“What’s your problem?” I ask.
He pretends to adjust his glasses. “What do you mean?”
“What exactly did I do to you?”
I see him acting, pretending he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. And then he tries to leave.
But I don’t let him.
I grab him by the arm to twist him back around. Except my new muscles are more than just decoration. They actually have strength in them that I don’t quite have a grip on yet. And Eric’s as skinny as they come. I push him off-balance and he stumbles back, falling on his ass.
My mouth opens in surprise as I stare at him splayed on the floor in front of me, an apple rolling out of his lunch bag.
Five seconds later, Ashley Solomon is crouching beside him. The shock in her eyes when she looks at me is a physical force, blasting me in the stomach. She springs to her feet and gets up in my face. “You’re a bully now, too?”
I scan the sea of faces, watching me like a herd of frightened sheep. And it dawns on me. These people don’t know what Eric did. They only know what they see. To them, I’m the lucky guy whose dreams came true, who got to become super good-looking. The guy who then started dating the most popular cheerleader, hanging out with the jocks. And now, the guy who picks on the weakest kids in school. To them, I’m a cliché.
My focus returns to Ashley, hands on her hips. The rage in her brown eyes is urging me to leave, but I don’t want to be a cliché. “I didn’t mean to do that,” I say. “But he asked for it. He’s posting old pictures of me and talking shit. I never did anything to him.”
Ashley’s face softens. “What pictures?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at Eric.
“I didn’t post any pictures,” he says, getting to his feet and wiping his apple on the hem of his shirt.
Ashley turns back to me. “He didn’t post any pictures.”
“He did. I’m sure.”
“I didn’t post any pictures!” Eric repeats. Then he sneaks off. I have an urge to go after him, but Ashley’s in my way.
“Why do you think it was him?” she asks.
“He’s had a problem with me since my ID.”
“Come on,” she says, crossing her arms. “Eric’s not like that.”
“You’re wrong. He’s the only one who could’ve done it.”
A faraway look overtakes Ashley’s face. When she comes back down to planet Earth, she still looks angry, but I get a strange feeling that it’s not with me anymore.
“No,” she says. “He’s not.”
She leaves without another word.
CHAPTER 16
CAMILLA
NO ONE AT SCHOOL IS talking about Konrad’s yearbook picture and the #uglyforever hashtag yet. I guess I have to give it more time to take off. Patience, Camilla. Patience.
On top of that, my phone’s been eerily quiet all day.
Jodie hasn’t texted yet to apologize. How am I supposed to torment her for what she’s done when she’s not even giving me a chance to ignore her? I bet she’s counting on the cooldown period. We don’t fight often, but when we do, time always brings us back together. She’ll probably text me out of the blue soon acting like nothing ever happened.
Well, she can try. But this time, I won’t be letting her slide that easily—even if she freezes that awful crowdfunding campaign. This time, she went too far.
Jodie’s a straightforward person. I get that and I respect her for it. But criticizing my shoes or the shirt I’m wearing is one thing. Dismissing my physical appearance—something I have zero control over and something forced on me on top of that—is another. Even if it’s true. Even if she knows it and I do, too. You don’t imply that your friend might want to go under the knife to look better. You don’t make your friend feel this insufficient. And the worst part? Plastic surgery is constantly in the back of my mind now, and it didn’t used to be. My life was so much easier when I didn’t need to think about my appearance every second.
Now Jodie may expect a cooldown period, but Ashley hasn’t talked to me since last night when I spent an hour complaining to her about Jodie’s little stunt either. So when I spot her by her locker, I practically scuttle up to her like a lost fawn that’s finally found its mother.
“Yo,” I say. “Where’ve you been?”
Ashley doesn’t even blink. She keeps piling books inside her locker like I’m a fruit fly, not even making a sound.
“Ashley?”
Slamming her locker door, she swings her backpack onto her shoulder and whirls to face me. Her clenched jaw and the look in her eyes makes me want to crumple up into a tiny ball and disappear. “What?” I ask, quietly.
“How could you do that?” she demands. I realize that the tone in her voice is more heartbreak than fury. I already know I would’ve preferred fury.
My mouth goes dry. “Do what?”
“Hashtag #uglyforever?”
I wince, but try to act cool, even though inside I’m panicking. My first instinct is to lie. “What’s that?”
Ashley huffs in disbelief. “And you’re going to deny it, too? I thought you’d at least have the guts to own up to your actions.”
My eyelids feel as heavy as marble. “It’s just a reminder.”
“Oh yeah? Is that all it is? You’re not trying to hurt Konrad? Make him squirm?”
When I posted that pic, I never thought anyone would trace it back to me. I never expected Ashley to read me like a book. I can’t lie to her.
Ashley shakes her head. She looks disgusted by me, like she might spit right into my face. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. “After what you did to me, Camilla? How could you?”
My throat is tight. “He deserves it, Ashley. You didn’t.”
“Oh yeah? Why does he deserve it?”
How dare she not know the answer? But she doesn’t balk. I raise both of my hands and frame my face with them. “This!” I say. “He did this to me!”
“You don’t even know the guy.”
“I don’t have to know him.”
