Awkwardly Ever After

by Marni Bates

  So naturally, I panicked.

  “Cover for me!” I blurted out to Melanie as I booked it in the opposite direction. Maybe if I didn’t actually speak to Spencer, he wouldn’t try to hold me to my word. He would let the whole thing drop and I wouldn’t have to look like I couldn’t hack hanging out with the Notables.

  Even though, let’s be real: I couldn’t hack it.

  Not even slightly.

  Unfortunately, running away from Spencer meant that I was moving toward Fake—and she didn’t look happy to see me. Probably because I hadn’t been able to keep my big mouth shut the day before and had accidentally made her look bad in front of Spencer.

  Although to be fair, I thought she had made herself look bad.

  Then again, in my experience, popular girls don’t exactly want to admit their own missteps because it proves they are just as fallible as everyone else and shatters the myth they’ve spent a great amount of time and energy constructing. So it’s a whole lot easier to persecute the geek as an example for anyone else who might be tempted to speak up. But of course our guidance counselors will be the first to assure incoming students that nothing bad ever happens in high school.

  I searched for a way out and came up empty. Diving into the girl’s bathroom might keep Spencer temporarily at bay, but it wouldn’t help with the Notable problem that was flouncing confidently toward me.

  Never underestimate a flounce. Ruffles can be incredibly misleading.

  My glasses began slipping down the bridge of my nose, probably because of the perspiration that began to sheen my face. I could tell I was glowing red, although I had no intention of verifying that by looking at myself under the harsh glare of the bathroom lights. I’d learned long ago that if I wanted to feel even slightly good about myself, it was best to avoid the florescent bulbs that must have been created to highlight every wayward hair, blackhead, and pimple.

  I had trouble imagining even Chelsea Halloway glancing at herself in those mirrors and leaving unscathed.

  But the real reason I couldn’t use it for my escape was because bathrooms are notorious for being the place where the worst possible stuff goes down in high school. Bathrooms, locker rooms, and cafeterias. The places where everyone is supposed to be able to peacefully coexist are the ones most fraught with danger.

  Even if that danger is being on the receiving end of a pitying glance that lingers too long on a round stomach and jiggly thighs, before catching the tail end of a cutting remark.

  “I’m amazed she can even fit her ass in a pair of pants, aren’t you? I feel sorry for the denim.”

  “If I ever start wearing baggy sweatshirts like that, please burn them for me. She looks like she’s a couple of imaginary friends away from a mental institution.”

  My face heated further as a wave of memories washed over me. I fought for each and every breath as the distance shortened between me and Steffani Larson, and I saw her carefully eyelinered and mascaraed eyes narrow and her perfectly lip-glossed lips open to speak.

  It was about to get nasty.

  And there was nothing I could do to stop it. It had played out too many times before for me to imagine that this time something would magically change. Steffani would mock me, I would freeze, people around us would laugh nervously to break the tension and hope that whatever happened, Steffani would never take them on that way.

  Then I would do my best not to cry for the rest of the day.

  Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be the badass heroine who could fly back with a snarky quip, but at least I’d become skilled at postponing the waterworks.

  I liked to think that counted for something.

  Still, it was better to let Steffani say whatever it was that she had planned than to let it simmer. Once she got the bile out of her system, I would be relatively safe . . . until she needed an outlet for whatever the hell problems life was throwing at her. I was her stress relief.

  But even intellectually identifying that this was just her way of working out her issues didn’t make it any easier to keep my head up in the hallways.

  Not when some small part of me wondered if everyone else could be right.

  “I don’t want to be rude,” Steffani announced the instant I came within earshot. Even if I hadn’t had hundreds of run-ins with her before, I still would have known that her words didn’t bode well. Saying, “I don’t want to be rude” or “no offense,” is just a weak tactic used by petty people to distance themselves from the way they hurt people with their language.

  Sure enough, the zinger lagged behind by only a millisecond.

  “But do you always wear sweatshirts? Is that some kind of cult thing? Or wait . . . do you have, like, religious objections to looking like a girl?”

  I should’ve channeled my inner badass and blasted her.

  “I don’t want to be rude, but do you have, like, an objection to being a decent human being? Is that too hard for you?”

  The words refused to come. They were lodged behind an enormous ball of emotion in my throat, one that left me wondering if it was possible to gag on an insult.

  I stood frozen in the hallway as I watched it happen. There was nothing cute about my deer-in-headlights moment. The whole scene reminded me of the time my parents had driven us to Ashland, Oregon, to see some Shakespeare plays, and Bambi’s cousin had rammed into the car at top speed. We weren’t even moving at the time—just waiting at a freaking stop light.

  That’s what it felt like to see Steffani act all doe-eyed and innocent while she wreaked senseless havoc.

  Only there was no repair service I could call to fix this kind of social situation. Melanie was nowhere in sight, and none of these bystanders had any intention of stepping forward. They were probably preoccupied trying to figure out how many points the Notable would score with that direct hit.

  I felt someone walk up behind me and my already stiff body jolted forward. The only thing worse than being left dealing with Fake on my own was having some other Notable jerk join in the fun.

