DecOlan: ha. 16. homeschooled.
KnuckLise99: cool. i guess. or is it?
DecOlan: Beats flipping burgers at Mickey D’s.
KnuckLise99: don’t you miss being around other kids? friends?
DecOlan: yeah, i need to get me some of those.
DecOlan: interested?
I chuckle out loud, amused. I don’t know if he’s serious or joking, but I’m flattered. And, what’s the harm?
KnuckLise99: lol. sure why not?
DecOlan: because most people think we’re unsocialized freaks.
KnuckLise99: r u?
DecOlan: dunno. test me.
KnuckLise99: ok. favorite book?
KnuckLise99: movie?
KnuckLise99: tv show?
And here’s where it gets weird. It’s crazy how much we have in common! Not just liking Brass Knuckles, but also our all-time favorite book (The Great Gatsby) and movie (Clueless), and even little things, like hating artichokes but loving asparagus, which we agree is downright eerie. I finally ask why he hasn’t been on the fan page before, and he tells me that his parents have been really strict about letting him use social media, and have only just given in, now that he finally turned sixteen (“insane, right?”). I hear my mom calling me down to dinner, and even though I’m still mad at her, I’m also suddenly ravenous since I barely picked at my lunch.
KnuckLise99: mom calling. gtg.
DecOlan: ok. maybe we can talk later?
KnuckLise99: sure.
DecOlan: later, gator.
I head downstairs, for some reason unable to stop smiling. Missing the concert still completely blows, but I take some small comfort that in this whole sucktastic universe, at least I am not alone.
Chapter 4
NOELLE
I know nothing about being a guy.
That much is clear.
Eva, of course, had no problem posing as Declan. Her fingers flying over the keyboard, she chatted forever with Annalise about this and that. Music and books and whatnot, parroting back Annalise’s likes without her suspecting a thing, Tori and me watching in awe over her shoulder the whole time.
The two of them thought it was soooo hilarious. How Annalise lapped it all up—that she and “Declan” just “happened” to share the same favorite song, the same books, even the same food likes and dislikes, all lifted right from her old posts.
But then they broke for dinner and Eva went home, dumping the whole crazy project in my lap, saying I should take over since she and Tori were going to be much too busy with after-school play rehearsals. Now, I have no clue how to pick up where she left off. What, exactly, do guys say to girls they’re trying to hit on, online? I sit staring at the keyboard, trying to figure out where to begin. How a guy—our guy, our made up, fictional guy, Declan O’Keefe, who is a real person but not exactly—would sweet talk a girl.
Hey.
Wassup?
Yo.
That’s how most guys at my school talk, as if monosyllabic grunts pass for scintillating conversation. Except for Cooper, my inner voice pipes in. He’s the only guy I know who’s easy to talk to. Then again, he’s like that with everyone. If Cooper had a motto, it would be: I never met a man I didn’t like. And he sure doesn’t have any trouble yakking away to Annalise in math every day.
The trouble is I’m a complete novice in the guy department. Eva’s been dating Amos forever, and Tori’s had guys pursuing her since she was in vitro. I’m the only one who’s had practically no interaction with the male species, thanks to my dumb reputation as a brain. Just my crush on Cooper, dating back to when our parents enrolled us in Little Quackers Preschool down in our church basement when we were three. Problem is, in his eyes, I haven’t matured any since then. He still treats me like I’m his sandbox buddy, just minus the sand.
“Charm her, tell her she’s hot, whatever you have to do,” Eva had instructed me as she flounced her way out the door, probably seeing the look of panic on my face. “This is for you, Noelle,” she pointedly reminded me. “For you and Cooper, right?” So now, like always, I’m doing what she told me to. After dinner with my parents, I escape back to my room and log in again as “Declan.” I send a message saying, you there? to Annalise, then sit, staring at the screen, waiting nervously to see if she will respond. Within seconds, she does. Before I can come up with something else to say, she has a question for me.
KnuckLise99: forgot to ask before—why didn’t *you* get tickets?
Good question, right? If I’m such a Knucklie, why didn’t I get tickets? I grope around for a reason that sounds legit. Money issues? Scheduling conflict? Strict parents?