“You know what he did today?” she says. “Because of you? He almost beat up Eric Stewart. He thought Eric was the one who posted that yearbook picture. Konrad’s not that guy, Camilla. Do you understand? You’re messing up his life.”
“Pff—oh, because he didn’t mess up mine?”
“We don’t know that he’s responsible for your ID.”
“You’re taking his side?”
Ashley sucks in a deep breath. “Maybe you should get to know the guy first, huh? Before you decide that he ‘deserves’ it.”
I glare at her. She better be kidding.
“You know what, Camilla?” she continues, her eyes drilling into mine. “You’re getting uglier and uglier every day. And your ID has nothing to do with it.”
Frozen, I watch Ashley’s back as she walks down the hall, and the whole time, I keep thinking: This is his fault, too. Now he’s trying to turn Ashley against me.
I’ll admit it, Ashley has every right to be angry. Posts can hurt people, and after what I did to her, I should know better than anyone. And I do. She’s right about that, too.
But that’s exactly why I did it.
Because Ashley’s wrong about Konrad.
Was there another way to put a dent in his undeserved golden reputation? Maybe. Do I regret doing what I did? No. Ashley didn’t deserve it when I posted about her. Konrad does.
But fine. Whatever. I will get to know Konrad Wolnik better, just like Ashley said I should. Then, once and for all, I’ll prove to her and to Jodie and to the rest of the school just how shallow and selfish he really is.
I pull out my phone and pull up Konrad’s profile. I open up the direct message screen, type the words “Free tomorrow?” and hit SEND before I can change my mind.
For a couple seconds, I hold my breath. Heat blasts through my body.
Did I just invite Konrad Wolnik to hang out?
“CAMILLA
!”
Startled, I look up. Tom Dempsey walks by with his buddies, one hand covering his face, the other pointing a finger in my direction.
I scowl at him, then head to my last class of the day.
With Ashley mad at me and Jodie keeping her distance, I’m officially out of friends. I guess I must be pretty lonely because, at practice, I strike up a conversation with Eve.
“So how was your sister’s wedding?” I ask while we stretch, remembering her babbling about it in the past.
She straightens and her mouth opens, ever so slightly. “It was nice.”
“When was it again?”
“Three months ago …”
“Oh,” I say, diving to touch my toes so she can’t see how red my face has gotten. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah. It was really fun. Jerry—that’s my sister’s husband—is so great. He took her on two honeymoons already. One to Spain and one to Portugal because he said she’s so special, she deserves more than one. Isn’t that sweet? Two honeymoons in two countries?”
“It is,” I say. I don’t even bother asking if it was two separate trips because I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Thank God Eve has her athleticism going for her. “What are you doing tonight?” I ask, desperate to move on to a different topic.
“Oh,” Eve says. “I’m going to see a movie with Amanda.” Hearing her name, Amanda smiles at me from her spot by the wall. I give her a little wave.
“What movie?” I ask.
“Dance With My Heart. It’s with that blond guy with the big mole? Cute Corey? It’s supposed to be really romantic.” She stares at me, eyes brimming with unconditional hope. “Do you want to come?”
This isn’t going to work. I hate romantic comedies. I hate gushing over guys in public. Unattainable, famous ones even more than the real thing. (Okay, maybe there’s one celeb exception: the gorgeous Aidan Duvall from the Leaky Lizards.) Not that there’s much of a distinction, anyway. In my case, even before my ID, all guys have been unattainable. I don’t need mushy movies to remind me that all the ones I’ve ever liked have never liked me back.
The point is, Ashley and Jodie know all this stuff about me. They know me. As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t replace them. And I feel awful for even trying.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I already have plans tonight.”
After practice, it dawns on me that I don’t have a ride home. Mom dropped me off in the morning and Ashley was supposed to give me a lift home on her way to her shift at the Shack after school. I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen now.
Anna offers to drive me, but I’m extra tired from being extra nice to the girls, and I don’t want them to find out I really don’t have plans when I told them I did.
So, I decide to walk.
I’m maybe five minutes into my trek when a news van pulls over up ahead on my side of the street. A moment later, it spews out the familiar face of the obnoxious reporter, the same lady who nearly fell out of her car the other day trying to talk to me. Her cameraman is on her high heels within seconds.
I freeze. She looks so hungry to get to me, she might as well be carrying a big black bag to kidnap me with instead of a microphone.
“Ms. Hadi,” she says. “We’ll blur out your face—how do you feel about your social media campaign?”
I take a step back, managing to choke out a “No comment.”
“Why were there Inexplicable Development researchers at your school today? Did you speak with them?”
I inspect the sidewalk beside her. She reads my intentions and spreads her legs wider. From the corner of my eye, I detect a gray car slowing down, almost to a stop. Wonderful. This is officially becoming a spectacle.
“What have they told you?” the reporter woman presses, the tip of her microphone almost smacking me in the face. “What have you learned?”
“Can you please let me pass?”
But she just keeps spewing out questions: “Did you wish for this, and if so, why? Where do you see yourself in ten years? Where do you get the strength to keep on living like nothing happened?”
