“Hey,” Lauren calls out. “Pretty Boy. Wait up.”
Clenching my teeth, I whirl around. “I told you to stop calling me that.”
“Sorry,” she says, her hands up in the air in apology. There’s a hint of mischief in her expression and I already regret acknowledging her. Alan’s still busy examining the lockers next to him. Lauren’s arms cross at her chest. “Did you hear about Camilla Hadi?”
“Hasn’t everyone?”
She nods. “It’s pretty messed up.”
“Yeah,” I say, “it is.”
“What do you think?”
I feel my face warm up. “What do you mean, what do I think?”
“Well,” Lauren says, shrugging. She’s always been a pro at shrugging. “Rumor has it her ID happened on the same day as yours.”
I swallow. “So?”
“So, you don’t think that’s weird?”
“No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks. Alan’s gaze jumps my way, but as soon as his eyes meet mine, he drops them to the floor again, his cheeks red as a beet.
I shake my head.
“Come on. It’s all over your beautiful face,” Lauren says. “It’s obviously bothering you.”
“No,” I say. “You’re bothering me.”
I turn my back to them and shuffle away so fast I’m practically speed walking. See? I knew those two would blame me for what happened to Camilla. That’s obviously what Lauren was implying. She’s suddenly worried about my feelings? My ass.
A large form advances in my direction. I stop and look up. Mike Rogers—or his huge chest, rather—is coming right at me like a cannonball. Before I can step aside, he bumps into me and I stumble back. If I were still my old, scrawny self, I bet I would’ve flown across the hallway and smacked into a locker.
“What the hell, Mike?”
He doesn’t seem to think he’s done anything wrong. Tom takes a spot behind him. “Becca’s looking all over for you. She’s in the cafeteria.”
I straighten to my full height to remind him I’m taller. “Thanks, I’m heading over there now. Did you happen to see Camilla Hadi anywhere?”
“Camilla the Gorilla?” Mike asks, inspiring a guffaw from Tom. The two bump fists.
“What did you call her?”
Mike turns back to me. “It’s just a joke, man. What happened to her totally sucks.”
“Not a very good one,” I mumble.
Tom rips off a piece of beef jerky with his teeth, talking through a full mouth. “She left for lunch with Handy Ashley and that other black chick, the stuck-up lipstick one.”
More uncreative nicknames? But what else would you expect from boneheads like these two? I wonder what they call me behind my back. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Why do you care so much about that girl, anyway?” Mike asks.
“I don’t. I mean, we both had IDs, so I guess it’s a camaraderie thing.”
Tom stops chewing. They’re both staring at me. “It’s a what thing?”
“Never mind.”
“Like I said,” Mike goes on, “it sucks what happened to her. I feel for her, for sure. But I mean, what are you going to do? She’ll be fine. Life’s a bitch.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks for those wise words, Mike.”
He nods, clueless to my sarcasm, and pats me on the back. “No problem. Now go find your fine piece of ass, you lucky dog.”
I nod and watch them walk off. My new—quote, unquote—friends.
Yup. I’m a lucky dog indeed.
CHAPTER 12
CAMILLA
“I STAND WITH CAMILLA?” I spit.
Jodie has just handed me her phone. I scroll from post to post, each one a selfie of one of my classmates, each with a hand covering most of his or her face, their eyes peeking out from between their fingers.
My heart is pounding. My whole body shakes. I drop my chicken sandwich back into the fast-food bag. I’ve completely lost my appetite. “Who started this shit?”
Ashley’s on her own phone in the backseat. “Looks like Jackie Baker was one of the first,” she says. “There’re over fifty of these posts now.”
“Of course,” I say flatly. Jackie Baker is famous for sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. I hate to admit it, but she’s going to make a great journalist one day. “What is this supposed to even be?”
“Well,” Ashley explains, taking a bite out of her burger, “some of the pics are accompanied by another hashtag, #looksmeannothing.”
