Freak 'N' Gorgeous

by Sebastian J. Plata

  “It’s fine.”

  She observes me. “And what about the government officials? Are they still in touch?”

  “Yeah. They reached out to my mom. Doesn’t really matter, though. I still don’t have anything new to tell them.”

  “I see.” A few beats go by in silence. “What would you like to talk about? We can talk about anything, Camilla. Anything you need to get off your chest.”

  What do I want to talk about? I don’t even know why I came in here. I couldn’t care less about confiding in this stranger. And yet, words pour out of me. “Everything is going the way I want it to and I’m not enjoying it. Why am I not enjoying it?”

  Ms. Hughes crosses her arms and leans back. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the universe is smiling down on me for once. That doesn’t happen very often these days. And I can’t even enjoy it.”

  She lowers her chin. “Are you allowing yourself to enjoy it?”

  I lower mine. “What do you mean?”

  “Camilla, sweetheart,” she starts. I grind my teeth, but stay quiet. “You’ve been through a lot. I know it sounds cheesy, but life really is full of mountains and valleys. You were thrown into a valley, a very deep one—I hope you don’t think I’m being insulting.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Maybe now that you’re on a mountain, you’re afraid of falling back in. Either that or you don’t want to believe that you’re finally out.”

  She’s right about it sounding cheesy. But she might also be on to something. I nod.

  “Don’t look back,” she goes on. “Only forward. Don’t doubt yourself. Good things can and will happen to you.” Her rabbit mouth turns into a tiny smile. “Sounds like they already did.”

  I nod again, even returning a meek smile out of politeness.

  “Don’t be afraid of good things. You deserve them all. As much as any other student at this school. Don’t ever forget that.”

  I feel my cheeks go red and look down at my lap.

  “Do you want to share what these things are? These good things happening to you?”

  My head snaps back up. There’s no way I can tell her about my plan to publicly humiliate Konrad Wolnik. “Nope.”

  She winks at me. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Sorry. I do feel better, though.”

  “Great. Do you want to talk about anything else?”

  I shake my head. “No. I think I’m good.”

  “Everything okay at home?”

  Mom and I talk. Things have settled down after what Jodie did. We’re a functioning two-member family again. As functional as a two-member family who used to be a three-member family can be, anyway. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Thank you.”

  “How’s track?”

  “Good.”

  “You look like you’re in great shape.”

  I can’t look her in the eye. I am in better shape than immediately after my ID. Much better. I worked hard to get here. But I’m not ready for compliments yet. I don’t know if I ever will be. “Thank you,” I say anyway.

  She gives me a satisfied smile. “I’m happy for you. I really am.” Ms. Hughes leans forward. “Now go out there and enjoy yourself.”

  When I leave her office, I feel a little lighter. She’s right. I need to look forward. Focus on the final goal. I shouldn’t doubt myself before I get what I’m after. Doubt could lead to quitting and I’m not a quitter. All I have to do is free my mind of distractions.

  Distractions like the way Konrad looks at me sometimes and makes my heart jump. Like how I laugh a little too loudly when he calls me—actually calls me on the phone—and tells me about something stupid that happened on some show he saw. Or distractions like Alan and Lauren, who treat me like I’m one of them. Like I’m a friend.

  Distractions. Obstacles. Tricks. All of them leading to doubt.

  This is all part of Konrad’s selfish plan. I can’t allow myself to forget that. Questioning if there’s a chance his actions are genuine is dangerous and I need to stop.

  Because Konrad Wolnik is not kind and thoughtful. He’s a slick manipulator, who is only making sure everything goes his way. That everything benefits him and him only.

  Two more days.

  Two more days and Konrad will feel like I do all the time: not good enough.

  Before I go back to class, I realize I forgot to get a slip from Ms. Hughes, so I head back to her office. On the way, I check my phone. There are two messages from Jodie.

  My heart starts beating faster.

  The first: How are you?

  Twenty minutes later: I know you’re mad, but we should talk about Ashley.

  Ashley’s face flashes in my mind. I see her features molded in disappointment, her head shaking in disapproval.