This last one feels like a slap to my face. I stand there, stiff as a board, my hands making tight fists at my sides. I think I might punch her.
“Camilla,” I hear from my right. In the gray car, a grinning Lauren Batko leans over Alan Nguyen seated behind the wheel. She tilts her head toward the back seat.
I’m perfectly capable of handling the reporter on my own; I don’t need to be saved like some damsel in distress. Plus, I barely know these two. Yet I find myself trotting over to the back door and gripping the handle. When I slip inside, the stench of weed hits my nostrils. I think I might gag.
The car jerks and we’re speeding away. Lauren’s arm is stretched out the window, middle finger aimed at the news people growing smaller and smaller behind us.
Drawing her arm back inside, Lauren turns to look at me, a big grin plastered on her face.
“What did those assholes want?” she asks, her bad-girl gaze burning into me. It makes me feel really self-conscious.
I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath, and drop my gaze to the greasy Burger King wrapper between my feet. “It doesn’t matter. Thanks.”
“No worries.”
“Why were you guys still around school?” I ask.
Lauren glances over at Alan and starts giggling. The expression looks out of place on her usual I-don’t-give-a-single-fuck-about-any-of-you face. “We were hanging out,” she says, “and then lost track of time, I guess.”
“I bet,” I say, exaggerating a sniff.
Grinning, Lauren pulls a crisp, white joint out of the front pocket of her flannel. I watch her light it. She takes a hit and offers it to me.
I push myself as far back as my seat allows. “I don’t really smoke.”
“It’ll help.”
I’m about to say, “I’m A-okay, I don’t need any help,” but I pluck the joint from her hand and stare at the smoke snaking away from its tip. Of course by “I don’t really smoke,” I meant “I’ve never smoked in my life.” The idea of tarnishing my lungs with anything other than air has always bothered me. But then again, don’t knock it until you try it, right?
I bring the joint to my lips and suck like my life depends on it. Which, of course, results in a coughing attack. I cough so hard, my throat begins to hurt. But I’m determined not to quit until I get it right. I try again. And again. All while Alan and Lauren snicker from the front seat.
Once I catch my breath, their laughing becomes infectious. I’m giggling along, unable to see anything through my watering eyes.
Lauren was right. It does help.
Apparently, while I was practicing my stoner skills, Alan pulled the car into the old supermarket’s parking lot. The abandoned brown building looms on my right. Lauren’s talking about this girl she met online who turned out to be a forty-three-year-old army veteran. “She’s kind of a MILF, though,” she says.
“I think the word you’re looking for is cougar?” Alan offers.
“No,” I say. “The word she’s looking for is child molester.”
We’re laughing. Together. And I realize these two haven’t brought up my ID even once yet. They’re not judging me. They’re not pretending to be nice, like the rest of the world. They’re just being themselves. And that makes me feel comfortable.
“How come you guys don’t hang out with Konrad Wolnik anymore?” I ask before my brain can properly process whether I should or not.
The car goes silent. Lauren sighs. “Oh, Konrad.”
“What?” I ask, a stray cough catching up with me.
“Pretty Boy thinks he’s too good for us now.”
Alan looks over his shoulder at me and smiles sadly. “His ID gave him more than big muscles. He’s got a bigger head now, too.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
Alan shrugs and turns back to face the front. “He just needs some time.”
“You guys k
now him pretty well, right?”
“Yup,” Lauren says, trying to create circles out of smoke.
“What’s he like?”
Alan’s eyes meet mine in the rearview. “Why?”
“Oh, come on,” Lauren says, poking him with her elbow. “If anyone deserves to know the real Konrad, it’s this chick.”
“I’m just curious,” I say. “He seems so perfect. Especially now.”
“He’s not,” Lauren says.
I’m intrigued. And suddenly, surprisingly lucid. “How so?”
“Well, for example, the boy might act all smooth, but he can be such an emotional mess. Like when he didn’t make the soccer team in junior high. Oh God … Or when he almost ran over that cat on the way to the city? Remember that, Alan?”
Alan snorts. “Yeah.”
“And you should’ve seen him when Sara broke up with him. Ugh.”
My heart beats faster. “What happened?”
“He begged her to keep him,” Lauren explains. “Like, crying. On his knees. Which was so weird because she treated him like shit from the beginning.” Lauren stops and sighs. “She was obviously just using him. We tried warning him, but hey, whatever. I guess you can’t control who you love. Even if that person is a total bitch.”
Alan nods in agreement. “I think that’s why he told us to fuck off after his ID. It’s like he developed a phobia of rejection or something. Because of Sara. I was just being real with him and he took it the wrong way. He probably thought I was friend-dumping him, so he panicked and dumped us first.” Alan pauses. “At least that’s my theory.”
My brain gathers this new information. Every last piece. I feel like I’m listening to something forbidden. Something not meant for my ears. I’m not sure what I’ll do with this intel just yet, but I’m more than sure that I’ve stumbled upon a gold mine.
CHAPTER 17
KONRAD
BECCA INTERRUPTS OUR FACE-SUCKING SESSION by cupping my face in one of her hands. Her grip is pretty tight.
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