The Ugly Stepsister Strikes Back

by Unknown

  I was alone with Jake.

  And I had no idea what to do with him.

  I had imagined this moment so often and now that I was here my throat closed in on itself. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

  That was a lie. I could think of a lot of things to say, but I was pretty sure if I told Jake I wanted to bear his firstborn child, he might freak out a little.

  Since he was dating my stepsister, you'd think we would've had some kind of interaction in the past, but we hadn't. He never spent time at my house. Especially after the Bathroom Incident.

  So, the story was that I was taking a shower and singing Justin Bieber tunes. When I got out I put on this flimsy, thigh-high, blue silk kimono my mother got for me. (She didn't know that I wore it, and I would never admit to her that I did.) Anyway, it was much tighter than it used to be because, in the words of my Aunt Sarah, I "exploded." She said it happened to the Lowe women just before their eighteenth birthdays. Grandma called it blossoming, but Aunt Sarah disagreed. She said there was nothing slow or gradual about it.

  Aunt Sarah was right. One day I was me, the next my bra didn't fit. I hated it. I knew probably most girls would be thrilled, but it was like I wasn't myself. I was used to the way I looked and suddenly I looked like…well, not me.

  Anyway, I came out of the bathroom, toweling my wet hair, and Jake was standing there. We were like two deer caught in the headlights, staring at each other. I could have darted back into the bathroom. He could have turned around and walked away. We didn't. Instead we stood and stared for what felt like an actual eternity. He cleared his throat and said three words to me. "Nice, uh, singing." Then he finally left, shaking his head and letting out a deep breath. It was then that I realized I had been holding my breath too.

  He never came to the house again.

  As if he could sense my crazy, Jake turned around slowly and laid his left forearm across my desk. My hand was flat on the desk right next to his arm and I could feel the warmth and energy that he seemed to give off. I scolded my twitchy hand to stay put and to not reach out and touch him.

  "So, Aprils sent you to detention?"

  All the saliva in my mouth dried up, but I managed a, "Yeah."

  He gave me one of those high wattage grins and said, "You shouldn't have attacked Twain." He sounded like he was teasing me.

  "I know." I wanted to fan myself, but refrained. I could feel the flush creeping into my cheeks, and I willed them to stay their normal color.

  The words we're having a conversation! We're having a conversation! ran on an endless loop in my brain. Only, the reality was that Jake was trying to have a conversation with me and I was ruining it. Ruining it!

  I needed to fix this, and fast before he thought I was a total idiot. "Why are you here?" My voice sounded only a little shaky. I hoped he didn't notice.

  "You mean here on the planet or in detention?" Another smile, more teasing. I liked the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

  I smiled back. "I meant detention."

  "I was leaning against the wall and my backpack caught on the fire alarm and set it off." Have I mentioned how much I love his dark brown eyes? It wasn't just that they were beautiful (which they so were) but that with him looking at me, it was like I was the most important person in the entire world. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be than talking to me.

  "That was you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Ms. Rathbone must have been in a mood to send you to detention for an accident." I had probably aggravated her more than I realized. I should feel bad, but if it led to this, I couldn't feel too sorry.

  He shrugged. "Yeah, they ended up calling my dad." He said the words tightly, and it was obvious things had not gone well.

  Subject change! I wanted more smiles.

  "On the bright side, you got me out of social studies. So on behalf of myself and my class, I thank you."

  He laughed and my loop changed from we're having a conversation! to oh my Buddha, I just made Jake Kingston laugh! Then I imagined that it could be like this every day if we were both in the student government class. We'd work on projects and spend lots and lots of time together. He would see that we were perfect for each other and we'd ride off into the sunset.

  And what about Ella? my guilty subconscious asked me. I told it to shut up.

  "So, what you're saying is that you sort of owe me."

  Huh? "Owe you?" I wondered if he'd let me pay him back in kisses.