A huff escapes my lips. “‘Looks mean nothing,’” I repeat. “What am I? A freaking natural disaster? A charity case? What’s wrong with people?”
“No,” Jodie says. She takes a sip of her Diet Coke. Her voice is composed, but her eyes are big with excitement. “This is good.”
“Huh?” I practically throw the phone back at her. “How is any of this good?”
Ashley leans forward, reaching between the front seats to squeeze my hand. I focus on my breathing to calm myself down.
“Look at it this way,” Jodie says. “You have everyone on your side. Sympathy can be a powerful tool. At this pace, you might become a national sensation. Global, even. You can probably make money off of this.”
“I don’t want to be a sensation!” Worldwide pity is the last thing I want. I got more than a lifetime’s worth already. I came to school to show that I’m strong and to make Konrad Wolnik look like the selfish asshole he is while I’m at it. Not for this. And aren’t high school kids supposed to be cruel? Why are they acting like goddamn activists all of a sudden?
“Trust me,” Jodie continues. “We should act fast.”
“Jodie,” Ashley says, “just be quiet.”
“This is all his fault,” I mumble, remembering Konrad and his perfect face, his perfect girlfriend, and his perfect group of friends, pointing at me in the hallway like I’m some sort of mutant sideshow. Why are people doing this crap instead of blaming him like they’re supposed to? Why can’t they see this is not a coincidence? He did this to me.
“Konrad’s?” Jodie asks.
“Yes Konrad’s!” I bark. She’s basically proving my point. “Who else’s? I bet if everyone didn’t glorify his ID as some sort of miracle when they first found out, they wouldn’t be acting like this now. These people just want to make themselves feel better. Nobody cares how I feel or what I think.” I huff. “And did you see that interview he did with Jackie?”
“Ugh,” Jodie says. She clearly has, because she starts quoting it in a mocking voice: “I know that I’m lucky, and I’ll never take that for granted.”
I add a quote of my own, the one that bothered me the most: “I want to believe these things happen for a reason.”
Jodie snorts, but Ashley’s not paying attention. She exhales at her phone, her lips veering to one side. “What?” I ask. This can’t possibly get any worse.
Hesitating for a second, Ashley twists the device so I can see the screen. It’s another pic of a guy covering his face. It appears he’s in class; you can see the desk and the white ceiling tiles as his phone camera is angled upward. Although only the eyes are visible, I recognize them immediately. I don’t even have to look at the screen name.
Konrad Wolnik.
Tears of frustration sting my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” My hatred for him multiplies like cells splitting in a time-lapse video.
Jodie scoffs. “What a high-and-mighty asshole.”
“Camilla,” Ashley says, “just ignore it.”
“No!” I snap. “I’m going to start my own campaign.”
“Ooo!” Jodie says. “What kind?”
“The I’m-going-to-ruin-him kind. I just need to think of a good hashtag.”
“YASS, GURL!” Jodie yells, raising her palm. I smack it with mine.
I turn to look at Ashley, expecting to see her hand in the air, as well, but she’s leaning back against her seat. “What?” I ask.
Ashley slowly shakes he
r Afro from side to side. Her big brown eyes meet mine—they’re the opposite of supportive. “I hope you’re kidding,” she finally says.
My ears start burning in shame. I look out the window at the long lunchtime line at the Shack. “Of course I am.” Talking about ruining people using hashtags is probably not the best idea around Ashley. No matter how much they deserve it.
“You need to ignore him, Camilla,” Ashley insists. “Get past this. It’ll all die down with time. Trust me.”
But I can’t. I can’t get past this. Konrad’s faux-solidarity snap stays on my mind the whole ride back to school and it follows me to class. Konrad gets to live his precious, good-looking life while I’m immortalized as the face of some bullshit “looks don’t matter” campaign? Without my permission? No one’s even consulted me about how I feel. Everyone is just assuming I’m some kind of victim. How can people think that’s okay?
