Most of his days are spent behind the wheel, so I should be feeling bad about making him drive back into the city in his off-hours, but I’m not able to because, holy shit, tonight was a hell of a lot of fun and Camilla is awesome.
Yes, she ditched me. Yes, she’s as mean to me as hammer is to a nail. And yes, she’s not answering my messages. None of that matters. Thinking about her makes me feel like a kid again. Like I’m on an adventure. And every time I do, my heart rate picks up and I get a stupid smirk on my face. I know this because Dad asks why I have a stupid smirk on my face.
“No reason,” I tell him. “I just had fun, I guess.”
“Hmm. Even though your friend ditched you?”
“Yup.”
“Who is this friend anyway?”
“Just a girl,” I say.
“Just a girl,” he repeats, shaking his head.
But she’s more than just a girl, isn’t she? If she weren’t, I wouldn’t already be trying to figure out how to see her again, would I? “What’s new with you, Dad?” I ask him, both because I’m in a good mood and because I want to make up for wasting his evening off.
“Oh,” he says, his mood instantly improved. “Not much. Had two customers go to the airport this morning. Both generous tippers.”
“Nice. So dinner’s on you, then?”
He laughs. “I already had Mom’s schnitzel, but I can get you something on the way if you want. Hungry?”
“Nah,” I say. “I’m kidding. I’ll grab something at home.”
For a while, we drive engulfed in a comfortable silence. The streetlights outside dance across Dad’s face, casting shadows across his proud, hooked nose. I feel a pinch of regret. I look nothing like him, and for the first time since my Development, I’m not happy about that.
“It was Camilla,” I say because I feel an urge to share something personal with him. Something that will underscore the fact that he’s still my father and I’m still his son.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“The girl I was with tonight. It was Camilla Hadi. She’s the one who had the other Inexplicable Development.”
Dad’s quiet for a moment. His expression suggests he’s connecting the dots. “Oh,” he says. “That’s very nice of you to be spending time with her.”
“I’m not doing it to be nice. I don’t really care what she looks like.”
He’s quiet again. When I glance his way, I see that he’s fighting back a smile.
“What?” I ask. “Funny, right? Especially coming from me?”
He tilts his head. “A little bit.” There’s a pause before he speaks again. “So why did she leave you stranded tonight?”
I sigh. “Because she hates me.”
Dad nods like he expected to hear just that. “She blames you for what happed to her,” he says, like it’s fact.
“She told me that she doesn’t, but she obviously does. And I get it, I’d blame me, too, if I were her.” I let out another sigh. “I don’t know how to get her to like me.”
“Why do you care so much if she likes you?”
My voice shrinks. “I don’t know. She’s cool, I guess.”
The car slows a bit. “What makes her cool?”
“She’s just so real,” I say. “So passionate about things. She’s confident and determined, even though she had this terrible thing happen to her. She’s brave—she’s not afraid of anything, it seems. I admire her for that. She always tells it like it is. Doesn’t care about what people think, doesn’t suck up to people. Doesn’t pretend to be something she’s not. She’s just interesting. I’m interested in her.” I stop, suddenly embarrassed, not only because I realize I’m rambling, but also because I hear the implication behind my words.
“Well,” Dad says, chuckling, “she sure does sound cool.”
I’m glad it’s dark, because I’m clearly blushing. “I mean, I don’t know. I just want to get to know her better.”
Dad’s nodding. “Sounds like you should.” He pauses. “By the way, what happened to that cute cheerleader you’re supposedly dating?”
I look at him. “Becca? How do you know about that?”
“Arthur.”
“Oh.”
“So?”
“Nothing happened,” I say, realizing I haven’t thought about Becca once today. “We’re still together, I guess.”
“So what’s wrong with her?”
I don’t answer right away. “Nothing. She’s ambitious. And superintelligent, actually; she wants to be a brain surgeon. And obviously she’s beautiful. Everybody wants to date her.”
“But you don’t?”