  "I have some stuff I need to do. Would you mind covering for me?"

  He was leaving? Now? When we were finally having an actual conversation?

  Jake pulled a notebook and pen out of his backpack. He wrote something down and then tore the page off, handing it to me.

  "That's my ID number and my password. If you'd just log me out when the hour's up, that'd be great."

  I took the paper and saw the number 257893318 and ellaishot. Ella I shot? What? That didn't even make any…oh, wait. Not Ella I shot. Ella is hot.

  Of course.

  Not only that, but what he was asking me to do made me feel sick to my stomach. Part of me wanted so badly to say sure, go ahead, I'll take care of it for you. I was really, really tempted. It would be so easy to lie to Mrs. Putnam because she trusted me. My fingers gripped the piece of paper tightly, as if they wanted to prevent me from returning it. I imagined he would smile at me and thank me and he'd have warm fuzzy feelings about that great girl who helped him out.

  But even I, in my highly deluded state, knew that wasn't how things would happen. He wasn't talking to me to be nice or because he was interested in what I had to say. He had buttered me up just so that he could leave without getting in trouble.

  He was using me.

  And while I was not above telling a white lie here and there, I was a pretty honest person. My dad might have neglected a lot of things, but he did teach me the difference between right and wrong.

  This was wrong.

  I had promised Mrs. Putnam we'd stay here. I didn't break promises. I didn't want to betray her trust.

  Not even Jake Kingston was worth my integrity.

  "If Mrs. Putnam comes to check on us, just tell her I had to run to the bathroom or something." He picked up his backpack and slid it over one shoulder.

  "Thanks for this, Mattie. I really appre—"

  "No." I cut him off. This time both my voice and hand shook hard. I held out the torn piece of paper. "I won't lie for you."

  Chapter 5

  Jake looked at me like I had suddenly sprouted another head. "What?"

  I didn't say anything because of the thick, hard lump that had formed in my throat. I continued to hold the paper out to him, willing my hand to stop shaking. He didn't take it.

  "Are you serious?" He sounded gobsmacked. I was sure in his entire life no girl had ever told him no. Jake gave me an assessing look, like he was trying to figure me out. He suddenly smiled. He had apparently decided to go back to what had been working for him earlier, and switched gears from disbelief to teasing. "You're my girlfriend's sister. Isn't it like the law or something that you have to cover for me?"

  Wrong move. Bringing up Ella made me less likely to help him, not more. But none of this was about Ella. It was about me and what I would think of myself when I looked in a mirror.

  I dropped the paper on his desk as my reply. He stood there staring at it, and then shifted his dark eyes back to me. I held in a gasp. He looked furious.

  "What's your problem, Matilda?" He made my name sound ugly and twisted.

  Just a few seconds ago I'd been like a timid bunny, too scared to stand up for myself, too afraid of disappointing him. But that one word, my name, said in such a hateful way, was all it took for me to get my self-respect back.

  "Don't call me that," I hissed between clenched teeth and stood up to face him. He had a few inches on me, but it was better than sitting down while he towered over me. "You've barely spoken two words to me since we were nine and suddenly
I'm supposed to lie for you?"

  He let out a short bark of cruel laughter. "What, are you like keeping track or something?"

  I was. I was keeping track. "No."

  Before today, the most he'd said to me were four words in third grade. I was on the swings and he kicked a ball that hit me in the face. It knocked me off the swing and square on my back. I vividly remembered how I couldn't quite breathe, like all the air had been sucked out of my lungs. He immediately came over and said, "Jeez, are you okay?" (I realized that I was probably being generous in counting "jeez" as a word, but since I counted the "uh" from the Bathroom Incident, I decided to allow it.)

  He had helped me to my feet and brushed the dirt off of me. He patted me on the shoulder, gave me a Jake smile, which he had perfected even in the third grade, and went back to playing.