  I stick my phone back in my pocket.

  After homecoming, after all of this is done and over with, after Konrad Wolnik finally gets what he deserves, I’m going to talk to Ashley and Jodie. I’m going to get my friends back.

  Until then, though, no more distractions. And no more doubt.

  CHAPTER 25

  KONRAD

  SNEAKERS POUNDING INTO THE TRACK, Camilla runs like an explosion’s been set off behind her. She reminds me of those superconfident chicks in the movies: Wonder Woman, Lara Croft, or Ripley from the Alien series—only with even more poise and control.

  The football team is giving it one final push before the game tomorrow, so the field—and the bleachers, as a result—is seeing a lot more action than usual. You can almost feel the excitement crackling in the air.

  I couldn’t care less about the game. Even if today is Sports Day and even if I did come to school wearing my dad’s old football uniform. Before my ID, it would’ve been a perfect fit. As is, it’s a bit too snug, especially the pants. I pull on the material to give my crotch some breathing room and turn my attention back to the female Flash owning the track.

  Now Camilla I do care about. A lot. So much so, in fact, that I’d love to scream her name right now, right from up here where I’m sitting, and ask her to be my girlfriend. Make things official. Let the world hear.

  But I’m not ready to do that. Not just yet.

  At homecoming, as soon as a slow song comes on, I’ll lean in and whisper the question in her ear. She’ll sigh and say Fine, whatever or some other quintessentially Camilla phrase. We’ll kiss the way we have so many times in my head, and the Konrad and Camilla saga will officially begin.

  And it will be legendary.

  On her final lap, Camilla runs up to the bleachers. “I’m just going to shower real quick,” she yells up to me. “Meet you at the car?”

  Like the dork that I am, I give her a thumbs-up—feeling stupid even as I do—and push myself past knees and backs so I can get down to the ground.

  People go silent when I approach. Apparently, I’ve been designated the new school asshole. Cocky, ungrateful, disloyal. A cheater. A loser. At least that’s what Becca and Tom and their friends—my former friends—want everyone to think.

  Not that it’s working. Sara’s probably loving it, I’m sure, and my yearbook picture was a hit, but I can tell the rest of the school is unsure about me. For one, Mike still talks to me. Which, by the way, is beyond weird. The douchebag who used to make me cringe more than anyone—the guy my ex-girlfriend left me for—is the only popular kid who stuck around. Mike Rogers is someone I actually don’t mind calling my friend now. Who would’ve thought?

  Then, of course, people see me with Camilla. They love her. More than they ever loved me. And if Camilla herself doesn’t mind me, then I can’t be that bad, right?

  Except for Alan and Lauren, nobody knows I’m taking her to homecoming. And I want to keep things that way. When the time comes, when I’m holding her in an embrace as we dance, let people gasp. Let Becca’s jaw drop. I’ll enjoy watching her scrape it off the gym floor.

  “Thanks for waiting,” Camilla says, throwing her backpack and duffel bag in the back seat of the car.
Her hair is still damp. What is it about wet hair that makes women look so much sexier? The door thwacks as she pulls it shut.

  “That was fast,” I tell her, genuinely surprised at her speed.

  “I don’t like keeping people waiting,” she says, leaning back into her seat. She turns to me, eyebrows arching. “So the mall, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say and turn the key.

  Today, I asked her to help me pick out an outfit for homecoming. Dad even let me borrow his debit card for the occasion. Obviously, I couldn’t care less about what I end up wearing. It’s just an excuse to spend time with her.

  Before I back out of my spot, I grab my phone and pick out a song. All Camilla needs is a millisecond to realize it’s the Leaky Lizards.

  “Nice,” she says. I catch a small smile on her face, but it quickly disappears. Too quickly.

  “You all right?” I ask.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  If there’s one thing I learned about Camilla Hadi, it’s that it’s best not to pry. I stay quiet and bob my head to the music as I try to focus on driving the car with my clumsy shoulder pads and the smell of Camilla’s shampoo in the air.

