The Pretty One (8 page)

“I'm sick of talking about my face.” I push my drink away from me. “Let's talk about something else. Tell me about band camp.”

This year they didn't allow the campers to send e-mails, so Simon could only communicate by snail mail. To make matters worse, I had barely spoken to him while he was at his dad's. I had hoped to catch up at lunch, but with all the people stopping by to gawk, we never really got a chance.

“It was all right,” he replies.

“All right?” I repeat. I can tell from the way Simon is shifting his eyes that all right means fantastic, which means some physical activity involving a member of the opposite sex. “In your letters you said you were having a great time.”

“I guess.”

I lean over the table and grin as I whisper, “What's the story that you wanted to tell me?”

“What story?”

“When you wrote this summer you told me you had a wild story for me, but that you had to tell me in person.”

“Oh,” he says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “It was nothing.”

Okay, if he wants me to twist his arm a little, I'm more than happy to comply. “Does it have to do with Susan?” Susan was the girl he had hooked up with the previous year.

“She's nothing,” Simon says defensively. “Just a friend.”

The little twerp is lying to me. But why? I pick up a fork and poke him in the wrist. “Did you guys hook up again?” I ask, determined.

“I told you, we're just friends.”

“So you mean you didn't hook up?”

“I mean we're not seeing each other or anything like that. We're both, well, single.” Simon is looking at me in a way that makes me feel as if my bra strap is showing. The truth of the matter is Simon has been acting weird all day.

“It's amazing,” he says. “It's like a whole different you. Does it feel that way, too?”

“Yes and no,” I say with a shrug. “I felt different at the club the other night, that's for sure.”

“I remember when I came to see you in the hospital, right after…
it
happened. Your face was all puffy and swollen and you had stitches all over and I thought that, well, I didn't think they'd ever be able to fix you. And here you are.
Tu sembles parfaite
.”

“What?” I ask, even though I have taken enough French to translate. What I really mean is, Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?

“You look perfect,” he says softly.

I crunch down on something hard and vaguely familiar. With horror, I realize that I've bitten off part of my thumbnail.

eight

director (noun): the person responsible for the interpretive aspects of a stage, film, or television production.

On Wednesday I stay after school to talk to my pre-calc teacher, Mrs. Pritchie. Students weren't allowed to take pre-calc unless they achieved a B or higher in Algebra 2 and even though I had finished the textbook with my tutor, Mrs. Pritchie is concerned I might not be able to keep up with the class and has loaned me a tutoring book in case I need it.

I finish tucking
Tutoring for Precalculus
into my backpack and I'm standing at my locker, staring at the sign and trying to make out the two signatures that are smeared together on the bottom, when I hear a familiar voice say hello. My blood pressure suddenly spikes because I know who it is before I turn around.

Drew.

We don't have a class together this semester, so we've not really spoken besides an occasional hello in the halls. I have however, learned two key details:

He and Lindsey broke up over the summer.

He spent his summer working as a counselor at a camp for the arts. (Not exactly key, but I'm always happy to get any details on Drew, no matter how trivial.)

I'm so nervous standing so close to him after all this time that I step back up against my open locker, nearly toppling inside.

“Hi,” I reply, grabbing onto the edges of my locker and pulling myself upright.

“Are you coming out or going in?” he asks, nodding toward my locker.

“What?” I ask.

“Narnia. You know, the magical door that leads to the other world. My guess is you were coming out.”

Drew is making a Narnia reference? I had no idea something this dorky would make him even hotter. “Ha, ha,” I say stiffly. “I loved that movie, too.”

He brushes a lock of his thick hair out of his eyes. “Oh yeah, I heard there was a movie. I'll bet it wasn't as good as the books though.”

My smile fades away. I suddenly feel the need to say something really, really smart. I think of Albert Einstein and for some reason I think of his closet, which I once read was filled with set after set of the same shirts and the same pants.

“I've been meaning to see it, though,” he adds quickly, for what I'm hoping is my benefit. “So what are you doing here so late?”

How do I weave Albert Einstein's clothes into that? Suddenly, I can't remember what he just said. And so I say “What?,” which I don't think helps me seem more intellectual.

“You're here late. I was asking why.”

Oh yeah.

“I had a meeting with Mrs. Pritchie. Even though I took precal with my tutor, she's worried that I won't be able to keep up with the class.” Um, hello? Did I really need to share that tidbit? What happened to sounding intelligent?

“I see,” he says politely.

I glance back at my locker, not trusting myself to speak.