  I'm pretty sure the wind wasn't the only thing knocked out of me that day. I seemed to have lost all my common sense and ability to control my heart where Jake was concerned. That was way back before he got absorbed into the popular kids' hive collective where everyone thought, acted, talked, and dressed the same.

  Back before he thought he could use people and get away with it.

  "Do you think you're the only one who wants to get out of detention?" I asked him, my voice shaking again. But this time it wasn't nervousness, it was anger.

  "Oh, yeah, what do you have going on that's so important you have to leave? Some busy study date with your little Goth friend?"

  Now was not the time to mention that yes, in fact, Trent and I did have plans to hang out later on.

  "At least I have an actual friend that's not a complete waste of space."

  This was what I had been reduced to? The neener-neener school of arguments?

  Another angry look flashed across his perfect face. A detached analytical piece of me realized that probably no girl had ever treated him this way. He didn't seem to be enjoying the novelty of it.

  Then my emotional side threatened to take over. What are you doing? she hysterically sobbed. What is wrong with you? This is Jake Kingston! You are so blowing it!

  But I shook off those feelings in part because I'd never seen Jake act this way. I imagined he would only use his powers of charm for good, not for evil. And that made me angry. It got my dander up, as my dad would say.

  His face settled with a look of indifference. "Whatever." He turned to walk away. I heard him mumble something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "goody two-shoes."

  I didn't like being dismissed so easily. He didn't know me or why I'd made the decision I had. "You know, you signed the same honor code that I did."

  I didn't know why I said that. We had to sign an honor code every year, and I hadn't even read through it. After I signed it, I didn't ever give it a second thought. Which meant I shouldn't have brought it up.

  "The honor code? Really?" He let out a short bark of laughter. "You suddenly have some hidden allegiance to this school? Got some secret school pride I don't know about? You just drift through here without belonging or caring."

  That stung. I didn't know it was possible to feel that much hurt and anger all at the same time.

  "Whatever," I echoed back at him. "Why don't you just go back to ignoring my existence? You never noticed me before, and you don't have any reason to acknowledge me now."

  Jake took two steps forward, close enough to kiss me. "Oh, please. You so obviously want to be noticed. If you didn't, you'd be like every other girl in this school and blend in. You do your hair like that and dress the way you do because you want to stand out. You are dying for me to notice you."

  It was like being hit out of the swing all over again, lying flat on my back trying to catch my breath.

  He stood there for a moment, staring at me with that angry intensity. I could feel his warm breath on my face and decided I was seriously demented because I couldn't decide what I wanted more in that moment—to slap him or kiss him. Then he stalked off to the desk furthest away from me. He pulled out his phone and began furiously texting.

  I sank slowly into my seat. I was pretty sure Jake had been speaking rhetorically, but it pierced me all the same. I did want Jake to notice me.

  Just not like this.

  * * *

  Jake did as I asked and proceeded to ignore me for the rest of detention. As soon as it ended, he practically jumped out of his seat. He logged out on the laptop without even looking in my direction and left. I sat there for a while and finally forced myself to get up.

  I didn't call anyone for a ride. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to make it through the call without crying.

  I wasn't exactly the crying type, and I didn't want any questions or awkward conversations. Walking home felt like slogging through knee-high mud. All physical activity—walking, holding my bag, breathing—seemed slower and harder.

  I told myself I wouldn't think about him. So, obviously, I thought about him the whole way home.

  When I finally got to my house, I did have a moment where I worried about what my dad would say. The school would have called him to let him know that I had detention. But he's one of those clueless, daydreaming, in their own little world type artists. Like the type that sat down to eat dinner until his eyes glazed over. Without taking a single bite, he'd get up from the table and be back in his studio all night. He was a good dad, but he was easily distracted.

  I could see that he was in his studio so I knew I had nothing to worry about. I wouldn't be getting in trouble. Although it might be nice to get yelled at and/or lectured just so that I could blame my tears on my dad's attempt at discipline.