  “Those pants look really tight,” she says.

  A grin weaves its way onto my face. Is Camilla paying attention to my lower half? If so, I’m definitely not against it.

  At the mall, I suggest we get smoothies. Organic ones because I know she likes to keep healthy. Slurping on them, we walk around, side by side, not unlike a real couple. Even though my legs are much longer than hers, I love how she never falls behind. She saunters with her chin high, ignoring the stares we draw from the people we pass.

  We. Us. The confident short girl and the tall, fake football player with a stupid grin that refuses to leave his face. “How about this place?” she says, veering into a store without even waiting for a response. I follow her and we wade through the racks. Or, rather, she does. All I’m really doing is watching her. She turns and says accusingly, “You’re not even looking.”

  “Yes I am!” I shuffle my hand through a nearby display.

  “I don’t think you need a down jacket for homecoming.”

  My lips pull back in a guilty, five-year-old grin. “Whatever you pick, I’m going to wear.”

  Camilla shakes her head in warning. “Not a good idea. I’ve never shopped for a guy before.”

  My eyebrows hike up. “Really? What about ex-boyfriends?”

  “Nope.” Her face hardens and she turns away.

  I never heard anything about her dating anyone from school, but I assumed there must’ve been someone in her past at some point. My whole body starts to pulse as a thought enters my mind: Am I going to be Camilla’s first boyfriend? What if I’m her first everything? That’s a lot of pressure. The prospect both scares and thrills me.

  “Pants size?” she asks.

  “28-30,” I blurt, realizing as soon as it’s out of my mouth that I’m giving her my pre-Development measurements. “Sorry,” I say, quickly. “I mean 32-34.” My cheeks sear. Everything’s going so well. Why did I have to bring up our IDs?

  She nods to herself, clearly understanding the slipup. Because she does. Better than anyone. But if the reminder bothers her, she doesn’t show it. She grabs a pair of black dress pants and throws them over her elbow, adding them to the blazer and white button-down already hooked there. “I’m wearing navy,” she tells me, passing the bundle of clothes over to me. “Go grab a tie that matches and try ’em on. I’ll be by the fitting rooms.”

  Once I find a classic navy tie—with the help of an unusually touchy-feely female sales assistant who ambushes me out of nowhere—I spot a very shiny, silky-looking yellow dress shirt hanging nearby. Without a second thought, I snatch it, hiding it under the other clothes.

  Camilla’s in front of the fitting rooms as promised. “She’s pretty,” she says without looking at me, continuing to pretend-browse through a rack of T-shirts.

  “Who?” I ask, catching on about the clerk a beat too late. Is Camilla jealous? To be jealous, you have to care. I feel a happy little tickle inside.

  Camilla doesn’t answer. She plops onto a nearby bench and pulls out her phone, then shoots me a look like, What are you waiting for?

  “I think I’m going to try these on,” I say.

  “Yup,” she answers without looking up from the screen.

  Inside the fitting room, I pull myself out of my dad’s jersey. The T-shirt I have on underneath goes off with it. Next, I squeeze out of the football pants until I’m standing in front of the mirror in my briefs and socks.

  My new body’s not as toned as it was when I first saw it from the top of my bathtub. Unless you count playing video games and walking up stairs at school, I haven’t exactly been taking care of it. The bigger appetite I’ve had for the past few weeks clearly hasn’t helped either. But although it’s obvious I’ve been slacking off, one thing is still certain:

  I’m still hot.

  And I still don’t look like I’m related to anyone in my family.

  A sigh sneaks past my lips. When I’m alone, I don’t take selfies anymore. I don’t check myself out in every reflective surface I come across. I guess you could say becoming superhot is like getting money as a gift. You love it, you’re excited—you think you can get anything you want. It’s great. For a while. But with time, you forget you ever got it in the first place.

  I slip my legs into the pants and push my arms into the sleeves of the shiny yellow shirt I managed to sneak in without Camilla seeing—which, by the way, turns out to have a giant frill on the chest. It’s even more flamboyant than I thought.

