this George thing? I didn't look like the type of girl who needed help with her love life. I looked like the type of girl who should be hanging out with the Marla Coopers of the world, not doing their math homework. I focus my attention back on my computer, determined to deal with the George thing once and for all.

To: George Longwell

Subject: Re: Thursday

Dear George,

You are a really, REALLY great guy. But I'm sorry—I can't make it on Thursday night.

All best, Megan

I press Send and the message flashes off my screen. Totally relieved, I sit down on my bed and pick up
Moby
. But seconds later, I see I have a new message.

From: George Longwell

Subject: Re: Thursday

Sorry B. forgot u r busy. Friday or Saturday. Take your pick.

G

Now what am I supposed to do? How can I get out of this without hurting his feelings?

I type a quick response:

Dear George,

Thanks, but I can't.

Megan

But I don't send it. I really want to get Lucy's take on this whole thing and if that means I have to eat humble pie, so be it. All this turmoil is giving me angina.

Lucy is sitting on the couch with her arms crossed angrily in front of her, obviously still fuming. I take one look at the giant frown on her face and realize she's in no mood for a sisterly hug out.

“What are you making for dinner?” I ask.

“You're on your own,” she says, not even looking at me.

I want to ask her what she planned on making, thinking that if she isn't going to make it, maybe I will. “Thanks for the doughnuts,” I say instead.

“I threw them out,” she says.

I go into the kitchen and open the cupboard where we keep our trash. The doughnuts are there, right on top, never been opened, still perfectly good. I take them out of the trash and open the box. I put two doughnuts on a napkin and climb back up the stairs. I sit in front of my computer, take a bite of doughnut, and press Send. I don't need my sister's advice. I have a game plan. I will avoid George until he forgets about me.

         

I manage to avoid him all the next day, right up until 3:25 p.m., when (in my hurry to get to my first play practice) I accidentally turn down the hall where he has his locker and sure enough, he's right there, pretty much smack in front of me. I do an immediate (and obvious) U-turn. I see Catherine, and even though I'm in a total rush I go out of my way to say hello to her, but instead of saying hello back, she looks straight at me and kind of smirks as she walks away.

Excuse me? What was
that
? Although we weren't friends before my accident, we were definitely friendly. We have been in almost all of the same classes since freshman year.

But I don't have time to ponder my nonrelationship with Catherine. I glance over my shoulder and see that George is following me. Crap! I pick up my pace, practically running.

“Hey, Drew!” I burst into the classroom and slam the door shut with my foot.

“What's going on?” he asks, obviously startled by my grand entrance.

“Nothing,” I say, as casually as I possibly can. I keep my back to the door as I unzip my backpack. Drew looks over my shoulder toward the window on the door and gives someone a nod.

“I think he's leaving,” he says, his eyes shifting back to me.

“Who?” I ask innocently.

“Your boyfriend.”

“He's not my boyfriend!” I practically shriek.

Drew raises his eyebrows.

“We're just…friends,” I say carefully.

“Okay,” he says as he looks back at his script.

Oh great. What a way to start my first play practice. This isn't exactly what I had in mind. What I had in mind was proving to him (and myself) that my looks were inconsequential. In other words, I was the best actress for this role. I turn back toward my backpack and pull out my script. George's voice floats through the room:
“Oh, it's time to start living, time to take a little from this world we're given!”

“Pippin,”
Drew says quietly.

I turn around to face him. “What?”

“That song he's singing. It's from
Pippin,
the musical we did last year.”

“I've never wondered if I was afraid when there was a challenge to take…”

“He's singing kind of loud,” I say. “Do you think he's trying to impress you so you'll give him a good part in the musical?”

Drew rolls his eyes and laughs. “Man. He cornered me in the hall yesterday. He told me about this song he liked and he started singing it. He's like two feet in front of me and he's belting out this song. I could see right up his nose. I didn't know where to look.” He's smiling, sort of to himself.

“I saw him singing to Michelle Berkowitz last year.” I shrug, playing it cool. “At the time I thought it was really sweet, but…”

“She's a friend of mine. She was mortified when he did that. She didn't want to go with him but everyone was watching and she was too embarrassed to say no.”

“I know the feeling,” I reply.

Drew's lips curl upward as if…what? Is he relieved to find out that I'm not interested in George? Or am I just imagining that he looks relieved?

“He means well though,” he says, glancing back at his script. The smile or whatever it was is gone and his face is once again unreadable. He looks like he did the first time I saw him: mysterious, emotionally distant, and totally smart.

And just like that, I forget all about George. I'm now thinking:
I am at play practice with Drew Reynolds! The door is closed and we have a script that calls for a lot of kissing!

I swallow as my hands start to shake and my knees start to wobble.

“Take a seat anywhere.” Drew is still focusing on the script. “I thought we'd begin by running the lines.”

I settle into the chair nearest my rear end. My hands are shaking too badly to hold my script, so I place it on the desk and keep my hands in my lap where I clasp and unclasp them in rapid motion as I begin to read. I'm so nervous that I actually stutter, something I haven't done in years. Fortunately, the cool reserve Drew displayed only moments earlier evaporates as he adapts the patience and warmth of Mr. Rogers. After a while I start to relax. By the end, I'm even holding my script in my hands. It's easy to see why he was chosen to be the director of the spring musical. He's great. I wish I could say the same thing about me.

“Very good,” Drew says when we're done. And then he smiles at me.

My heart must be having some sort of spasm because I can barely breath. I quickly set the script back on the desk.

Drew runs a hand through his hair. “I think you've got a good grip on your character.”

He doesn't even know the half of it.

Suddenly, Drew unzips his backpack and starts gathering his things. This can all mean only one thing: Practice is over. Right now, I'm wishing I could fly around the earth like Superman and rewind time, just so I could stay with Drew a little longer.

Speaking of superheros, the theme from
Batman
emanates through the room. “My phone,” Drew says, yanking it out of his backpack. “Hello?”

In a halfhearted effort to give him some privacy, I unzip my backpack and stuff my script inside, trying hard not to act like I'm listening to his every word, which, of course, I am.

“I'm finished now. All right,” he says, checking his watch. “I'll be there as soon as I can. Give me an hour or so.”

I turn back toward him as he flips his cell shut. I want to ask him who it was and where he's going to be in an hour but instead I say, “You like
Batman
?”

“'Fraid so,” he says bashfully.

“That's a techie thing.” Drew looks a little confused so I explain. “Lots of techies are into
Batman
.”

“Really? I've got every
Batman
thing you can imagine. Everything but the Bat Alphabet Soup Container.”

I laugh. “The what?”

“Nothing. Inside joke between us…
Batman
geeks.”

Uh-oh. Does he think I was criticizing him for liking
Batman
? “You're not a geek.”

Drew gives me sort of a sexy half smile and I almost lose consciousness.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You're all flushed.”

“I can draw Batman,” I blurt as I try to steady myself.

“You can?”

I can't help but wince. Did I just brag about my
Batman
drawing skills?

“I took an illustration class and we studied some of the comic artists. My teacher said Breyfogle was the best Batman artist ever.”

Drew's eyes open wide in surprise and his mouth falls open. “You know who Norm Breyfogle is? I love Breyfogle!” he practically shouts. I think it's the loudest I've ever heard him say anything. Then Drew checks his watch. “Crap, I gotta go. My stepdad is working late and my mom needs me to pick up some milk for the girls on my way home.”

“The girls?”

“I have two little sisters. Cindy is two and Fergie is four. Believe me, I'd rather be here talking about Batman with you than at the grocery store.”

“Me too,” I say. And then I smile from ear to ear.