  My dad's studio faced the beach on the east side of the house. The bedrooms were on the opposite side. I didn't even have to walk past him. He wouldn't know that I had come home or that I was late. I watched him paint for a minute and then went through our living room that had floor to ceiling windows that skirted around the outdoor infinity pool. I nudged my bedroom door open, dropped my bag on the floor, and then collapsed on my bed.

  Stepmom Number Six had been an interior decorator and had done my entire room in shades of puke pink with white, girly furniture. Then she'd apparently liked it so much she'd decorated Ella's in exactly the same colors. My dad had given her what he called "carte blanche," which meant she could do whatever she wanted and he wouldn't let me change it no matter how much I whined and complained because it would "hurt her feelings." The same feelings which, I might add, he didn't much mind hurting when he'd divorced her four months later.

  Next to my closet I had attempted to put up some of that chalkboard paint, but it was way too much work and I was way too lazy to finish. Instead I just covered every square inch with posters and cutouts from magazines, divided by category. I put my manga on the left wall, hot guys on the right, and my framed retro '80s movie posters behind my bed. They were mostly John Hughes's films.

  Ella had left her room alone, so it still looked like a Pepto-Bismol bottle had gone nuclear in there. She'd only added a whiteboard to keep track of her schedule and to write down inspirational sayings.

  I had once wondered whether she'd left it that way in case Stepmom Number Six ever returned. I tried to explain to her that they never came back. She didn't listen. I think she still hoped for some kind of stable maternal figure in our lives before we graduated, that we'd get some woman in here who cared about us. But none of the ex-wives ever liked me. They all pretended to at first, but they didn't really.

  To give them some credit, even though they didn't like me, they were never mean to me. Just indifferent. Like how Jake used to treat me before today.

  I sighed. I'd been trying hard to think of something, anything, besides him. I wanted to understand why he had been so angry. How could something so small and stupid set him off like that? Why had he reacted that way to me?

  I sat and thought about our interaction, and one of the things I hated most was that he tried to use me. That he thought he just had to talk sweetly to me and I'd be putty in
his hands. That I was actual putty in his hands was beside the point. I felt dirty. I didn't like it.

  Then his words about how I secretly wanted to be noticed burned through me. It felt like he had cracked my brain open and looked inside for awhile. I mean, who expects that kind of depth and understanding from a football player?

  If I was being honest with myself, I had to admit that I didn't know what bothered me more—that he was so mean to me or that he had been right.

  And the cherry on top of all the hurt and confusion was the fact that I loved him, and he'd treated me like dirt under his feet.

  I clamped my eyelids shut. I would not cry. I would not.

  So, of course I cried. Hot, angry tears escaped from my eyes, running down the side of my face. I threw an arm over my eyes, but I couldn't stop the tears. Just like I couldn't stop the sobbing sound that tore out of my chest.

  I was crying over a boy. I was a total and complete cliché.

  Then the worst possible thing happened—I heard a soft knock at my door that could only belong to Ella.

  Why had I left my door opened? I turned over on my side, so that she faced my back. I held my breath, telling myself I absolutely could not cry in front of Ella.

  I opened my mouth to tell her to go away, but another sob threatened to erupt, so I stayed silent, willing myself to be calm.

  "I got this new eye shadow today that would go so well with your…"

  "No." I cut her off. I could manage one syllable.

  "Come on Tilly, let me just…"

  "No."

  Ella had had so much fun with her own makeover that it became her goal in life to make me over too. I kept telling her no, but she kept trying.

  I hoped she would just go away, but she must have heard something in my voice because she came in my room, something she rarely ever did.

  "Tilly? Are you okay?" Her voice sounded timid, and she tentatively sat on the bed. She probably expected me to snap at her.

  She put a hand on my upper arm and tried to turn me over. I resisted.

  "Are you crying?" She sounded shocked as she peered over my shoulder. "I've never seen you cry."