Inexplicable Developments are a mystery. Mine happened because, I guess, I wanted it to. But there’s no proof that that’s the case every time. That whole wishing thing is just a theory. It’s not a fact. And Camilla Hadi’s case basically proves it wrong, anyway. No one would ever wish for themself to become less physically attractive.
Is it possible that someone else wished that upon her? But IDs made on other people’s behalf have never been documented before. And even if someone did wish that awful transformation upon her, it sure as hell couldn’t have been me, because there’s definitely no record of one person who had two wishes come true at once. I checked.
Camilla’s ID could very well be a biological mistake. A glitch. An anomaly in the process. Like a third nipple or premature balding or something. But even if it is somehow collateral for my own transformation, that’s not my fault either. I’m not responsible for the actions of the damn cosmos. There’s no reason for me to feel guilty about any of this.
I find a picture in one of the articles and zoom in, my heart picking up speed. Camilla is—was, I guess—pleasant-looking. Not beautiful, but not unattractive either. Dad would probably call her a “plain Jane.”
The two main things I know about Camilla are that she’s a track star and that she hangs out with Ashley Solomon and Jodie Mathews. Or she used to, anyway, before the whole “Ashley gave Lance Dietrick a handy j” video scandal thing.
I wish I’d known Camilla liked the Leaky Lizards before. I would’ve totally talked to her about them. When it comes to music, Lauren, Alan, and I could never really find common ground. Alan listens to pop, Lauren likes obscure early nineties hip-hop, and I listen to the Leaky Lizards. Maybe Camilla and I might’ve even become friends.
I close the article and try to shake Camilla from my mind. Glitch, coincidence, whatever it was that caused her ID, it wasn’t something I had anything to do with. I know this better than anyone, and there’s no reason to dwell on it. Or on her.
I turn my attention to the notifications on my phone. Many of them are direct messages. There are some hellos and some invitations to hang out—mostly from girls who don’t have the courage to ask for my phone number in person. But one name stands out.
Eric Stewart.
A cold chill runs up my spine. Yesterday, he tried talking to me again about the same thing. I got kind of short with him. I was worried that otherwise, he’d never leave me alone.
I take a deep breath and click the message open:
You don’t have to be such an asshole.
The door flings open and Arthur barges in. “Quit jerking it,” he says. “There’s no need for you to do that anymore. Not with all that hot ass lining up for you!”
Eric vanishes from my mind and Becca takes over. More specifically, Becca and what’ll probably happen when I see her tonight.
Heat explodes in my cheeks. “Shut up! How do you know about that, anyway?”
“Everyone’s talking about you at my school, too, bro. Your fame’s rubbing off on me. Even I’m getting more action.”
I wipe my palm down my face. “You’re thirteen. You’re not getting any action for at least three more years.”
“Just ’cause you were a late bloomer doesn’t mean I have to be.”
That makes me laugh. And then I realize how much I needed to laugh. “What do you want?”
“Lunch is ready.”
As if on cue, my stomach growls.
“Why isn’t Alan here today?” Arthur asks as I follow him through the kitchen and out to the backyard.
“He’s not around this weekend.”
Outside, smoke from the grill tickles my nostrils. Mom’s leaning against the fence, talking to our thousand-year-old neighbor, Bonnie. Bonnie’s husband passed away when I was a kid. These days, she only leaves the house to go to church. She hasn’t seen the new me yet.
“My, my,” she says as I jump down the porch steps. Her thick glasses magnify her surprise. She steadies herself on her cane.
“Hi, Bonnie,” I say.
“The Lord has truly blessed you.” She makes the sign of the cross. “This is miracle, if I’ve ever seen one.”
“I guess,” I say, getting a whiff of dog shit from her yard. Not even the smoke can mask it. Bonnie’s dog is an ancient rottweiler named Delilah. This cute college girl comes over to clean her place once a week and picks up the turds outside while she’s at it. Unfortunately, dogs shit more often than once a week.