“Nice,” he says, nodding toward my sister's sign. The tone of his voice is hard to read and I can't tell whether he's being sarcastic or complimentary. I wouldn't blame him for being sarcastic. The sign
is
a little stupid. I only left it up because I'm not sure what to replace it with. Last year I coated the inside of my locker with pictures of me and Simon and Lucy, but it seemed weird to put them back up when I don't look anything like that anymore.

Drew leans up against the locker next to me, as if he's planning on staying a while. This is strange. Didn't Lucy say a long time ago that he “didn't let anyone get close to him” and that he “kept to himself”? Maybe Drew has changed since last year. Not like I have of course, but still. I'm curious.

“I haven't had a chance to talk to you since you came back. How has everything been going for you?”

“Okay, I guess.”

Drew kind of raises his eyebrows like he (a) doesn't quite believe me or (b) he wants me to elaborate. In either case, I intend to deliver. “Actually, not really. Things have been really weird.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Everyone says hello to me now.”

“And they didn't before?”

“I'd say the number of friendly hellos has increased about ninety-five percent.”

“Wild. You're quite the celebrity.”

Did I just imply that I think I'm a celebrity? “No, no,” I say quickly, forcing myself to look away from his eyes. “It's not just the hellos. Everything seems, well, different. I don't know. Maybe it's just my imagination.”

“I doubt it,” he says. “The accident, the surgery, missing all that school. That's a ton.”

Wow. Ever since I got back to CSPA, everyone has been telling me how different I look with my new face and body and how happy I must be about how everything turned out. Drew is the first person who seems to get how overwhelming this situation is. This settles it. There is a definite, almost otherworldly connection between us. In other words, we're meant for each other. It's kismet.

Then suddenly Drew does something familiar. He averts his gaze and glances down at his beat-up black boots. I follow suit, looking at them, too. His feet must have stopped growing a long time ago because I'm pretty sure his boots are the same pair he was wearing at the beginning of last year. I recognize some of the scuffs.

“I guess I should get going,” he says finally, a hint of awkwardness in his voice. “It's nice to have you back.”

Drew takes a few steps away from me without saying another word, like he's trying to keep his distance.

What? He's leaving? Already?

I slam my locker and hurry to catch up with him. “So I hear you got into the senior independent study. That's great. What's your play about?”

“It's called
The End,
” he says, as we walk down the marble staircase. I look at his hand grasping the polished wooden banister and wonder how it would feel to hold it. “It's a pretty simple one act about a guy who's breaking up with a girl. At least, he's trying to.”

“Sounds interesting,” I say. Quite frankly, he could've told me it was about a girl feeding her dog and I would've said the same thing.

“It's not really about a breakup. It's more about how sometimes we don't see people for who they really are until it's too late.”

“Wow,” I say. Wow? Did I just say
wow
? Smart, Megan. Think smart! “Sounds good!” Ugh. Just as bad as wow. I am only hoping it doesn't get worse, that I don't suddenly start picking my nose or yodeling.

Drew gets to the door first and holds it open for me, just like Simon did the previous day. Only this time, instead of being annoyed, I'm flattered. As I walk past him, my arm brushes up against his chest and a tingle runs down my spine.

“I haven't forgotten that you still owe me an audition,” he says, after the door slams shut behind us.

He remembered. Almost one year after the fact and he still remembered that he had asked me to audition. Once again: kismet.

“Are you up for it?” he asks.

“Auditioning? You mean for your play? For your independent study?”

He nods, but his eyes keep darting around like he's distracted.

“Yes,” I say, a little too enthusiastically.

“Great. We're holding auditions next week.”

“Yeah, okay.” I follow him down the steps. It rained earlier and the marble is still slick and wet.

“Are you parked around here?” he asks.

“No. We live a couple blocks away.”

“That's right. I forgot. I drove Lucy home one day last year.”

Silence.

The corner where we will part ways is quickly approaching. He will go to the left (toward the parking garage) and I will go to the right (toward my house). I have about 200 seconds left to wow him with my sparkling conversation—199 seconds…198 seconds. Think. What were Lucy's instructions again? Question…tease, touch! What's a good question? Why can't I think of a good question? 195 seconds. 194…

“I wish I lived around here,” he says. “Towson's a hike.”

I forget all about asking a brilliant question as Drew grins at me. Even though I'm so excited to be with him that my heart is banging a million miles a minute, there's something about his smile that makes me feel relaxed and happy at the same time.

“Whenever my mom can't find a parking spot she talks about moving to suburbia,” I say. “But I think she's afraid that all the women out there wear Lilly Pulitzer and spend their time squeezing melons at the grocery store.”

“What does she have against melons?”

I laugh. “She's always been antimelon. She's in therapy, but it doesn't seem to help.”

His grin turns into a smile, enough to give me another tickle in the base of my belly. We're at the corner. Our time together is over.

