“Why?”
“Um … because I’m a human being with a pulse?” My ass plops down to his bed. Doubt and disappointment creep up on me. First my family and now my best friend, too? Why is everyone trying to guilt me into regretting this?
“Dude,” he says, coming over to sit beside me. “Sorry, I’m just not sure what to say. Congratulations?”
“Forget it.”
“Oh, come on. If this is what you wanted, I’m happy for you.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
He snorts. This time it’s more genuine. I think. “I’m just confused,” he says. “My best friend looks like a totally different person.”
I sigh. He’s right. And I think I get it. I just need to give those closest to me some time. How would I react if I were in Alan’s shoes? Besides, there’s a big difference between it happened to me and it happened to my friend or son or brother. Eventually, though, he’s going to have to accept and support me. Because there’s no going back.
“Well, this is me now,” I say.
Alan nods. “This is you now.”
“Yup.”
“Does Lauren know?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m the first friend you told? I’m flattered.”
“You should be.”
For a moment, we sit in silence. Alan clears his throat. “So,” he says, “do you have a giant schlong now, too?”
My lips tug upward.
“You do! Let me see!”
I snort. “No!”
We both laugh, and I let the relief wash over me. After a moment, when I glance at him, I see he’s still smiling, but his hands are clenching and unclenching in his lap. He looks like he wants to say something and he’s trying to find the right words. The silence stretches on, and I dread finding out what it is. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer. “Does Sara have anything to do with this?”
My head snaps in Alan’s direction. “What? Why would she?”
He’s shaking his head a little too fast. “Just wondering.”
Frowning, I study the floor. “Dude, she has nothing to do with this. Trust me.”
“Okay.”
I clench my jaw. I’m not lying. I didn’t want to be better looking because of Sara. That girl doesn’t even deserve space in my thoughts anymore. Sara? Pff, please …
Now that he mentions it, though, if she happens to regret crushing my heart, then, well, good. That will only add icing to my already sexy cake.
CHAPTER 4
CAMILLA
“YOU READY?” JODIE ASKS FROM behind the wheel of her Nissan. Her sleek hair is gathered into an elegant bun at the back of her head. From her clothes to her makeup to her mannerisms, everything about Jodie is perpetually meticulous.
I’m in the passenger seat, wearing my paparazzi getup. I have to say, I kind of appreciate the mysterious vibe her giant sunglasses create. I might have to get special permission to wear them in school when I go back.
If I go back.
“Give me a couple of seconds to think,” I say.
There’s only one other car in the diner’s parking lot. It’s four o’clock, so that makes sense—too late for lunch, too early for dinner. Ashley should have some time to talk. If she even talks to me in the first place.
“She probably just started her shift,” Jodie says.
I nod. Not probably. Ashley always works at four on Wednesdays. I know because I know her schedule by heart. We used to make plans around it all the time.
“What are you going to say?” Jodie asks, giving her Diet Coke a slurp. On numerous occasions, I’ve tried to tell her that Diet’s not as healthy as she thinks, but she doesn’t listen. She listens when it really matters, though. She even skipped school today to spend the day with me.
“I’m just going to ask her straight up,” I say with a sigh.
“What if she lies?”
“I’ll be able to tell.”
Jodie snorts. “Yeah, right.” After a moment, she adds, “To be honest, I doubt she had anything to do with this. You more than made things up to her. And she’s not that evil.”
My throat tightens. I know Jodie doesn’t mean to be hurtful, but her words are a blaring reminder of what I have to live with now.
She catches herself almost immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
I turn to face her and force a small smile. “I know.” Jodie smiles back, but I can tell she’s beating herself up. “I just need to make sure.” I can’t spend the rest of my life wallowing in my room. If there are no confirmed rules about how or why IDs happen, then who’s to say someone other than yourself can’t play a part in bringing one about? I need to know if Ashley had anything to do with mine. I need answers. I need there to be a reason this happened to me.
