Then Clementine lets out a gasp, which she quickly stifles with her hand. “Did he not text you back yesterday?” Her arm is suddenly reaching into my bag and pulling out my phone. I watch speechlessly as she flips through my messages. She lets out a sigh. “Oh, thank goodness.” She wilts against her seat like she’s just stopped World War III from happening. “He texted back.” She slaps me on the shoulder. “Don’t scare me like that!”
Hold up. What is going on here? Who texted me?
I grab the phone from her and see a message from someone named Connor.
Me: Hey, I heard you aced our last math test. I totally bombed mine. wondering if you might be able to help me study for the next one?
Connor: That would be fun. How about Monday night?
Me: Perfect! See you then!
Wow, I wrote that? I’m really obsessed with emojis, aren’t I? I scan back over the messages again, suddenly catching something I didn’t notice the first time. My head snaps up.
“I bombed my math test?” I ask incredulously, already cringing at the look on Dad’s face when I’m forced to tell him.
Clementine bats my comment away with her hand. “No. You got an A. You just said you bombed it.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So you could study with Connor.”
“Who’s Connor?”
She shoots me a weird look and then breaks into laughter. “Nice. That’s good. Keep that up. It’ll drive him crazy.”
Now I’m more confused than ever.
“So, are we like going to school or are we just going to sit here?” Clementine asks.
I look down at the gearshift resting safely in park. The thought of moving that thing into drive again is making me break out in a cold sweat. “Um…,” I falter. “I’m feeling a little queasy this morning. Can you drive?”
She cocks a curious eyebrow. “You want me to drive your car?”
“Uh-huh.”
I’m afraid she’s going to start yelling at me again, telling me I’m crazy and that we never do this kind of thing. But instead, she just shrugs, unbuckles her seat belt, and says, “Okay. Sure. Whatevs.”
On the ride to school, I sit in silence, trying to collect my thoughts while Clementine prattles on about every topic under the sun. Fortunately, though, thanks to her chaotic rambling, I’m able to figure out the following about my life:
• Clementine and I run a very successful YouTube channel, called Shimmer and Shine, where we post makeup, hair, and nail-art tutorials. (UM, COOL!)
• We are juniors in high school. (HIGH SCHOOL!)
• Connor McKinley is one of the cutest, most crush-worthy boys in school, and Clementine believes he may be interested in me. (ME!)
• Clementine and I are best friends. (WHAT?)
She hasn’t once mentioned Grace but I’m far too wrapped up in trying to make sense of everything to ask about it. She also hasn’t given me any indication of how we became best friends, a point I’m particularly interested in since she barely said two words to me in middle school. But I don’t bring that up either because I’m afraid it might make me look crazy, which, trust me, I already believe I am. I don’t need anyone else thinking that, too.
Clementine pulls my car into the parking lot of the high school and parks in a spot right in front. I find it strange that the spot was even open, since the rest of the parking lot is full. But Clementine didn’t bother exploring any of the other aisles. She just drove straight here, like she already knew this spot would be available.
I step out of the passenger side and stare in awe at the tall brick building in front of me.
Thunder Creek High School.
I’ve dreamed about this moment for I don’t know how long. Every time I’ve passed this building, I’ve fantasized about the day I would finally walk through those doors and strut down those hallways, and now it’s finally happening!
A little faster than I anticipated, but what does that matter?
With my stomach in knots, I take a step toward the legendary blue doors, but I don’t get very far. “Oh, no you don’t,” Clementine warns, tugging on my shirtsleeve. “I’m sorry. I love you. But I’m too good a friend to let you walk through the front doors looking like that.”
She then proceeds to drag me around the side of the building to a hidden door next to the gym. We duck into the girls’ locker room and Clementine positions me in front of the mirror. I flinch at the sight of my own reflection. I almost forgot what I look like now. It’s still so shocking.
I try to move away from the mirror, but Clementine holds me in place. “What did you do to yourself this morning?”
I cringe. “I’ve just been feeling a little out of it.”
Clementine sighs. “You can say that again.”
She digs into her own chic designer schoolbag and pulls out a packet of baby wipes and a bunch of makeup, spreading it all over the counter. Then she goes to work on my face, wiping off everything I did this morning and starting over.
I try to pay close attention to what she’s doing, but she works way too fast. She’s like Monet with that eye shadow palette, mixing pigments and changing brushes in a blur of movement. When she’s done, I brave another glance in the mirror and nearly wilt in relief.
Clementine is a genius. She’s replaced my harsh blues and dark purples with softer (and admittedly better) browns and shimmery golds, and my orange-red lipstick with a faint pink gloss. She’s made my eyes look bigger and my nose look smaller, and she’s covered all my remaining freckles with some kind of translucent powder. I mean, I always knew makeup could work wonders, but this is pure magic. I look…
I look…
I suck in a breath.
Like I’m sixteen.
Like I have everything I’ve always wanted.
I stand in awe, staring at my reflection, no longer afraid of it. No longer in denial.
I really am sixteen.
