The Pretty One (20 page)

“I think I've got it,” he says finally, taking the saw from me.

Another missed opportunity. Sheesh. “Be careful. That leg is kind of thick. It'll be a little harder to cut than the boards.”

Drew slowly begins sawing off a little piece of the leg with the miter saw.

“Ouch!” he yelps as the saw knicks his finger.

Oh crap. I've killed him.

“Are you okay?” I shriek as I see red trickling down the palm of his hand.

“It's nothing,” he says, wincing. “Just a little cut.”

I instinctively reach for his finger and put pressure on the wound, just like I've done for every single one of the freshman class. Even still, I'm borderline hysterical. “Maybe we should get you to a hospital!”

Drew laughs and leans his forehead against mine. This excites me in a way I never thought possible. “It's no big deal, Megan. You're pressing on my hand so hard you've definitely cut off my blood supply.”

I giggle, but the tone of it is anxious and worried.

Then Drew does something incredible. He kisses me softly on the forehead and says, “You're so sweet.”

It's funny. Even though I've shared my first kiss with Drew, and fantasized about having another one with him a million times afterward, this moment is far more intimate and thrilling than what we've already shared and what I've imagined might happen in the future. The reason why is because it's unscripted. There are no stage directions telling us what to do. There is just him and me, standing close to each other, looking into each others eyes, waiting for someone else to make a bold move.

And then someone does.

Drew clears his throat and takes a step back, but I'm still clinging to his hand for dear life. “I guess I should probably get going.”

“We should really clean this cut, though,” I hear myself say.

Why do I even bother talking?

“I have a first-aid kit in the car,” Drew says quickly and looks at his watch. His voice sounds warbly, like he's frightened of someone coming home and finding us there. “See you tomorrow,” he adds, before walking out the door.

When it closes behind him, I'm not so sure that I will.

         

Lucy arrives home nearly a half hour later and finds me in the backyard jumping rope. I have no idea why I'm doing this, considering that:

I haven't jumped rope in about a million years.

Our yard is pretty much just a cement slab the size of a postage stamp.

I can probably count the number of times I've actually been
in
our “backyard.”

As anyone who's ever jumped rope knows, after about two seconds you're ready to keel over from exhaustion.

Nevertheless, here I am, jumping rope with all the energy and enthusiasm of a fourth-grader. But I don't feel energized or enthused. The truth of the matter is that I have been suffering from severe anxiety ever since Drew left, and although I've felt anxious many times before, my usual solution (eating) just didn't appeal to me at the moment. Besides, we were out of Oreos. I checked.

“What are you doing?” Lucy looks surprised and horrified, as if she just found me drinking directly out of the milk container.

I continue to jump even though I'm so winded I'm having trouble exhaling. “Interpretive dance.”

Lucy shakes her head, not finding my joke the least bit funny. She glances from the backyard of one neighbor to the other, apparently concerned that someone might witness my insanity. And then she goes back inside.

I stop jumping rope and go after her. “Drew brought back your sweater,” I say nonchalantly while following Lucy into the kitchen.

At the mention of Drew, my sister's whole demeanor changes. Her sour expression morphs into one of sweetness and joy causing several of my internal organs to fail.

“Where is it?” she asks.

I point to the coffee table in the living room.

I'm kind of expecting Lucy to say something nasty about me having all my diorama crap on the table when I wasn't supposed to, but instead she picks up her sweater and hugs it to her chest.

“I can't believe he dropped it off. How incredibly sweet. It's like he was looking for an excuse to see me again.”

I stop still as my worst fear comes to life.

“So you guys had fun?” I force myself to ask, trailing behind Lucy as she practically skips up the stairs like Tinker Bell tiptoeing through a field of fairy dust. I spent an hour with Drew, but I didn't ask him a single thing about the play. The slight was intentional. I didn't want to ruin our time together.

“Fabulous,” Lucy says with a big sigh. “It was so romantic.”

“Romantic? Are you talking about Drew or the play?” I think about how he kissed me on the forehead and wonder if I'd imagined it.

Lucy laughs as she opens our closet, expertly holding her dollhouse in place with her high-heeled boot. I haven't seen her this happy since she was ten and the mall Santa told her she was the prettiest girl he had seen all day. “I was talking about the play,” she says. “But I have to say it was romantic being with Drew, too. He's so different than I imagined. He's sweet and funny…so easy to talk to. I had so much fun I didn't want to leave. At least I have Friday to look forward to.”