“Maybe there is no explanation,” Jodie says, as if reading my thoughts.
“There has to be.”
“What are you going to do if she says she did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to beat her ass?” The edges of Jodie’s lips lift, and then she slurps up the rest of her Coke. “You should.”
Obviously, I’m not going to beat Ashley’s ass. If she does admit to playing a part in my ID, I’m going fall to my knees and beg her to take her wish back. I don’t care if all documented IDs in the past have been permanent.
The slurping stops. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“No. It’s better if I do this alone. I don’t want Ashley thinking we’re ganging up on her again.”
“Oh, come on. We didn’t gang up on her.”
I stare at the decrepit building in front of me. People call the restaurant—officially named Dory’s—the Shack for a reason. It’s really close to our school, though, and the food is cheap. It’s the best option for when you’re broke and don’t feel like crossing the border into the city. I don’t think there’s a kid in town who hasn’t been here at least fifty times. For me and Jodie, it’s closer to five hundred. “Yeah, Jodie,” I say. “Yeah, we did.”
She shrugs and shifts her attention to her phone. “Whatever. I’ll be here if you need me.”
Up until three months ago, Jodie was as close to Ashley as I was. To everyone who knew us, we were the JAC team—Jodie, Ashley, and Camilla. Jodie played a part in the breakup of our little group, too. The difference is, Jodie wasn’t in love with Lance Dietrick. I was. And she didn’t hit the SHARE button on that video. I did.
I take a deep breath and pop open the car door. Trudging toward the building, I spot Ashley and her breathtaking Afro almost immediately. She’s behind the register in her white waitress skirt—a perfect contrast to her dark skin. As always, she looks stunning. Jodie is beautiful, too, but not in that effortless way Ashley has been for as long as I remember.
A pang of the same type of jealousy that led to the end of our friendship pinches my insides. I quickly squash it down. Why do people feel things they don’t want to feel? I want nothing but the best for Ashley and I’d do anything to undo what I did, yet, no matter how hard I try, I still can’t kill the envy. Maybe this, right here, is the reason I’m a freak of nature now.
Even before I push open the glass door, Ashley’s flashing me her polite smile. “Welcome to Dory’s,” she says. It feels like it’s been so long since I heard her voice. “Just one?”
She has no idea who I am.
I stare at her from behind my shades. “Hi, Ashley.”
Her smile dips. “Hello?” It sounds more like a question than a greeting. Slowly, I remove my sunglasses. Her smile vanishes completely.
“Can you talk?” I manage to squeeze out.
Her eyes are glued to my face. Feeling exposed, I slip my sunglasses back on.
Ashley doesn’t answer. Her forehead wrinkles and she dashes around the counter. Instead of running away after seeing me for the monstrosity I’ve become, she closes the distance between us, scooping me into a big hug.
This feels weird. Weird, but wonderful. Ashley hasn’t touched me, hasn’t given me the time of day, since the beginning of summer, at Gina’s end-of-school party.
Where it all went down.
It was so wrong of me to call her a slut when she made out with Lance. To film it. To share the video. Even if it wasn’t fair to me. Why should Ashley get two guys at once—a devoted (albeit a little douchey) boyfriend in Mike Rogers, and Lance, my Lance—when I can’t even find one? To be honest, I still don’t think it was fair.
But Ashley didn’t deserve what I did to her.
My body responds on its own. I lean in, my hands wrapping around her, my cheek brushing against her hair. I came here to get an answer. I’ve already gotten it before even asking the question.
Ashley’s head snaps toward the floor of the restaurant. “Christine!” she yells to the skinny girl wiping down an empty table in the back. “I’m just going out for a smoke, okay?”
Christine nods a few times. She’s as much taken aback by Ashley’s open admission that she smokes as I am. Ashley’s smoking had always been a secret we shared. One of many.