“I just read an article about how taller, good-looking people get better jobs,” she continues. “Your life will be so fruitful.”
I fake a smile. Bonnie’s an old lady. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to suggest my life would’ve been unfruitful otherwise.
Mom looks uncomfortable. “Oh,” she says, “Bonnie, would you mind taking our photo? It’s been a while since we took one as a family.”
“Of course not!”
“No …” Arthur growls, pretend-banging his head on the picnic table. Dad doesn’t seem too thrilled with the idea either, but he puts down his barbecue tongs and shuffles over. They all gather around me, forcing me into the center.
Lately, I’ve been feeling like an out-of-town relative they haven’t seen in years. Or, worse, like I just got adopted. Like I’m a new addition to the family. I’m sure Mom and Dad don’t act like I’m a stranger intentionally, but why can’t things be exactly like they were before? Why do they both have to keep reminding me that I look different now?
Well, guess what. I’m not a new addition to the family. I’m me. Nothing that should matter, to them at least, has changed. At school, I’m all for reinvention. But I never asked for a fresh start at home. I just want one constant in my life. Is that too much to ask for?
“What do I press?” Bonnie asks, examining Mom’s phone like it’s some kind of James Bond gadget. Mom shows her what to do. Tilting her head back, Bonnie points the camera. “Okay, smile!”
I don’t.
Mom retrieves her phone and checks the photo. I catch a small scowl on her lips. When she sees me looking, she blushes and asks, “Why the serious face?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Why are you hiding those million-dollar molars?”
“Should I take another one?” Bonnie asks.
“No, it’s okay,” I say, turning toward the table.
“Hey, Mom,” Arthur says, making sure I hear him. “Think of all the money we could’ve saved on Konrad’s braces.”
Bonnie calls Delilah and they both go back inside to hibernate. Mom brings over the sausages on a big flowery plate and Dad prepares the utensils.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me.
“Nothing.”
Mom sits down, her ears perking up. Dad goes on, “Coś się stało?”
“Yeah, bro,” Arthur says. “Why the frown? Something happen?”
For a second, I consider telling them about Camilla. Ashley swore me to secrecy, but I assume it only applies to people at school. How would my parents take the news? Would they blame me, too? At the last minute, though, I change my mind. “Nope. Everything’s fine.”
“Well,” Mom says, “we’re here if you want to talk.”
“Thanks,” I say, but think: Like you’d get it….
I stop chewing and stare at my plate. We’re here if you want to talk. That’s pretty much the same exact thing I said to Camilla this morning.
God, I feel so stupid. As if I actually understand what she’s going through. My life’s going to be fruitful—at least according to Bonnie. Camilla? Camilla’s been handed a tragedy. I must’ve come off as such a condescending prick.
After I gobble up the rest of my grilled sausages, I sit on my bed eating Oreos and binging on Game of Thrones. A favorite scene comes on and I almost shoot Alan a text out of habit. It’s almost unnatural, watching the show alone, without his hilarious commentary.
We’ve fought and gone days without talking before, so it’s not like this is a first. There was that time I ditched him to han
g out with Sara. Total “bros before hoes” fail. Eventually, I apologized and we made up. But this time, it feels different. This time, I doubt sorry will cut it. No matter which one of us is the one saying it.
Before I know it, it’s seven o’clock. Mom makes me eat some of her lasagna (“I don’t cook for myself!”) and I drive over to Becca’s. I make a pit stop at Walgreens to pick up a box of condoms. You know. Just in case. I’m pretty sure I have an idea what Becca invited me over for, but you can never be one hundred percent sure.
Side note: condoms are freaking expensive. Everyone tells you to use protection and practice safe sex, but what if you’re trying to do that on a measly twenty bucks per week allowance and your parents won’t let you get a job before you turn seventeen?
Becca lives in a large two-story house with cream-colored siding. When I pull up to her driveway, she comes out to meet me wearing a big blue T-shirt. Her shorts are so short, it looks like she’s not wearing anything below the waist.