I just can’t get over how much I’ve changed in only four years. How is that even possible? I gently graze my fingers over my pronounced cheekbones. I purse my glossy lips. I run my fingers through my silky, straight hair.
“I know, I know,” Clementine says, stuffing all her magic tools back into her bag. “Your hair still needs work. We’ll go get a touch-up on your Brazilian Blowout this weekend.”
“I get my hair straightened?” I blurt out without thinking.
Clementine shakes her head. “You’re acting so weird today.”
I’m sorry. I can’t help it. This is all way too exciting. I don’t know how many times I begged Mom to let me get my hair chemically straightened but she’s always refused. “People would kill to have beautiful curls like yours; why would you ever pay to get rid of them?” was her typical response. To which I always rolled my eyes, sighed, and readjusted my tight bun.
But that was then. That was the pathetic, overly protected, caged life of twelve-year-old Addie.
This is now.
This is the glamorous, uninhibited, greatly improved life of sixteen-year-old Adeline.
It’s like someone has unlocked the door and let me out of my prison cell. Someone has finally set me free.
And I have a feeling it’s going to be amazing.
In our county, there are three middle schools that all feed into Thunder Creek High School: Cheyenne, Diamond Ridge, and Sky View (mine). So needless to say, there are a ton of people in this building who I don’t have any hope of recognizing. Not that I would even recognize the people that I actually went to school with because they’ve all aged four years and look shockingly different.
As we walk down the main hallway, it’s hard not to stare at all the faces passing by. With each stranger I see, I try desperately to figure out if I know them. If they look even somewhat familiar. I try to focus on people’s distinguishing features like big noses, close-together eyes and long necks, but it does no good. After all, most of my distinguishing features from middle school have been practically erased.
&nb
sp; Meanwhile, Clementine is chattering about our vlog again. “We really need to make a decision about our next makeup tutorial. I was thinking we could do a fun theme. Like Flower Pixie or Galactic Princess!”
“Great,” I say absentmindedly. She loops her arm through mine and I suddenly get this bubbly, excited feeling in my stomach. I’m here! In high school! Walking arm in arm with Clementine Dumont! And people are smiling at us.
But the bubbly, excited feeling instantly turns flat as soon as Clementine unhooks her arm from mine and says, “So, I’ll meet you after first period and we can brainstorm, yeah?”
Wait, she’s not going to just leave me here, is she?
It’s only right then that I realize I actually have no idea where I’m supposed to go. I obviously have a locker somewhere, but where? And how will I even know the combination to open it?
I eye the long, daunting corridor in front of us, filled with rows upon rows of red metal lockers. There have to be over a thousand of them!
“I have a better idea!” I say brightly. “Why don’t you walk me to my locker right now and we’ll start the brainstorming early.”
Clementine frowns and looks at her phone. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have time to go to your locker. The first-period bell is going to ring in less than two minutes.”
“Oh, right,” I say, feeling stupid.
“Just go to trig and I’ll meet you after.”
“Trig,” I repeat. “Got it. What is that?”
Clementine gives me a blank stare. “What is with you today? Did you get enough sleep last night?”
If anything I got too much sleep, I immediately think. Four years’ worth.
“I guess not,” I say with a breezy laugh.
“Trigonometry,” she says slowly, like she’s afraid I might not understand her…which I don’t.
“Oh, right.” I bump my palm against my forehead. “Duh. I knew that. Trigmonogetry.”
Clementine just shakes her head and then walks away and I’m left alone in the middle of the hall.
I bite my lip and glance around me, wondering what I should do next. Wander around until I find a room marked “Trig”? Ask someone for directions? My mom always gets mad at my dad for refusing to ask for directions but this is different. If I ask someone where my classroom is they’ll definitely think I’m crazy.
“Hey, Adeline,” a girl says, sidling up to me.
I blink and look up, squinting to see if I recognize her, but I don’t. She stares at me with a confused expression, probably because I’m staring at her the exact same way.
“Hi,” I finally remember to reply.
“You ready for tonight?”
I cringe. What is tonight? And how am I supposed to know if I’m ready for it?
“Uh, sure,” I mumble.
“Great! See ya!” She beams at me and then hurries away just as another girl calls, “Adeline!” from farther down the hall.
I turn to see a petite brunette waving eagerly in my direction. “Did you get my text? Do you want to go shopping this weekend?”
Who are all these people and how do they know me?
“Um,” I say uneasily, wishing that Clementine were still here to guide me through this. “I don’t know.” The girl’s face falls in disappointment and I immediately feel guilty. “I mean, I have to check my calendar,” I add hurriedly, and this seems to cheer her up.
“Okay! Text me!” She waves again and disappears down the hallway.
In the course of the next minute, three more people say hi to me from three different directions and I’m starting to feel dizzy from all the spinning I’m doing. This is so weird. It’s like everyone in the school knows who I am and wants to say hi. Is this because of the YouTube channel? Clementine seemed to imply that it was really popular. I make a note to look it up later. In fact, there are a lot of things I need to look up once I get a free second. And the list is growing by the minute.
My phone lets out a soft chime, and thankful for a break, I pull it out of my bag. There’s a reminder flashing on my screen that says:
Don’t forget your costume!