She grabs my hand and drags me out the door, toward the big dumpsters behind the diner. I barely even register the smell. Her hand still clenching mine, she whirls around to face me. “What happened?”
My lips go on auto-quiver again. I’m sobbing, but without the tears. “I don’t know.”
She runs her gaze all over my new features, her eyes getting more and more blurry with every passing second. “Is it an ID?”
“I missed you so much,” I tell her. And I mean it.
Ashley pulls me into another embrace. “I missed you, too.”
“You’re not mad anymore?” I whisper into her shoulder.
I feel her body tense. She pulls away, as if she’s just remembered what I’d done. Her hand reaches into the pocket of her skirt and she yanks out a pack of Parliaments. Through one of them on her lips she says, “No.”
“But everyone thinks you’re a slut,” I say. “All because of me.”
Ashley shrugs. The cigarette lights up orange at the tip as she inhales. “It doesn’t matter,” she says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “The past is in the past. When did this happen?”
“Yesterday.”
Her frown tightens. “Do you know why?”
“No. I thought you cursed me or something.”
Ashley’s expression softens, then tightens right back up. “You think I’d do that?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I don’t know.” I look her in the eyes, pleading as if she has all the answers. “Why did this happen, Ashley? I didn’t want this. So why?”
“I don’t know. But I would never do that to you, Camilla. Never.”
Her words give me some relief. But they also flood me with another powerful emotion. A much less desirable one.
It’s not disappointment. It’s not despair or sadness.
It’s anger.
Because if Ashley isn’t responsible for my change, then who is?
CHAPTER 5
KONRAD
“HI, KONRAD,” BECCA LIPOWSKA SAYS to me out of freaking nowhere. “I never noticed how hot you were before.”
She’s obviously being sarcastic, but that doesn’t stop me from exchanging looks of disbelief with Alan and Lauren anyway. I scramble to reply with something intelligible. “Uh, you never noticed me, period.” (Gah. I’m such a dork.)
Becca’s laugh is accompanied by a wink. Flanked by her cheerleader posse, she struts off down the hallway. Alan’s and Lauren’s eyes latch on to her butt as it wiggles away. “Damn,” Alan says. “She actually said words to you.”
It’s my second day back and the stares, compliments, adds, and follows haven’t stopped. If anything, they’re multiplying. Ours is a pretty small school—900-something students—but with all this new attention, it feels so much bigger.
I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised, though. After all, I’m the local miracle. Jackie Baker even asked me to do an interview for the school blog. The only person who isn’t really celebrating, besides Alan—who says he’s happy for me but is clearly not—is Lauren. That makes two friends who are not happy for me. (I only have two friends.) I’m giving Alan some time to come around, but with Lauren, I’m not even sure there’s hope.
“You could’ve wished for anything in the entire universe and you wished for this?” she asks, eyebrow raised. Lauren missed my big debut yesterday because she was ditching the entire day. She does that a lot.
“I wish for things all the time,” I reply. “How was I supposed to know that out of all of them, this would be the one that would come true?”
“Hm. I had no idea you were so incredibly shallow.”
I feel my face burning up, even though I’m not surprised. That’s Lauren for you. No filter. Probably no soul either.
When I don’t say anything, she adds, “I liked your big nose. I thought it gave you character and made you look very handsome.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Too bad no straight girl has ever said that about me …”
Lauren gives me a cutting look. “Did you want to make Sara jealous or something?”
I slam my locker shut. “No! Can you two stop mentioning her? She has nothing to do with this.”
“Jeez,” Lauren says. “Don’t get your nut sack in a twist, Pretty Boy.”
“Don’t call me Pretty Boy.”
“But that’s what you are now.” She tilts her head. “I mean, come on, that was a pretty narcissistic wish.” I glare at her, and she flashes her teeth in a cheeky smile. “So what are you going to do next? Quit school and model underwear for a living?”