  Unbuttoning the shirt’s top three buttons, I step out from my fitting room. “What do you think?” I ask, Don Juan-style, my hands on my hips, my face aimed into the distance.

  Camilla rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a smile. “You look like a tacky flamenco dancer,” she says.

  “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

  Her eyes narrow. “I dare you to wear that.”

  I narrow mine back at her. “To the dance?”

  “Yup.”

  I nod. “We wouldn’t really match. As you can see, this isn’t exactly navy.”

  She shrugs, smirking. “As you can see, I don’t care.”

  I don’t falter. “Okay then,” I say, popping back into the fitting room to change back into my football gear. When I come out, I beeline straight for the register.

  “I was kidding!” Camilla says running up behind me. But there’s a snicker in her voice.

  The girl who helped me with the tie rings me up. She looks at the yellow shirt, at me, at Camilla, then at me again. “I was kidding,” Camilla repeats from beside me, officially chuckling now. “We’re going to look like the Chiquita banana lady split in half.”

  With a lift of my chin, I urge the clerk to continue. Her face twists in confusion, but she completes the transaction anyway. The yellow shirt must really be silk, because it’s a lot more expensive than I anticipated. Dad will definitely regret lending me his card when he sees the bill.

  “You’re an idiot,” Camilla says as we walk out of the store, a big paper bag swinging from my arm. But she’s still laughing.

  I’m in such a good mood, I want to commemorate the moment. I need to commemorate the moment. So I put down the shopping bag, take out my phone, sweep her in closer, and snap a photo. When I let her go, I’m disappointed to find that Camilla’s no longer smiling.

  We walk back the rest of the way to the car in silence. Shopping bag in the back seat, I turn to her and announce my secret surprise plan for the evening. It’ll definitely improve her mood. “There’s this great Turkish restaurant downtown. Five stars on Yelp! It’s actually not far from the place where we saw the Leaky Lizards. You hungry?”

  Camilla doesn’t say anything. She’s looking straight ahead, but I know she heard me. She’s breathing heavily.

  “What is it?” I ask.

&
nbsp; Still, she says nothing.

  “You don’t want to go? We don’t have to. I just … I don’t know. I love Turkish food and thought we could try a bunch of different things together.” I pause. Panic zaps through me. “Oh God, do you hate it? We can totally go somewhere else if you hate it.”

  More silence. She turns away.

  “Camilla?” I try to take her hand, but she snatches it away. She slips both of her hands between her thighs, where they’re clearly off limits.

  I slump in my seat, ashamed. “Did I do something? Was I being racist? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed … It’s just … you mentioned that—”

  “No,” she finally says. “I don’t think you were being racist. It’s actually very sweet. It’s just that … I can’t. I have to study tonight.”

  “Oh, okay. No problem. You want me to take you home?”

  She’s still looking out the window. “Yeah, thanks.”

  Five minutes later, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “It’s because I made you think of your dad, right? I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea.”

  “It’s fine,” she says. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?” she says, shaking her head. But there’s anger in her voice now. Despite the big knot in my chest, I don’t say anything else because I know she doesn’t want me to, until I pull up in front of her house.

  “See you in school tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Um,” she says. “I don’t think I’ll go tomorrow. My mom’s got a day off and we’re supposed to see my aunt.”

  The knot tightens. I’m finding it hard to breathe.

  “What about the game?” I ask. “And the dance?”

  Hand on the door handle, ready to pull, she turns to look me in the eyes. “I’ll be back in the afternoon. But I don’t think I’ll make it to the game.” She forces a smile. It’s utterly unconvincing. “I’ll meet you at school for the dance? Say, eight o’clock?”

  I nod. “I’m really sorry,” I manage to spit out, my voice catching in my throat. But the words are too weak, and the slam of the car door mutes them anyway.

  My heart pounding in my ears, I watch her scurry away, willing her to look back at me before she disappears behind her front door. She doesn’t. And I know—as painful as it is, as much as I wish it weren’t true—that tomorrow, at eight o’clock, she won’t be showing up.