I look out the window as Dad stops at a red light. In another car, a middle-aged woman is picking her nose. “I thought I did …”
We start moving again. “Well,” he says, “if you like this Camilla girl, and I think we already established that you do, then don’t give up.”
I remember Camilla dancing next to me at the concert. Smiling. Happy. I got a glimpse of a side of her I’d never seen before. I turn to Dad and ask, “Is that how you got Mom to talk to you again after the whole Aunt Elizabeth debacle?”
Dad chuckles. “Mom told you that story?”
“Yup.”
“That’s funny. But yes. Exactly. I didn’t give up.” His brow knots. “You have to play it cool, though. Can’t be too desperate. Desperation is a turnoff. Women can smell it a mile away.”
A pleasant warmth sparks in my chest. This type of bonding is new territory for us. I think I like it. “Noted.”
“Oh. And surprise her,” he adds. “Women love surprises. The bigger the better.”
Smiling, I look out the window on my side. “Dzięki, tato,” I say, switching to Polish. I don’t use it very often, and I’m not very good at it, but I know that saying “Thanks, Dad” in our native tongue will feel that much more special to both of us.
All throughout Sunday, I heed my dad’s advice and give Camilla her space. I have to play it cool and not act desperate, which means no more “Are you okay?” messages and no more checking my phone every five seconds.
This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.
Monday is even worse; I see her between classes, and all I want to do is go up to her and apologize for the mess Saturday night turned out to be. There are other things I want to do as well, but I’ll keep that between me and the almost-empty box of tissues in my room for now.
Camilla doesn’t even look in my direction once. Clearly, she doesn’t seem as interested in me as I am in her (yet!), but, judging from the way her face tenses and the slight wrinkle on her forehead when I’m looking at her, she’s definitely aware of me and is only pretending I don’t exist. I choose to take this as a positive sign.
At lunchtime, I position myself at the edge of the cafeteria table. Becca sits next to me, nibbling on one greasy french fry while she talks to Carrie about Coachella. From here, I have the perfect vantage point of the whole room.
Camilla’s sitting with the girls from the track team, no Jodie or Ashley in sight. She seems captivated by her salad. I’m staring at her when Mike and Tom arrive balancing burgers on their trays. If Tom’s eyes could murder, I’d be dead by now.
Oh yeah, there was that one other thing that happened over the weekend.
Becca gets up and steps out from behind the table. “Tom,” she barks, making him freeze just before he can sit down at the other end. “Come here,” she orders, her arms crossing under her breasts. With a flip of her finger, she urges me to stand up as well. I sigh, but oblige. “You were both drunk. Things got out of control. Let’s forgive and forget,” she says, flawlessly executing her role as mediator.
I glance over at Tom. His lip is still a little swollen, but other than that, he looks fine. I guess I did more damage in my head than in reality. His eyes meet mine and we both look at the floor.
“Let’s go,” Becca commands. “Shake on it.”
My hand is the first to extend. I shouldn’t
have punched him. Violence is bad. Tom was just being the idiot he usually is. Blah blah blah. I still think he’s an asshole for talking about Camilla that way, but I made that more than clear with my fist.
Tom takes my hand, but something in his eyes tells me he’s not ready to go skipping around in a meadow with me just yet.
“Great,” Becca announces, plopping back into her seat.
As if on cue, Sara shuffles over to our table with her own tray and glues herself to Mike’s side. She gives Becca and Carrie a small wave, but they only reply with obligatory nods. I must be in a grudge-dismissing mood because I find myself sending her a smile.
What can I say? I’m starting to feel bad for the girl. When we dated, she took up ninety-nine percent of my brain. Now she’s at zero. It’s almost sad how someone can cease to exist for you like that. In a sense, I should be grateful to her, too. She did teach me that being in love can be incredible. I still want that from life. Only, in the future, I want the real, two-way deal.
She doesn’t smile back, but her face flushes and she drops her gaze to her plate.