  Someone like Alex Thompson would have no trouble picking up where Steffani Larson had left off.

  I flinched when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. Even with a layer of sweatshirt between me and the outside world, the touch felt too intrusive, too intimate.

  The last thing I could handle was anyone trying to get close.

  But the instinctive jolt didn’t do anything to shake off the strange hand, and I couldn’t bring myself to find out who the offending digits belonged to in case that would only make this whole situation worse. I wanted to squeeze my eyes shut and chant, “None of this is real,” until the bell rang and everyone split for class.

  “Hey, I was hoping to catch you.”

  That undeniably wry voice held a strain of laughter underneath, and I found my stomach unclenching slightly as I looked up into Spencer’s gorgeous green eyes. Okay, so they were a little out of focus because once again my glasses had slipped down my nose. But even when his face was blurry, it still looked unreasonably good. All chiseled and defined in a way that nobody should actually look if they aren’t secretly twenty-four-year-old actors pretending to be high school students on a network TV show.

  “You were?” I asked stupidly, as I tried to find some subtle way not to lose my glasses. I probably should have purchased contacts and been done with it, but I kind of liked readjusting my frames. There was something comforting about it.

  “Yep.” Spencer leaned in closer, and even though I knew that his presence was not going to make this situation any better, I couldn’t seem to get that message through to my racing pulse. I shifted so that my body fit against his side. His eyes widened momentarily, as if he hadn’t expected me to respond in any way other than a hissed insult; then his mouth curved into a smile. “I had a great time with you yesterday, especially when we were alone. We’re still on for tonight, right? I have hockey practice, but I’m all yours after that.”

  I didn’t miss what he was implying with the emphasis on I’m all y
ours—and neither did anyone else.

  Steffani looked shell-shocked. Her shiny bottom lip stuck out in an unflattering pout that made her look like a bigmouthed guppy bobbing around in a fish tank.

  “You’re hanging out with her?”

  Spencer barely acknowledged Fake’s existence with a quick glance before he refocused on me. It was strange being the center of such intensity. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he always radiated energy; even when he was driving his car, there was an undeniable air of power and competency that surrounded him.

  The fact that it was a really great car didn’t hurt matters either.

  “I don’t know. Am I hanging out with you, Belle?” The way Spencer lingered on the nickname made it sound way too sexy to ever be applied to me.

  “Um . . .”

  I could feel the eyes of everyone in the hallway upon me and my hands began shaking even harder now. “Yes?”

  Spencer nodded as if my agreement hadn’t really been in question, as his hand trailed lightly across my back until his whole arm was slung across my shoulder. Such a small, casual gesture that Melanie made on a regular basis was now electrifying.

  It felt like my skin was too tight to contain my racing heartbeat.

  “But . . . what would you even do with her?” Steffani sounded appalled, and my stomach clenched again.

  “Oh, there’s plenty of things we can do.” Spencer’s voice contained a hint of something downright wicked as he squeezed my shoulder lightly and began walking—with me still pressed against his side—down the hallway. He raised his voice so that everyone lurking in the hallway would be sure to overhear. “The real question is what should we do first.”

  And just like that, I was the geeky half of Smith High School’s most unlikely couple.

  Chapter 5

  Salt and pepper. Cats and cardboard boxes. Prom king and queen—some things just go together as a matched set. But recently, some of the pairs that Smith High School has produced are rather . . . uneven. Only one half of the couple has the kind of popularity to cinch a nomination. So what happens to the dangler? Will they get a pity vote, or will Smith High School remain true to the premise that we may all be created equal—but not everyone is destined to wear the crown?

  from “Power Couples or Pity Couples?”

  by Lisa Anne Montgomery

  Published by The Smithsonian

  It’s amazing how quickly rumors can spread.

  By the time Spencer released me so that I could walk the rest of the way to my psychology class alone, the damage was done. Everyone at Smith High School was whispering that Spencer King was hooking up with that “Isodore-chick.” They didn’t even bother getting my name right. Not that they had any incentive to fact-check the gossip. Why would they bother themselves over trivial details like the truth when they could snicker in my general direction?

  I didn’t want to hear the whispers.

  I knew that the stories most likely to spread were going to be the very worst of the bunch. Rumors that he was with me because I was seriously kinky in the bedroom. That I had agreed to do all of his schoolwork for him. Or maybe that one of his hockey buddies had dared him to get into my pants.

  Whatever they came up with, they’d all believe that he was scraping the bottom of the barrel with me.

  I wondered what they would say if I told everyone the truth; that the only thing I had offered was friendship.

  Probably that they had known it all along. That of course he wouldn’t actually be interested in having sex with me. Spencer King had standards, after all.

  High school was such a lovely place.

  Still, I kept my head down and focused on my classes for the rest of the day. I only had to make it through the next three years and then all of this crap would be relegated to entertaining anecdotes that I’d tell when in the presence of my college friends. And all of them would say supportive stuff like, “Are you kidding me? You’re gorgeous, Izzie! Those kids must have been seriously twisted!”