I’m overwhelmed with a huge desire to accuse her of jealousy. Except that wouldn’t be much of an argument. Lauren’s super comfortable in her own skin, which is probably the reason she has more than a few admirers. And she’s the only true redhead in school, so she gets points for that, too. I bite my tongue and look at Alan, hoping he backs me up and tells her I’m not a self-obsessed douchebag. That everyone wishes to be better looking.
But he doesn’t.
“I’m going to class,” I say, turning my back on them. Neither joins me or mentions anything about lunch.
Whatever.
As I make my way to the second floor, I let the stares and hi’s sink in. Now we’re talking. And why shouldn’t I enjoy the attention? Why is everyone I know trying to make me feel bad? My ID happened, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
In history, Mr. Connick pushes shut his desk drawer and looks me up and down. “The man of the hour,” he says, giving me a smile.
“Hi, Mr. Connick,” I reply, smiling back. See? Even the teachers are more supportive than my own friends.
I make my way to a desk in the middle of the room. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always sat in the middle. It’s a neutral approach, I know, but then I’ve always occupied a neutral space in school. I wasn’t cool, and I wasn’t a pariah, so the middle worked.
I’m not so sure it still will now that the whole school—including, ahem, Becca Lipowska—knows my name.
Once my butt’s in my chair, Mr. Connick averts his eyes, but everyone else is less polite. Or maybe, by staring, they’re being polite? I’m not sure what the etiquette should be under these circumstances. You’d think the novelty of my ID would’ve faded a bit after a day, but that doesn’t seem to be the case at all. I smile at as many people as I can without seeming like a creep and focus on pulling my books out of my backpack.
“Konrad?”
I turn toward the voice. “Hey, Eric, what’s up?”
Now Eric Stewart’s social status has always tended toward the bottom rung. I like him, though, and have partnered up with him by default a bunch of times in the past.
“Can I ask you something?”
The bell rings, and I hesitate. But Mr. Connick is busy writing something on the board. “Uh, sure.”
/> “How did it happen?”
“No idea,” I say. “It’s an ID.”
“I mean, was there anything specific you did? Beforehand?”
I try to remember if I did anything out of the ordinary the night before my transformation. All I can come up with is downing Lauren’s nasty tequila, but neither Alan’s nor Lauren’s wishes came true, so I’m pretty sure that had nothing to do with it. “Not that I can recall. Why?”
Eric’s face flushes red. “I wish something like that would happen to me.”
I take in his big glasses and the pimpled landscape of his bony face. Mother Nature has been even less kind to him than she’s ever been to me. Poor guy. If I could help him, I would. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do. I flash him an apologetic smile and face the front.
Five minutes into Mr. Connick’s lecture on the demise of the Mayan empire, a folded-up piece of paper lands on my desk. I turn just in time to see Eric slip back into his seat. A sense of dread prickles my chest, but I hunch my shoulders and discreetly unfold the note.
Scribbled in blue pen are the words: Can you please write down everything you did the day before it happened? Please? I’ll pay you for your time.
Okay, now he’s just being annoying. I don’t want to be an example or an advocate or some kind of symbol of hope for the less fortunate. I just want to live my life. I crush the paper in my fist and stare straight ahead for the rest of the class.
As soon as the bell rings, I jump from my desk. Just when I think I can make it out of the room without interruption, Mike Rogers’s fist hovers between me and the door.
Ugh. Mike Rogers is one of the few people at school I genuinely despise. Like, despise despise. And not just because he gets to snuggle up against my ex-girlfriend’s breasts whenever he wants to. Rogers has always been the definition of douchebag.
“Welcome to the good-looking club, K,” he says.
I wince, but fist-bump him out of politeness anyway. K? No one’s ever called me that. Ever. And good-looking club? I’m sorry, but Mike’s not even that attractive. All he has going for him is his bulgy muscles and unwarranted popularity. Okay, and his parade of hot girlfriends like Ashley Solomon, and now Sara. Whatever. His buzzed head still reminds me of a potato.
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