I redirect my attention to the track table. The girl next to Camilla, the one who always looks like she’s about to throw up—is her name Eve?—catches me gawking and smiles. I look away, embarrassed, and my eyes land on Alan and Lauren. This time, I curb my gaze to my lap. My ears get even warmer. I wish my issues with them were a grudge I could dismiss just as easily.
“All hail the Queen of the Nerds,” I hear Tom grumble.
Jackie Baker strides over to his side of the table. I haven’t talked to her much since she conducted her interview for the school blog about my ID. For a second, I wonder if we did it again today, if I’d still answer her questions the same way. Taking off her glasses, she stands over us and wipes them down with a handkerchief. “Hello,” she says.
“Hi, Jackie,” Becca chirps on everyone’s behalf. She’s being nice, but the air of charitableness she’s exuding is not lost on anyone.
“So,” Jackie continues, “as you may know, the daily themes for Spirit Week are listed online. Also, congratulations Mike, Konrad, Becca, and Carrie.” She makes sure to look at each of us as she says our names. “You’re all official nominees for the sophomore homecoming court. The winners will be announced at the dance on Friday.”
Carrie and Becca high-five each other. Mike leans toward me, fist first. I bump it half-heartedly. “I’m nominated?” I ask no one in particular.
Becca gives me a look I can’t quite decipher, but if I were to guess, I’d say she’s thinking about cutting my chest open and making holes in my heart with the fork she’s holding. “Why wouldn’t you be?” she asks, almost offended.
“When did this happen?”
Jackie shows a little more compassion. “When did what happen?”
“When was I nominated?”
“Last week.”
“Oh …”
“Right,” Jackie says with a note of finality. “I’ll go notify the freshman nominees now.”
“Thanks, Jackie!” Carrie yells after her, giggling like we’ve just had an encounter with a different species. I tune her out, though, because I’m freaking nominated for homecoming king. Or is it prince? Whatever. It doesn’t even matter. All that matters is that my heart is pounding super hard because I finally know what I can surprise Camilla with.
“Okay,” Carrie says, suddenly captivated by her phone screen. Becca’s head is hovering over it, too. “Monday is Pajama Day.”
Becca rolls her eyes. “Boring.”
Carrie clears her throat and continues. “Tuesday, Drag Day—yass! Wednesday—Looks Don’t Matter.” She pauses and glances at me. I feel a burn of embarrassment. “Thursday is Sports Day and Friday is School Colors,” she finishes with a shrug. “Pretty standard stuff.”
“Except for Looks Don’t Matter,” Sara mumbles.
“What?” Mike complains. “My Lingerie Day didn’t make it?”
“And thank God for that,” Carrie says. “I do not want to see some people in their underwear.” Instinctively, her comment makes me look at Tom. Just as expected, he’s glaring at me. I glare right back. Carrie turns to Becca, face lighting up. “Oh! Did you decide if you’re going to wear the strapless blue or the silver?”
Becca’s reply is much less enthusiastic. “The blue, I think,”
“What’s Konrad wearing?” Carrie asks. “Are you guys going to match?”
Becca looks over at me, her glare even more intense than Tom’s. It dawns on me that I still haven’t asked her to the dance. Dread presses on me like a heavy leather jacket.
I still haven’t asked her. And I’m not going to. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. I’m going to ask Camilla Hadi, and if I have any hope of her saying yes, of her taking me even a little bit seriously, I’m going to have to break up with Becca first.
CHAPTER 20
CAMILLA
ASHLEY’S NOT AROUND WHEN I try to find her at lunch, so I decide to wait for her in the parking lot after school.
Leaning against her car, I cross and uncross my arms. I have no idea what to expect. It took her fourteen hours to write me back after I sent her that picture of Konrad before the Lizards concert, and all I got in return was a thumbs-up emoji.
I really hope she’ll talk to me. I need her back in my life. I need my rock.
Through Jodie’s sunglasses, I watch kids get into their cars and drive off. Two freshmen I don’t even know do the hand-on-the-face thing. It pisses me off, so I give them the finger. When will this end? When will I be able to come to school and not be reminded of what I look like?