  And I would nod and then shrug and say something like, “Oh, high school, I’ve nearly blocked all of it out. You couldn’t pay me enough to relive those years!”

  Then the conversation would move on to something else, and future Isobel would fall asleep thinking of the exciting plans she had for the next day instead of obsessing about the past.

  I just had to give time a chance to make these years seem less terrible. Maybe someday I’d be able to get all nostalgic about my lunches with Melanie, Jane, and Mackenzie.

  Maybe . . . but I doubted it.

  I didn’t exactly have hours to kill dwelling on the emotional state of future Izzie when the entire school was trying to analyze my every move. If this was what it was like to be a Notable, they could keep their popularity. I certainly didn’t want it.

  I nearly burst out laughing when I remembered the way Spencer had tried to dangle the promise of notoriety like a carrot only the day before. Nobody in their right mind would seek this kind of scrutiny. Although at least nobody was repeating the rumors to my face.

  Or they hadn’t . . . yet.

  It was only a matter of time before some girl in one of my classes tried to pump me for information under the guise of being “friendly.” Then she’d probably act all offended if I brushed her off. If one of my friends actually wanted to discuss it with me, I’d be fine with that.... But someone who had never said more to me than, “Heyyyy . . . can I borrow a pen?” didn’t deserve to know the details.

  Not that I was in much of a position to share; I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Spencer had said he wanted to hang out after his hockey practice, but that could have been entirely for Steffani Larson’s behalf. Something to get the gossip mills whipped into a frenzy. It didn’t actually mean that he had any intention of spending time with me.

  He just wanted everyone to think that we’d be meeting up for a prearranged booty call.

  My stomach flopped. I didn’t want this. I hadn’t thought the plan through very far, but these whispers certainly hadn’t been part of it. Then again, I’d figured it would be enough of a stretch getting people to believe that he wanted to date me without adding in a sexual component.

  What I hadn’t factored into my calculations was that with Spencer King, everyone took sex as a given.

  And now that those rumors included me, I wondered whether Spencer’s reputation had actually been earned. Sure, he’d had sex with girls at our school. That was common knowledge. But I had never heard him brag about it, certainly not with any kind of seriousness. He acted like it was all some kind of joke. So maybe he had adopted humor as a coping strategy to handle the scrutiny that was unnerving me. If his fellow classmates were going to whisper no matter what, maybe he’d simply chosen to raise one cynical eyebrow and smirk until someone else stepped into the spotlight.

  It was undoubtedly more effective than adjusting glasses and wiping sweaty palms against the denim of worn jeans.

  The weirdest part of the whole day was speculating on whether or not I should expect to see him at my house later that day. Whether I should warn my parents that their little girl would be receiving a gentleman caller whose interest rested solely in harnessing her geek power for his own nefarious purposes. Especially when I still didn’t know if I even wanted his friendship.

  Funny that I had absentmindedly accepted that befriending Spencer King would be great without considering the baggage included in the package deal. I had been too intrigued with the idea of setting myself apart. Too determined to leave Smith High School secure in the knowledge that I had done something memorable. That no matter what kind of glamorous life awaited Spencer, he’d always think of me fondly as a girl with integrity.

  I wanted to leave an indelible mark that said, Isobel Peters was here.

  But did that make me any different from anyone else at this fracking school?

  For a girl who was supposed to have all the answers, I was sure coming up empty far too often. Or maybe I’d just been as
king myself the wrong questions for a whole lot longer than I wanted to admit. Normally, I would’ve asked Melanie for advice, but I reached the school parking lot just in time to see her head toward Mackenzie’s house. Apparently she hadn’t cut things off with Dylan, which left me with a limited number of options. I could help Jane and Scott plot world domination from the headquarters of The Smithsonian or try to message Sam while she sat in detention for her most recent act of civil disobedience. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to discuss Spencer with anyone, let alone two girls who had their thumbs pressed firmly against the pulse of Smith High School. There was no way they would let the rumors that Spencer and I had a clothing-optional arrangement die out on their own. And the last thing I needed was for a reporter and a rabble-rouser to get indignant on my behalf.

  So I walked home and waited.

  Of course, I told myself that I wasn’t some pathetic girl who put her life on hold in case some boy decided to make a move. I legitimately wanted to spend my time rewatching the second season of Battlestar Galactica, and if I happened to think that Captain Lee Adama looked like an older, darker haired version of Spencer King . . . that was purely an intellectual observation. It didn’t mean anything. Neither did the fact that I pressed pause when a shirtless Adama tried to kick a reporter out of the pilot’s changing room.

  That was just . . . research. For something.

  I didn’t know the details, but I had no doubt that someday it would come in handy.

  I pulled out my notebook and started slogging through my math homework while Starbuck defended the galactic fleet on my mom’s old laptop. It was soothing, actually. I had seen the show enough times for it to have the familiarity of an old friend, even though the suspenseful moments still sucked me in.

  “Don’t do it, Apollo!” I muttered, before I double-checked my last answer in the back of the textbook. “You don’t want to go in there. Trust me, you don’t . . . go! RUN!”