And now Konrad Wolnik’s contributing from up on his high horse? I get that Inexplicable Developments are a mystery, but mine’s pretty damn explicable to me.
He’s responsible.
I’m scarring my notebook with an angry doodle, thinking about going home early, when the school aide walks through the door and whispers in the teacher’s ear.
Ms. Reilly’s eyes lock on me immediately. She clears her throat. “Camilla? Sweetheart? The counselor would like to see you.”
I stare at her with my mouth open. This is probably the last thing I expected to hear today. I slide my chair back and stomp out of the classroom.
Our school has two full-time counselors. The last time I saw one—the forever-rambling Mr. Sanders—was when I got a C on my algebra test. Everybody freaked out because they thought track was interfering with my schoolwork. It totally wasn’t. I just didn’t feel like studying for the stupid test.
When I barge into the counselor’s office I’m expecting to see Mr. Sanders again, but find Ms. Hughes waiting for me instead.
Ms. Hughes is this tiny woman, barely older than me. Her mouth and nose assemble at the bottom of her face, almost to a point. She reminds me of a rabbit. I’ve never spoken to her, but I don’t even bother with introductions. “My mom specifically said I didn’t need a counselor.”
“Hello, Camilla,” she says, barely opening her tiny, lettuce-munching mouth. “Please come in, sweetheart.”
Ugh. Can people stop calling me that? I’m about to explain to her that I’m not her goddamn sweetheart, but she’s already holding the door open. Sucking down my frustration, I march through it and plop down into a chair. Even before Ms. Hughes can sit on the other side of her desk, I’m repeating myself. “I don’t need a counselor. Did you not get the note? I’m pretty sure my mom can sue you for this.”
Ms. Hughes gives me that pitiful look I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to. I think I hate it even more coming from an adult. “I got the note,” she says, “but the situation has changed dramatically. I thought it might be good for us to talk.”
“How did it change dramatically?”
She lowers her chin at me. Not in a threatening way. In that, condescending “I’m here for you” manner counselors think is encouraging, but totally isn’t. She doesn’t wear glasses, but she’s one of those people who look like her face is missing something without them.
“Hashtag #IStandWithCamilla?” she says.
My eyes widen. “How do you know about that already?”
“I’m on social media, too. It’s a gateway into understanding students.”
I cross my arms and sink back into the chair. “Whatever. I don’t even care about that.”
“I think you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Your Inexplicable Development caused quite a stir within the school, Camilla. That’s a lot of attention for one person. Direct contact is one thing, but social media attention—and on this scale—is another. I just want to make sure you’re handling it okay.”
I grind my teeth. “I’m handling it just fine. Can I go now?”
She’s studying me. I fidget under her gaze. “Yes,” she says. “But before you do, I want you to promise me to think of this as a positive thing. Remember, it’s not personal. Your peers don’t know how to handle things they’re unfamiliar with. This is them reacting in the best way they know how.” She smiles. “You’re having a wonderful influence on them.”
I want her to stop talking so I stand. “Bye, Ms. Hughes.” I’m already walking away when she says, “I’m here if you need me!”
I don’t return to class. Instead, I sprint toward the closest bathroom and lock myself in a stall. Dropping down onto the seat, I shut my eyes.
Everyone’s got opinions about what’s best for me. My life is ruined and I’m supposed to think positive thoughts because I’m having a wonderful influence on people?
Balling my trembling hands into fists, I take a long, deep breath. Stop, I tell myself. Calm down. You will not cry. You are not a quitter. You are not that girl.
I need to run. Not as in escape. I actually need to run. I need to get this frustration out of my system, and running my ass off until I can’t feel my legs anymore is the only way I know how to do that. Then I’ll be able to figure out what to do.
With the promise of track to look forward to, I make my way back to class. I’m two doors away from Ms. Reilly’s classroom when the door to my left opens and spews out my former crush, Lance Dietrick.
I screech to a halt. He’s wearing a white Sonny & Cher T-shirt I’ve never seen before. Must be a new addition to his wardrobe. He looks amazing.