DecOlan: i’m grounded.
DecOlan: no phone.
DecOlan: no outings.
DecOlan: computer for “educational purposes” only. <
I smile, pleased that I landed on this response, which serves two purposes. This way, if Annalise wants to meet, or get my number to text me, I have a built-in excuse. No cell, no going out for the time being.
KnuckLise99: aw. what for?
For what? Another good question. I break into a sweat. Lying in real time is harder than it looks. What do guys our age get grounded for, anyway? Downloading porn, most likely. But I don’t want her thinking “Declan” is some creepy perv. Smoking? No way, I’m pretty sure Annalise wouldn’t go for a guy with stinky ashtray breath. Getting busted for drinking? I decide to play coy until I can think of a convincing misdeed.
DecOlan: i’d tell you . . .
DecOlan: but first I’d have to know you better ;)
I hit return and hold my breath. Too bold? Too obvious? There’s a pause, while I wait for Annalise to reply. I wonder what she’s thinking. Then, she finally types a response:
KnuckLise99: there’s not much to know.
DecOlan: i doubt that.
KnuckLise99: trust me.
DecOlan: ok. well then . . . what’s your sign?
KnuckLise99: gemini.
KnuckLise99: why? do you believe in astrology?
DecOlan: nope.
DecOlan: those were my dad’s first words to my mom. true story.
KnuckLise99: <
DecOlan: well i’m here aren’t i?
KnuckLise99: theoretically.
DecOlan: lol.
KnuckLise99: still, a little dated, as pick up lines go . . .
DecOlan: i’d call it, timeless.
DecOlan: and who says i’m trying to pick you up? <
KnuckLise99: riiiiight.
KnuckLise99: so does that line work on all the girls?
DecOlan: dunno. first time at bat.
KnuckLise99: <
DecOlan: how am i doing so far?
KnuckLise99: honestly, pretty mediocre. C-
DecOlan: <
KnuckLise99: ok maybe a C+. <
DecOlan: ooof. tough critic. here’s a better question.
KnuckLise99: shoot.
DecOlan: is your relationship status really single?
KnuckLise99: yes.
DecOlan: i find that hard to believe.
KnuckLise99: why?
DecOlan: come on. <
Even from a digital distance, I can tell Annalise is smiling. She must be. What girl wouldn’t be eating this up? I know I would. Instead, she abruptly changes the subject.
KnuckLise99: then don’t.
KnuckLise99: my turn.
KnuckLise99: how come *your* status is single?
DecOlan: tough to meet cute chicks when you’re homeschooled and dad’s your wingman.
KnuckLise99: homeschooled? you’re not part of some crazy religious cult, trapped in your basement?
DecOlan: ha ha, no.
KnuckLise99: child star?
DecOlan: i wish.
KnuckLise99: not dying of some horrible terminal illness before your time?
&nbs
p; DecOlan: nothing that dramatic. my dad can’t stand govt skul rules.
DecOlan: crazy union teachers teaching to the test.
DecOlan: yadda yadda.
KnuckLise99: so what do you do all day?
The question catches me off guard. What do homeschooled kids do all day? How should I know? I just start making it up, based on the little Eva had told me about Declan and my imagination.
DecOlan: ya know. worksheets all morning. then freedom the rest of the day. i read. sketch. play online chess. there’s meetups, sometimes. at museums and stuff. with other families.
DecOlan: wow. typing that out makes me realize how completely lame my life is.
KnuckLise99: no. it just sounds pretty . . . solitary.
DecOlan: yeah. it’s not a bunch of pep rallies and prom committees.
KnuckLise99: ha! so not my life.
DecOlan: at least you’re around actual humans all day long.
KnuckLise99: assuming the kids at my school are human. KnuckLise99: plus, ever heard the expression alone in a crowd?
That comment throws me. I pause, startled to hear my earlier thoughts echoed back at me. I know I feel that way around Tori and Eva, but does she really feel that way, too? I mean, true, she’s not on the pep squad, but Annalise is not some total outcast. She has friends. Well, a friend. Isn’t she always with that tall, sarcastic girl with the glasses, what’s her name, Mauve? Maeve. Then again, we had been pretty harsh after the Amos incident and most of the girls in our grade had taken our side. I wonder if she is speaking the truth. Or at least, her truth.