“Well,” Drew says. “I guess I'll see you around.”

“Sounds good!” Once again, I'm displaying extraordinary enthusiasm. Sheesh, I'm pathetic.

Still, as I watch Drew walk up the street toward the parking garage, I realize that this is the first time since my accident that I'm also happy.

         

When I get home I practically bound up the stairs and into our bedroom, looking for Lucy. She's sitting on her bed, a manuscript in her lap. She has changed out of her school clothes and into her study-at-home ones, a pink Juicy sweat suit. Her long blond hair is twisted back in a bun, held in place by a pencil.

“How was your meeting with Mrs. Pritchie?” she asks.

“Fine,” I say excitedly. “But guess who I saw after school? Drew Reynolds!”

“Drew?” Lucy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh my God, that's so funny! I was just talking to Annie about him. Did he tell you the good news?”

Annie Carmichael is one of my sister's closest friends, but I can't really stand her. Not only is she a notorious gossip, she dyes her hair platinum blond, wears a ton of makeup, and talks in this really fake, baby doll voice. I shake my head as I continue to practically dance around the room.

“Annie overheard Mrs. Habersham saying that he's been chosen to direct the spring musical.”

I stop still. Mrs. Habersham is the head of the drama department. Considering Lucy's rep for dating the directors of the spring musical, this is not good news. Not good at all.

“Drew?” I ask weakly, hoping and praying that she'll say something like:
Drew? You thought I was talking about Drew? Hah! That's a laugh!

“He's so talented,” she says, looking all starry and goo-goo eyed, the way I used to get around Frosted Flakes.

“He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who should be directing the spring musical.” Read: He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who should be going out with
you
. “All the past directors have been so…” I think about Lucy's previous spring musical director boyfriends, Tommy Calvino, Warren Masters. “Preppy.”

“Well, he's not preppy, that's for sure,” Lucy says with a laugh. “But he's got…I don't know…charisma. And he's a lot less stuck-up and antisocial than last year.”

I breathe in deep. Maybe it's not as dire as I think. After all, she's not talking like someone who has just found the man of her dreams.

“I'm reading his one act right now.”

I look excitedly at the manuscript in her lap. “Is it good?” I take a seat next to her and rest my head on her shoulder in order to get a better look.

“Amazing. The part of the heroine is incredibly juicy. And guess what?” she says, putting down the manuscript and raising her eyebrows at me. “Annie told me that he wrote the part of the heroine for me.”

Say what?

I pick my head up off her shoulder. “For you?”

“I know,” she says with a smile. “Isn't that cool? I'm totally psyched. I've never actually had someone write for me before.”

I scoot a little farther away from her. “How many parts are there?”

“Just two,” she replies. “A boy and a girl.”

Wait, if there is only one girl, and Drew wrote the part for Lucy, why did he ask me to audition?

“Are you chewing your thumb again?” she asks, her brow furrowed.

I whip my thumb out of my mouth and look at it as if I've never seen it before in my life. Oh crap. “No,” I say weakly.

“Megan! It's such a nasty habit,” Lucy says, focusing her attention back on her script. “And you didn't do it for almost a whole year. You can't start up again.”

I tuck my hand under my rear end and say, “Are you sure he wrote the part for you?”

Lucy looks at me. “What do you mean?”

I stand up and kick off my shoes. “I was just…curious.”

“Well, that's what Annie says.”

Annie, Annie, Annie. She is really beginning to get on my nerves.

“She and Drew carpool sometimes,” Lucy continues. “She said she thinks Drew likes me.”

My heart drops into my belly.
Drew?
My Drew likes
Lucy
?

No, no, no, no!

“Surprising, isn't it?” Lucy continues. “He's so quiet and standoffish. I mean, I always thought he was really cute, and of course everyone always talks about how talented he is and everything, and then today, I was looking at him and I couldn't take my eyes off his chin.”

“His chin?”

“It's so well defined, so strong. It's quite unusual.”

I summon up a visual of Drew. Lucy's right. He does have a very nice chin. But the fact that she is zeroing in on this tiny detail is totally disconcerting. It can only mean one thing: Lucy is in love with my future husband.

“What about that guy from the club?” I ask. “Pouffy. He's so, so cute! And he seemed to really like you.”

“Pouffy?” she repeats, like she has no idea who I'm talking about.

“The guy who was sitting next to you, the one who e-mailed you the next day…”

“Alex?” she asks, like
you've got to be joking.
“Those guys were cute, but they were totally GU,” Lucy says, using her acronym for geographically undesirable. “I think they lived in Hunt Valley. And besides, they were no Drew Reynolds.”