In the past, Lance has never looked at me for longer than four seconds at a time. Well, today, it’s already been five. “Hi, Lance,” I blurt.
His lips pinch together like he swallowed a bitter grape. The hall pass in his left hand travels to his right. I had apologized about the video I took of him and Ashley at Gina’s party, and he’d said it was cool, so, technically, we are supposed to be on speaking terms.
But he doesn’t speak. What he does do is this:
His face rearranges into that funeral home expression I’ve seen countless times today, and just when it seems like he’s about to say something, his palm travels up to mask most of his face, his fingers parting to reveal his eyes. As he starts walking past me, he raises his other hand and gives me a thumbs-up.
A thumbs-up.
I want to die.
The last bell ricochets through the school. Somehow, I made it through the day. Fingers trembling, I text Jodie and Ashley to let them know I’m going to practice, then make my way to the locker rooms.
None of the other girls from the team have arrived yet. I change into my running clothes and go out to the field to stretch.
It feels so good to be out here. Normal, almost. Like I traveled back in time and I’m my old self again, the sun a familiar presence on my face, the smell of grass and rubber all around me. But the illusion only lasts a few seconds. All I have to do is glance down at my distorted body to remember my reality.
I finish stretching with my eyes closed.
An unusually large crowd of spectators has gathered around the field. I tune them out. As soon as I start running, I hear someone shout, “GO, CAMILLA!” but I focus only on my breathing and the swooshing sound my shoes make every time they hit the track.
This is my element. This is where I’ll always belong.
I run three laps without stopping. When I reach the finish line on the final one, I’m covered in sweat. Bent over, hands on my knees, I get lost in the sound of my own panting.
When I hear my name again, it sounds different from the cheers that reached my ears earlier. It’s both more urgent and more tentative at the same time. I look up.
Not twenty feet away from where I stand, Konrad Wolnik is gripping the chain-link fence with both hands. He’s alone. And he looks desperate.
“Camilla,” he calls. “Please. Just one minute.”
CHAPTER 13
KONRAD
; HOLY SHIT. SHE’S COMING MY way.
What the heck do I do? I thought I’d have to work harder to get her to talk to me. I didn’t expect her to start charging at me like an angry bull as soon as I opened my mouth.
Camilla stops a couple of feet away from the fence. Her hands are balled into fists at her sides, her chest is heaving, and her expression is tight with fury.
“That was pretty intense,” I say, hoping to break the ice—there seems to be a lot of ice between us. It’s more than just small talk, though. Earlier, every time she sped past me as I watched, I was genuinely impressed by the concentration on her face, the complete devotion.
Camilla’s gaze lurches away for a second. Her right hand travels to push back a strand of hair behind her ear. Her post-run blush seems to intensify. Did I embarrass her or is she getting even more pissed off? She hasn’t told me to fuck off yet, so that’s good, right? Plus, the last time I talked to her, there was a door between us. Now it’s just a fence. Progress.
“I wish I was as passionate about something as you are about running,” I continue, but I want to slap my own face as soon as the words leave my mouth. Can I sound any cheesier?
She looks me straight in the eye. “Your one minute’s up.”
“Wait! Okay! Look, I’m sorry about what I said at your house. I don’t know what this is like for you. I have no idea what you’re going through.”
“No,” she says, matter-of-factly. “You don’t.”
“I just want you to know that I really don’t know why this happened to us. I swear. I’m as surprised at how things turned out as you are.”
Camilla’s face twitches. “Why do you even care? You got what you wanted. Why don’t you just leave me alone? And posting about me online? Do you even have a fucking heart?”
I stare at her through the chain-link. I swallow and start to speak, but my voice comes out small and shaky. “I don’t want you to hate me.”
Camilla feigns surprise. “Oh,” she says, “I see. So you’re after forgiveness?”
“It’s not like that …” I try, even though I’m pretty sure the conversation just swerved into unsalvageable territory.
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