I shake my head, trying to shoo away sympathy like a pesky housefly that won’t leave me alone. I know what Eva would say. She asked for it, didn’t she? With what she did? And she sure doesn’t seem to mind all the male attention she gets as a result. Including Cooper.
DecOlan: come on. you don’t strike me as the loner type.
DecOlan: you sure don’t look like a girl who sits home Saturday night.
There. What girl doesn’t want to hear that a guy thinks she’s hot? Apparently, Annalise. Because she shoots back a terse reply.
KnuckLise99: where do you get that?
Whoa. Red alert. Somehow, I have majorly offended her. This conversation is headed in the entirely wrong direction.
DecOlan: i just meant—
KnuckLise99: cuz, you don’t really know me.
KnuckLise99: you don’t know anything about me.
What happened? I thought this was going so well. If I screw this up, Eva and Tori are going to think I am pathetic. And Cooper is going to slip away. My fingers fly back to the keyboard, but I am too late.
KnuckLise99: this was a mistake.
DecOlan: wait.
KnuckLise99: i gotta go.
DecOlan: no.
DecOlan: please.
DecOlan: i’m—
Before I can type another word, I see her user name has gone gray. She is gone.
DecOlan: —sorry.
Chapter 5
ANNALISE
How. Dare. He.
This Declan O’Keefe, making all sorts of assumptions about me, based on what? You don’t look like a girl who sits home Saturday night. It’s obviously code for, you look like a slut. Right? Except, where was he getting that from? I scroll back through our convo, trying to see if I’d written anything to give that impression. Did I miss something? Why did I start spilling my guts to some random guy I don’t even know? I should have known better.
Obviously, Declan had wasted no time checking out my profile photo. And all right, sure, I’d done the same to him, but I still can’t help but feel a little . . . what? Offended? Invaded? Anyway, the image I’d uploaded was a carefully chosen, casual head shot, nothing racy at all. I enlarge it and study my own face, trying to figure out what Declan had seen. Curly reddish-brown hair. Petite nose. Plump lips. Does something about me give off some slutty vibe? Some Scarlet A, just like in that god-awful boring Hawthorne book—except the “A” stands for Annalise instead of adulteress? Maybe that’s why Amos targeted me in the first place.
Well, forget it. This Declan is obviously just like every other guy on the planet. Like my own father, even. Not to be trusted, like my mom is always saying, and—happy now, Mother?—turned out to be right. I had been feeling a smidgeon of guilt for never calling my dad back, but why bother? He has a new family now, a new city, a new life. Spending time this summer with him, my stepmonster, and the toddler twins, a fifth wheel to his perfect new family, made all that perfectly clear. So instead of calling him back, I turn to the only thing that always makes me feel better. I put on my favorite Brass Knuckles playlist, pop my earbuds in my ears so my mom won’t complain the music is too loud, and think about Viggo Witts, who would never let me down.
I troll online for anything new on the band and something pops up: a video interview posted on Buzznewz, where Viggo talks in his adorable accent about how the world is full of bling-bling fakety-fakers, and how he came up with the idea for his soon-to-be released song “Inner Beauty” after his D-list wannabe ex-girlfriend, Skye, the Abercrombie model, dragged him to New York’s Fashion Week. All the other fangirls on the Brass Knuckles feed had been threatened by her freakish beauty, but I never was. It was so obvious that their two-week fling was just a dumb publicity stunt.
When the clip ends, a pop-up ad teasing the latest issue of Seventeen online catches my eye: HATE YOUR BODY? LEARN TO LOVE IT!!! I click, and there is the obligatory quiz, which I quickly scan:
You are invited to a pool party. You:
Decline.
Show up in a tankini.
Show up in a bikini.
Show up in a one-piece bathing suit—covered by a burka.