My costume? What on earth is that about? But I don’t have time to think about it now. I have to find my classroom before the bell rings. I don’t want to get a tardy on my very first day of high school. I swipe off the reminder and tuck the phone back into my bag.
Okay, if I were a trig classroom, where would I be?
I turn in a slow circle before finally deciding to go left down a smaller hallway that veers off from the main one. But I’m barely able to take a step before someone calls out, “Hey! What’s shakin’?”
I look up and nearly faint.
It’s Berrin Mack! The lead singer (and hands-down cutest member) of Summer Crush! He’s here! In this hallway. In this town. And he’s walking toward me.
Okay, just act natural.
Be cool.
Just. Be. Cool.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual, like I totally talk to the most popular celebrity on the face of the planet every morning.
He takes a few more steps down the hallway and I can finally see his face clearly.
Okay, so it’s not Berrin Mack. But I swear he could be his twin! Or long-lost cousin or something. He looks so much like him. He’s tall with wavy blond hair that falls perfectly down the sides of his long, slender face, framing his dark green eyes. I mean, he should seriously enter a Berrin-Mack-lookalike contest. He would definitely win.
I put my hand to my lips to make sure my mouth isn’t hanging open.
“Sorry to hear about your trig test,” Berrin-Mack-Doppelganger says. “But I have to admit, I’m selfishly a little happy that you failed.”
“You are?” I manage to utter, surprising myself by my ability to form a coherent sentence in the presence of such an incredibly hot guy, even if it was just two words long.
He bumps my shoulder, making my entire face flush with heat. “Yeah. ’Cause now I get to tutor you.”
“Oh! You’re Connor!” I say aloud before I can stop myself, and then immediately feel stupid. Especially when I see the strange look on his face.
But then he laughs like this is all a big game. “And you’re Adeline!” he says with the same inflection.
This must be the guy who sent me that text. The one who’s supposed to be helping me study for math next week. Is that what trig is? Some kind of math?
Just then the bell rings and Connor gives my sleeve a quick tug. “C’mon. We better run if we want to make it on time.” He takes off down the hallway and for a second I stand speechless and dumbfounded before he stops and turns around. “Are you coming?”
I feel a wave of relief wash over me as I start running after him. It looks like I just found my much-needed map to Trigmotology.
Trigonopoly?
Oh, whatever. The point is, I find the classroom.
Connor and I slip through the door of the classroom and take seats in the back. I keep my head down, fully expecting the teacher to yell at us for being late, but when I glance up a second later, she just gives me a kind smile.
If this were Mr. Bastion’s math class back at Sky View, we would be getting serious sour grape face right now, not to mention those abominable yellow tardy slips. But this teacher—an older, rounder woman in a maxi dress—just merrily starts in on her lesson like nothing even happened.
So far, high school is turning out to be pretty freaking awesome.
But as soon as the teacher starts writing on the whiteboard, I realize that I can’t understand a single thing. What on earth does “y = sin(x – π)” mean? That can’t possibly be math, can it? Where are all the numbers? It looks more like some top-secret spy code.
I glance around the room to see if anyone else is as lost as I am but everyone’s head is down, furiously scribbling notes in their notebooks. Everyone except Cute Connor, who’s looking at me.
He flashes me a smile and gestures toward my notebook. I guess I should be writing st
uff down, too.
“So what would the function of tan A be?” the teacher asks the class, drawing another mess of inscrutable symbols on the board.
I bend my head and scribble.
The function of tan?
I read back over what I wrote and quickly add the answer.
To look better in a swimsuit?
It turns out I might actually need that study session with Mr. Cute Brains after all.
When the bell mercifully rings forty-five minutes later, I stand up, gather my things, and wait by the door for the rest of the class to get out of their seats and join me.
“What are you doing?” Connor asks.
“Lining up,” I say as though it’s obvious.
“Lining up?” he echoes curiously. “For what?”
I’m about to remind him that we always line up before we leave the classroom. It’s school policy. But then I notice the bemused expression on his face and my confidence wavers.
Do we not have to line up anymore?
That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day! I nearly let out a whoop before I wisely stop myself. I’ve always hated lining up in the classroom.
Cute Connor is still staring at me, waiting for an answer to his question.
“Um.” I search for something clever and witty to say. “Lining up to wait for you!”
Was that witty?
Or was that just plain lame?
Judging from the curious tilt of his head in response, I’m going with lame.
Thankfully, Clementine intercepts us a moment later, finding me inside the classroom and ushering me away, but not before saying, “Hi, Connor,” in the strangest voice I’ve ever heard. It sounds like a two-year-old who just ran a marathon and is now totally out of breath.
Connor seems to like it, though, because his grin widens and he says, “Hi, Clementine,” back to her as we leave the room.
Clementine guides me down the hallway toward what I’m praying is my locker, since I still have no idea where it is. But before we get to our mysterious destination, I hear my phone chiming wildly in my bag and Clementine screeches to a halt, her eyes popping wide open.
Addie Bell's Shortcut to Growing Up Page 6