My stomach grumbles. It’s not that I’ve been starving myself—although Mom would probably disagree. I’m just trying to get my body into the best shape it can be. It might be time for a slipup, though. As soon as I get home, I’m whipping out the Oreos.
After what feels like an eternity, Ashley steps out of the building. My heartbeat shifts into a higher gear. She’s not blinking, and her eyes are aimed at the ground, like she’s lost deep in thought. She only notices me standing there when I say, “Hey.”
Startled, she looks up. Her face relaxes, but she looks almost disappointed to see that it’s just me. “Hey,” she replies.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head but can’t hold my gaze. “Nothing.”
“You sure?” I catch her eye and feel a chill slither down my spine.
“I’m sure.”
I nod, eager to move on, but also hurt. I hate this wall that’s sprung between us. “So,” I say. “I hung out with Konrad over the weekend.”
She sighs, like this conversation—or maybe the person she’s having it with—is tiring her out. “And?”
“And I still think he’s a self-indulgent jerk.”
Ashley shrugs. “Maybe he is. Maybe everyone is. Who knows?”
I try to read her expression. This is so unlike her. She’s either not telling me something or she’s even more pissed at me than I thought.
“Ashley,” I say, quietly. “You can talk to me.”
She makes her way to the driver’s side. “I know,” she replies, but it doesn’t sound like she believes it. Before I can say anything else, she adds, “Sorry. Can’t give you a ride today. I have to go to work early. Bethany begged me to cover for her.”
“No problem,” I say, like it’s no big deal. Even though it is.
“I can give you a ride,” chirps a male voice behind me.
My skin tightens. Jesus Christ. Why him? Why now?
“No thanks,” I say, without even turning. I wonder how much he’s heard. Not that it would matter. It’s not like it’s a secret that I hate his guts.
“See you guys later,” Ashley calls as her head disappears under the car roof.
“ASHLEY!” I yell, refusing to believe she’s about to strand me here alone with Konrad Wolnik, but she starts the car, an unlit cigarette already in her mouth. I watch her drive off, hoping, praying, that Konrad wi
ll be gone when I turn around.
“Congratulations on your homecoming nomination!”
I cringe, recognizing this voice, too. Dammit. That means Konrad’s still there. “I’m definitely voting for you,” Eve tells him as she heads toward her car followed by Amanda.
“Thanks,” he answers.
Eve waves to me with something like awe, or maybe envy, in her eyes. “Bye, Camilla! See you tomorrow!”
I wave back half-heartedly.
Konrad and I are now officially alone. Slowly, I turn to face him. My eyes take in his height, his broad shoulders, the perfectly messy lock of hair decorating his forehead. I stare at him longer than I should, and curse myself for my weakness.
“What else do you want from me?” I ask, a little too loudly. “I don’t get it.”
He’s grinning. Like the concert disaster wasn’t such a big deal. Like he has no idea my life would be better if he had never been born. “You missed a great show on Saturday.”
“Stop it,” I say, boring my eyes into his. “I ditched you, remember?”
He winces, his grin wavering. “Let me give you a ride.”
“No.”
“All right,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “How about we make it more than just a ride? There’s this little Polish joint I know. Their naleśniki are delicious.”
I stare at him. Not because I have no idea what the hell naleśniki are—although the word delicious did catch my stomach’s attention. I’m staring because I’m trying to figure out why he seems to think I’d ever want to spend another second with him.
“They’re like Polish crepes,” he explains, even though no one asked him. “I think you should try the white cheese ones. With blueberries on top. They’re the best.”
The invitation seems genuine. His temple is even glistening with sweat, which makes me think he’s nervous and might be taking this seriously. But there’s no way, absolutely zero possibility, that a guy who looks like Konrad would genuinely want to hang out with a girl who looks like me. Best to remain neutral until further notice.
“I’m walking home,” I say. “I need to get back in shape, anyway.”
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