Even more useless is the fashion spread, where all the girls have body issues, like a tiny bit of muffin top, or thick ankles, or a flat chest, all one . . . two . . . three . . . presto! fixed with a simple fashion tip (Spanx! gladiator sandals! a Miracle Bra!) from the editors (click here to purchase!) that magically cure their perceived flaws. None of which would work on my boob problem.
When I’d begged my mom for a reduction last year, she had sighed and told me that those were only for teens who were grotesquely huge, and whose backs ached all the time, and could interfere with breastfeeding (ick) a baby someday—which as far as I was concerned was a total bonus. You’re just on the curvy side, she’d told me. Consider yourself lucky. Lucky?? She’d told me we could talk about it in another year or two, once I’d definitely stopped growing. Hold on, I might be still growing?? What she didn’t say was that the procedure was crazy expensive and probably wasn’t covered by health insurance. I’d started a secret boob reduction kitty, but so far, my stash consisted of about $387 of birthday checks from my dad, allowance, and babysitting money, which wouldn’t even cover the cost of the anesthesia.
My mom doesn’t seem to get that my boobs have ruined my life. How their surprise appearance in seventh grade tanked my spot on the Flip It! competitive gymnastics team, which I’d only been doing since I was five, sure that I’d grow up to be the next Aly Raisman and win the gold for the US of A. It was obvious, when I saw the lineup of petite flat-chested girls that made the team, that the problem wasn’t my technique or my dedication or my flexibility, it was obviously my, ahem, newfound physique.
If only I had a boyish bod like Elena or Maeve, maybe I would have had a shot at the medal by now. But when my body changed, so did my chance of athletic glory. There was no way I’d excel at any other sport, either: forget track, crew, or volleyball. All I can see are the dreams my stupid big boobs have crushed. Imagine the Seventeen editors trying to come up with a quiz designed for girls like me:
You have grotesquely huge boobs. Which super-cool career will you choose?
Hooters Girl (gross)
Victoria Secret model (grosser)
Stripper at the Golden Banana (grossest)
La Leche League lactation leader (ewwww)
You’d think boobs wou
ld at least give you an edge with getting a real live boyfriend, but all they’ve gotten me are snickers and stares and rude comments from total jerk-offs. Like the time in eighth grade when Tyler Walters asked me if sleeping on my stomach was like being on a seesaw all night. Ha ha. Or guys like Cooper, with one item on their agendas. Thank god beach season was over and it was fall, a season where you could safely layer on the slouchy sweaters and hoodies without looking like a freak.
My phone pings, interrupting my thoughts. It is Maeve, finally checking in after tryouts.
MaeveRose: so?? tix??
KnuckLise99: nope. mom decided to crash car instead.
MaeveRose: !!!!!???
KnuckLise99: long story. drama.
MaeveRose: seriously no tix? r u ok?
KnuckLise99: pretty much suicidal.
MaeveRose: don’t u freakin dare leave me all alone at dullsville high!
KnuckLise99: jk. how were tryouts?
MaeveRose: good i think. list up tomorrow.
KnuckLise99: you’ll so make it.
MaeveRose: fingers crossed! gtg. so tired . . . mounds of homework. need to crash.
KnuckLise99: me too. nite.
MaeveRose: nite.
After I tell my mom I’m going to sleep, I get in bed and close my eyes. I settle in with my music, thinking how Viggo obviously wants more than something superficial with a girl like Skye, and really, he’s only two years older than me, and if only I could find a way to get to that concert and lock eyes with him, I just know we’d connect for real. But even Viggo Witts’s silken voice has a hard time easing me off to sleep tonight, with the drumbeat of Declan’s last words pounding through my mind.
Chapter 6
NOELLE
All morning, I’ve tried not to panic about messing things up with Annalise. What if Eva asks me in math class how last night’s conversation went? What if she logs on after school and sees for herself? My only hope is to get things back on track—before she gets a clue. But how?
Luckily, the perfect person to ask races into World History. Tori. The queen of placating the bruised egos and hurt feelings she’s left in her wake. She’s forever telling us about the latest pageant kerfuffle, like the contestant who accused the winner of cheating by getting her whole Pom Squad to “like” her photo in exchange for a shot at being co-captain.
Identity Crisis Page 3