“Friday?” I say quietly, my heart suddenly cramped in my throat.

“Drew and I are going to Marybeth's party.”

WHAT? He asked my sister out
again
?

“You don't look so good,” Lucy says, uncharacteristically (at least for the past month) demonstrating some concern for my well-being. “You better lie down.”

My brain simply does not possess the capability to digest the information my sister had so excitedly presented. Drew, the guy who hates parties unless he has someone special to talk to, asked my sister to go to a party with him on Friday night. That tender forehead kiss was nothing but my overactive imagination looking for proof that Drew might actually like me.

I'm such a fool.

I take Lucy's advice and lie on the bed, throwing my arm over my eyes.

“What do you think of this top?”

I open one eye. Lucy is dancing around the room holding her bright purple cashmere sweater to her chest. “This and my new jeans.”

After I say what I used to tell Lucy all the time before the accident—“You'll look beautiful”—I put a pillow over my face so she won't see me cry through my nose.

twenty-one

climax (noun): the significant moment in the plot of a play, when things change or reach a crisis.

I haven't been to school in two days. My official reason for staying home is that I'm sick with the flu, and since both of my parents are out of town on business trips and my sister is not about to shove a thermometer in my mouth, it's an excuse I've gotten away with simply by not showering, neglecting to take my nasal spray (causing my nose to run like a faucet), and staying in bed. The real reason I'm staying home has nothing to do with my physical well-being and everything to do with my emotional state. Simply put: I can't deal.

“Too bad you're still sick,” Lucy says, walking into our room.

“Marybeth said you were invited, too.”

The aroma of Lucy's sweet-smelling perfume fills the air as she sits on the edge of my bed and puts her hand on my forehead, her bracelets jingling as she moves. Lucy has spent the past forty-five minutes getting ready for school and looks as if she just stepped out of a fashion shoot. She is wearing a bright-red low-cut, skintight top; black jeans; and the same high-heeled boots she wore on her date to the play. “You don't have a temperature.”

“I still feel sick, though.” I pull out two tissues and wipe the snot off my face for emphasis. There is no way I'm going to Marybeth's. The whole reason I'm staying home from school is so I don't have to see Drew.

“Do you need anything?” she asks.

On my first day of claiming to be sick, my sister practically ignored me. On the second day, she began to pay me a little bit of attention, grudgingly bringing me soup and ginger ale in bed. Even though I feel a little guilty about having her wait on me when I'm not really sick, a part of me is enjoying it. It is a restoration of the natural order of the world, the way things are supposed to be. I'm Lucy's little sister. It's her job to look out for my best interests and take care of me.

“More ginger ale,” I say, as I crumple the tissues into a ball and shoot it toward the trash. I miss the basket by a solid foot but my sister pretends not to notice.

“You finished it off last night,” Lucy says, standing. “I'll pick some up on my way home from school. I don't have practice today because Russell is going to New York this weekend and he's leaving early.” She stops in the doorway. “If you want me to stay home with you tonight, I will.”

Lucy is willing to miss her date with Drew for me? After weeks of acting like she couldn't stand to be around me, the generosity of her offer is surprising and astounding, not to mention tempting. “No,” I say finally. “You should go.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

I rub my forehead in an attempt to stop the sudden pounding inside my head. I'm doing the right thing, right? I can't ask her to stay home just because I don't want her getting her grubby paws on the guy I thought for a split second might be…mine. Or can I?

“Yes, of course,” I manage. Once again I have an urge to tell Lucy the truth, that I'm so in love with Drew that the thought of her alone with him makes me feel physically sick, but instead I say, “What time is he picking you up?”

“I don't know,” she says. “I think we're meeting there.”

I'm relieved. I had actually planned on locking the bedroom door, putting on my iPod, and hiding under the covers if Drew came by to get Lucy.

After my sister leaves for school, I check my e-mail. I have been hoping that Simon might contact me just to ask how I'm feeling, or maybe just to tell me that he's reconsidered his ultimatum. But there's nothing. In the past few days I've pretty much alternated from feeling furious (why did he even give me an ultimatum and how come he didn't feel this way about me before my accident) to sad (what am I going to do without my best friend?). The truth of the matter is that I really
need
Simon right now. And I do not appreciate him bagging out on me in the middle of my crisis.

For the umpteenth time I attempt to write him an e-mail.