I slam the car door. “Hey.”
She catches me staring at her long, exposed legs and grins. “Hey.”
Blushing, I clear my throat. She gestures for me to follow.
This is so obviously a booty call it’s not even funny. She knows it and I know it. That should make things easier, but I’ve never been in a position like this before. Guys like me—or guys like the former me—are never guaranteed sex. Now, though, it’s as good as done.
As she climbs the stairs, she blesses me with a fantastic view of her ass. Bonnie was right. My life is definitely going to be more fruitful.
“Want something to drink?” Becca asks, swerving into the spacious open kitchen. I don’t know what her parents do, but judging from all the fancy-looking furniture and the gigantic fridge, they’re obviously well-off. I make a mental note to ask her later. It’ll give us something to talk about. God knows I don’t have any other topics lined up.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I say.
“Coke, juice, 7UP, water. Or beer. I’m having a beer.”
“Your parents won’t mind?”
“No, they know I drink.” Her mouth forms into a smirk. “Just like they know I’m sexually active. They’ll probably be happy I’m doing it at home.”
I swallow, wondering which part she’s referring to. “Ha, yeah.”
Becca hands me a beer. After the slightly unpleasant incident with Lauren’s cheap tequila the night before my ID, I think I might’ve developed a slight aversion to alcohol. But I don’t want to seem like a buzzkill, so I take it. She twists the cap off of hers and raises the bottle, brushing it against her lips before taking a sip. I don’t think I need to explain what this does to my imagination. “So what do you want to do?” she asks.
I look at the shiny tiles. “Whatever you want.”
“Do you want to see my room?”
I look up, willing the redness I’m pretty sure takes over my entire face to disappear. “Sure.”
The pursuit of Becca’s beautiful cheeks up more steps continues. Framed photos hang on the wall along the staircase, most of them of her in her cheerleading uniform. She must be an only child. Jeez, I know practically nothing about this girl.
Becca’s room is surprisingly tame for a girl with such high social status and so much personality. I don’t find a single shade of pink. But there are a lot of books. Not just books—tomes—most with the word neuro written somewhere on the cover. The only predictable thing about the space is her fluffy maroon carpet. I wonder if she ever dissected a hamster brain on it.
Becca grabs her laptop and plops onto her bed. “Sit down.”
My eyes search for any surface to sit on that isn’t her bed. It’d be weird if I sat on her bed, right?
“Come here!” she orders, patting the duvet beside her. “What do you want to listen to?”
“Um.” I lower myself beside her. “The Leaky Lizards?”
“The what?” She starts typing. “The Leaky Lizards? I don’t think I know them.”
“You can put on whatever you want.”
But Becca’s apparently more considerate than I thought, because the opening strings of “We’re Never Gonna Disappear” start blasting from her speakers. When I glance over to gauge her reaction, though, she looks like she swallowed a large insect. “Let’s just listen to Rihanna,” she says. The song stops and a new one comes on.
“Okay.”
Becca chuckles. “God, you’re so shy. I like that.”
“Thanks,” I say, because I don’t know how else to respond. There’s an awkward silence that keeps stretching on and on. Becca makes it even worse by staring at me in what I can only describe as a porn-star-in-action kind of way.
“So … what do your parents do?” I ask.
“Take off your shirt.”
My eyes crash into hers. “What?”
“Your shirt.”
“Are you serious?”
Without a word, Becca pulls her own shirt up over her head and reveals a lacy black bra. Her breasts are at least twice as big as Sara’s. At least.
My brain shuts off. My beer’s on the floor. My shirt is off. Throwing her laptop aside, Becca slides down to the carpet and gets on her knees. She shimmies over, closing the short distance between us, her elbows squeezing her breasts together like two wrestling peaches.
Before I know it, my back’s parallel to her bed and my shorts are around my ankles. Becca’s still on the floor, only now she’s creating magic. With her mouth.
This is too much.
Just when I try to warn her, Becca jerks away.
“Sorry!” I say, my voice squeaky, my entire body in shudders. “God!—I’m so sorry!” The whole thing, from start to finish, couldn’t have lasted more than three minutes. Turns out I didn’t need the condoms after all.
I am the most pathetic dude in the whole world.
“It’s fine,” Becca says, shooting up. She skips over to her desk, reaches for the tissue box, and tosses it at my exposed belly. While I clean up, Becca chatters about something, but I’m just nodding along, only pretending to listen because this is the most embarrassing moment of my life.
Becca stops talking and sits down on the bed.
“Sorry,” I say again. “That doesn’t usually happen.” I have gotten a blow job before, I swear. It’s just that Sara must have twice as many teeth as Becca does.
I can feel her stare on me so I lift my eyes to meet hers.
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” she asks.
“What?” I blurt with an awkward chuckle. I look to check if she’s joking, but it doesn’t appear she is. “Shouldn’t we get to know each other a little first?”
“Why? We look perfect together.”
“But—”
“Do you want me to do what I just did again?”
I think about it for about a second. “Yes.”
“Good. Then you’re my boyfriend.”
CHAPTER 10
CAMILLA
MY FEET ARE STUCK TO the parking lot pavement. I can feel my sweat glands working overtime. I don’t think my original plan of making an entrance by strutting down the school hallway with Jodie and Ashley flanking my sides like Queen Bees in a high school movie is going to work.
Jodie’s arm is hooked into mine. She’d stopped to study me with her smoky eyes, her features suddenly tight with suspicion. Ashley locks her car and comes to stand on my other side. “Everything all right?” she asks.
My breaths are wobbly. “Um, yeah. Totally all right. I became too-ugly-to-look-at-straight-on, nobody except for my teachers knows, and what the hell am I doing, again?”
“Camilla,” Jodie says. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I don’t think I can do this.”
Ashley reaches up to massage my shoulder. “You can.”
I didn’t expect this. The girls didn’t either. Coming to school today had been my idea. One I thought I could pull off, but I’m not so sure I can anymore.
I look around. Through my
sunglasses, I can see a couple of heads already turned my way. Observing me from the stairs, one girl leans her mouth toward her friend’s ear. Her lips start moving and the friend smiles. Swallowing, I scan the grounds for Lance. Even though I’m (mostly) over him, he’s the person I dread seeing the most. Thankfully, he’s nowhere in sight.
“I’m not ready,” I say. And then more to myself, “What am I trying to achieve?”
Ashley twists my body to face hers and looks me right in the eyes. “Camilla, listen to me. You’re not trying to achieve anything. You’re just being you.”
But I am, I think. I am trying to achieve something. I want to prove I’m not going to disappear into oblivion while Konrad Wolnik has the time of his life. I want everyone to know the true scope of his selfishness.
“Everyone’s going to talk about me.”
“Good,” Jodie says. “You’re going to be more popular, then.”
“Negative attention is worse than no attention,” I mumble.
“No,” Jodie says dismissively. “That’s not how the saying goes. ‘Bad press is better than no press at all.’” She tugs at my arm. “Who cares, anyway?”
Ashley gives Jodie the eye. Her expression softens when she looks back at me. “You’re not going to get any bad attention. I promise. If I hear anything negative, I’m going to do some serious ass whooping.”
I can’t help but chuckle. I’ve got two amazing friends who have my back. They’re also the reason Mom isn’t with us right now. When she found out I wanted to come back to school, she insisted on coming along, but after a lengthy three-way call with Ashley and Jodie, she gave in. And thank God for that. If Mom came, I’d feel like even more of a disaster.
Jodie pulls at my arm again. “Come on, hon. Let’s do this.”
I give in. My feet propel me forward. Two reluctant steps later, I’m marching toward the entrance, my chin held high, my two best friends at my sides. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. The starting shot has been fired. Nothing to do now but run.
Right before we get to the door, I remove my sunglasses and slip them into the pocket of my flannel. Go big or go home, right?
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