Dear Simon,

I think this is really unfair.

Scratch that. After all, it's not like he dumped me out of the blue because he couldn't stand the sight of me anymore. He dumped me because he cared about me more than I cared about him. Well, maybe not more, but in a different way. Perhaps I needed to show him some compassion. Especially since I of all people understand what it's like to care about someone who doesn't feel the same way about you.

Dear Simon,

I really do love you. But I just don't think we're meant for

I stop. How can I tell my best friend that I'm not attracted to him? And why did he have to go and get attracted to me in the first place?

Dear Simon,

I find it very interesting that you were never ever interested in meromantically before my accident and now, a little more than a month after you first saw me with my new face, you have given me an ultimatum, i.e.: If I don't go out with you, you will have nothing more to do with me. Well, let me tell you that…

Suddenly, my computer dings and I see I have a message—from Drew. My hands begin to shake. I click on his name and his message fills the screen.

Lucy says you're still sick. What's wrong?

I don't answer him. I can't. Just him inquiring about my health is enough to make my heart ache all over again. No matter how hard I try, I can't figure out how he could have asked my sister out on a date and then come over here and act as if nothing had transpired between him and Lucy at all.

I'm in bed (still wearing my pajamas) when Lucy gets home at four. I finished my Captain Ahab diorama yesterday and although I've had more than enough time to catch up on my schoolwork this afternoon, I haven't done anything expect try on my once too-snug jeans to see if my Lucy diet is working (it is) and watch TV.

“You don't look so good,” she says. “Maybe you should go to the doctor.”

“I'm fine,” I say, blowing my nose again.

“Are you sure you don't want me to stay home with you?”

“I'm sure.”

Lucy fluffs my pillows and sits on the bed with me and watches MTV. In spite of everything, it feels good to be with her. We used to hang out all the time, and it's nice to experience something familiar after all these weeks of strangeness.

My sister seems to feel the same way and even kisses my forehead before she goes into the bathroom to get ready for her party. She comes out with her hair sleek and silky and wearing a cream-colored off-the-shoulders shirt and her dry-clean-only jeans. Lucy always looks good, but tonight she looks especially drop-dead gorgeous.

“Well?” she asks, giving me a little spin. “Do you think this will be enough to get me an invitation to the fall festival?”

Instead of responding, I blow my nose and nod.

         

I'm watching
Trauma: Life in the ER
and a doctor is just about to pull a live insect out of a woman's scalp when the doorbell rings. Because it's nearly eight o'clock and has been dark for over an hour, I grab the baseball bat my dad keeps behind his bedroom door just in case he has to whack any intruders. I remember what he has always said when Lucy and I have had to stay home alone: NEVER EVER OPEN THE DOOR FOR SOMEONE YOU DON'T KNOW.

But it's not a stranger waiting outside the door. It's Drew. Once again my heart feels as though it's about to explode.

I put down the bat and open the door. Drew's wearing his leather bomber jacket with a black T-shirt and jeans that are fraying around the pockets. His thick black hair looks as if he combed it with his fingers, and he's holding a bouquet of daises in his hand. “In the mood for some baseball?” he jokes, nodding toward the bat.

I glance at the flowers and swallow hard when I realize that these are for my sister. I have spent a lot of time over the past few days imagining what I'd say to Drew when I finally saw him again. Right now I'm torn between “What's your deal, anyway?” and “What kind of games are you playing?” But it comes out:

“Lucy's already at the party.”

Drew's grin is the same as the one he flashed in the car on the way to the comic book store—he knows something I don't again.

“I stopped by to see you,” Drew says, holding up the flowers.

I look at the bouquet and then back at him. “Those are for
me
?”

He nods. “Can I come in? I won't stay long.”

“Okay,” I squeak, pushing the door open. I suddenly realize I'm wearing the same hoodie I've had on for the past few days and I'm still in my gross pajamas, the ones I got for Christmas two years ago that have little monkeys eating bananas all over them and a hole in the butt. I haven't showered or brushed my hair or teeth in three days, either.

“I'll be right back.” Holding on to the butt of my pajamas, I turn and race upstairs. I throw on jeans and a T-shirt and pull my hair back in a ponytail. I flick on some mascara and brush my teeth until they're sparkling.

When I get back downstairs, Drew is sitting on the couch, holding my daisies and watching me walk toward him. Although neither of us say anything, I can feel this electricity charging the air. I know I'm not imagining it, because Drew stands up and looks at me with such intensity that I can almost predict what he's going to do next.

“Do you have a vase?” he asks.

Okay. Didn't predict that.

“Sure,” I say as I turn and walk into the kitchen. Drew follows close behind. I reach under the sink and pull out one of Mom's big crystal vases. I'm about to take the daisies from him when I notice that he's staring at my nose.

“Do you have the flu or something?”

I instinctively lick the top of my lip and realize that it's wet. Damn. “No,” I say quickly, grabbing a tissue off the table. “I just didn't take my nose spray.” I rush upstairs and give myself a double dose. Fortunately, it works almost immediately and lasts for almost twelve hours.

By the time I get back to the kitchen, Drew has already filled the vase with water and put the flowers inside.

“All better,” I say, pointing to my now wiped-so-clean-it's-red nose. We stare at each other and the electricity finds us once again. I glance from his eyes to his lips and feel my body trembling. “Thanks for the flowers. I love yellow. It's my favorite color.”

Drew takes a couple steps toward me, reaches out, and runs his hand down my arm lightly. “You're welcome.”

I grab on to the back of the chair to hold myself up.

He must misread this reaction of mine because he backs off and shifts gears on me. “So…how's that diorama coming?”

I don't answer him. I'm too busy thinking about what a miracle it is that he's here
and
that he brought me yellow flowers. What happened to his big plans with my sister?

“The one you were working on the other day. Remember? I almost cut off my finger,” he teases, holding up his hand and pointing to a Big Bird Band-Aid.

“How could I forget,” I say, instinctually reaching out to touch it. The minute our fingers make contact a charge rips through me. But there's this worried look in his eyes and I'm scared that I'm not misreading it. “Aren't you supposed to be at a party with Lucy?” I ask, stepping away from him.

“No. I mean, I told her I might stop by, but that's it.” Wait, he didn't ask my sister out on a date? Why did Lucy tell me he did? Then something awful dawns on me. Perhaps she intentionally lied about Drew asking her out so she could keep me away from him. As terrible as that sounds, at the moment, none of it really seems to matter. I feel as if a major load has been taken off my shoulders.
Drew didn't ask Lucy out! Drew is here with ME!

“Anyway, when Bill told me you were sick, I decided to come over and check up on you.”

“Bill? Bill who?”

“Bill Williams. He's a sophomore.”

“I've never even met him. How would he know I was sick?”

“When the prettiest girl in school is sick,” Drew says, “people notice.”

“That's what he said?” I ask as my face grows warm.

“No. I did.”

My face burst into flames as I give him a little grin and stare at my feet.

“So are you hungry?” he asks. “I can make you dinner if you'd like.”

“
You
cook?” I can't exactly envision Drew in an apron, stirring a steaming kettle on a hot stove.

“Well, I can make ratatouille,” Drew says, taking my hand.

My breath catches in my throat. Even though I kind of feel like I did when I was in the finals of the fifth-grade spelling bee and was asked to spell myrrh, I'm determined not to let my fear get the best of me, like I did before.

“Do you like ratatouille?”

I am looking at my hand in his and about to melt onto the linoleum. “I hate it,” I whisper almost seductively.

Drew laughs. “I'll just have to make something else. Anything you want.”

As if holding on to my hand wasn't enough to make me faint, he pulls me in closer so I'm standing only inches away from him. I'm so startled by this that I blurt out the word
spaghetti.

Ugh. Every toddler's favorite food.

But Drew doesn't care. “Spaghetti it is,” he says, and then he kisses my hand.

My heart stops beating and my head is spinning. Drew puts my hand to his cheek and his skin is incredibly warm. He leans in and I'm totally paralyzed, but with sheer joy, not fear. It's as though everything up until this moment in time has been scripted to a fault, and with one improvised action, the story will need a different ending.

Megan Fletcher, ugly duckling techie turned beautiful swan actress, will ride off into the sunset with the hero.

Drew gently presses his lips to mine, kissing me softly and slowly. My pulse is racing when he sticks his tongue in my mouth just a little bit. Before now, I would've thought that touching someone else's tongue with mine was right up there with scraping the gum off from underneath my desk and sticking it in my mouth, but it's not that at all. It feels…unbelievable. In fact, I want to swallow him whole. Drew's kiss is getting hungrier, too. My chest is pressed up against his and his hands are going up the back of my T-shirt. Then they travel south toward my rear when I hear it.