Awkward

by Marni Bates

  Alex just ignored me, stood, and turned to Logan, who must have been the mystery hands that had terminated my first attempt at CPR.

  “How’d you get stuck with a spaz like that for a tutor, man?”

  Which made me wish he hadn’t recovered, but before I could say anything my eyes connected with Jane’s. She was standing right by the lockers, a hand clutched over her mouth, and I knew exactly what she muttered, because it’s the same thing she says every time I make a fool of myself.

  “Oh, Kenzie.”

  Somehow Jane managed to marinate those two simple words in pity, disbelief, sympathy, and indulgence, like she couldn’t believe what I had just done and yet she had seen the whole thing coming.

  Ouch.

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t stick around. Listening to Logan and Alex insult me wasn’t my idea of fun ... so I fled the scene. The warning bell for class jangled as I replayed the last five minutes in my head. I had managed to babble, knock down (then straddle) a football player, poorly attempt CPR, then babble some more—an impressive amount of social damage ... even for me.

  Class was a welcome distraction from my image of Alex’s expression—shocked and pained—when he smacked the pavement. Although after his “spaz” comment, I was feeling decidedly less guilty. I kept wondering how Logan had responded. Maybe he said something like, “She’s useful, man.” Or maybe he blamed his parents for the situation—told everyone it was just to get them off his back. Or maybe, I thought bitterly, he just shrugged.

  It was Logan who had asked me to be his tutor, the first week of this school year. He was already behind on the reading and had stood there with his rumpled, dark brown hair flopping into his gray-blue eyes, waiting for me to finish stuffing my backpack. Which confused the hell out of me since it’s not a normal occurrence for the hottest guy at school to wait for me.

  “Um ... can I help you?” I sounded like the reference librarian—like I ought to ask if he had any overdue books.

  “Maybe,” he said. I scanned our surroundings warily, wondering if other Notables were watching. They tend to travel in packs.

  “Okay. Right now? Because I have another class after this ... and I’m guessing you do too. So ... is it something that’ll take a while? Because if so, maybe now really isn’t the best time ...”

  “Can you tutor me?” he interrupted, much to my relief.

  “Right now? Because American history can’t be that reduced. I mean, sure, it might not be as extensive as, say, European history, but ...”

  He looked at me as if I were a complete idiot, which was understandable given the circumstances.

  “My parents are willing to pay you to tutor me ... if you want the job.”

  My mouth dropped open, not really the most attractive of expressions.

  “Your parents will pay me to teach you the same subject that I’m taking?” I said incredulously.

  “That’s right.” He gave me one of his sweeping dismissive glances. “Can you walk and stare at the same time?”

  I stood up mutely and shouldered my backpack. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I must have been missing something. I suspected a trap. Seriously, what was the catch? Ordinary-looking girls like me (brown straight hair, brown eyes, brown stains on garage sale shirts) do not get invited to hang out with the Notables. Used and dismissed by them, sure, but not hired for a semipermanent job.

  “So I just teach you history,” I clarified. “And get money for it?”

  “Were you hoping for some other form of payment?” His casual manner didn’t mask his amusement. “Because if so ...”

  “Money’s good,” I interrupted, wishing that my Irish Italian gene pool didn’t make it so obvious that I was blushing. “But why do you need a tutor? You seem reasonably intelligent.”

  “And only really stupid jocks need tutors, right?” His amusement solidified back into disgust. I felt like slime.

  “That’s not what I said,” I muttered, although the thought had crossed my mind. “Why do you want a tutor?”

  Logan’s face became brittle. “I don’t want one. But it’ll make sense if you take the job. So, are you in?”

  Okay, I know you might be wondering why I ever took him up on the offer. But a paying tutoring gig meant that I could stop babysitting. And, for all his flaws, at least Logan Beckett was potty trained.

  “Above minimum wage?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “We work around my hockey schedule. Every other day and Saturdays.”

  I couldn’t help staring again. “Seriously?”

  He sighed, and his mouth settled in a grim line. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  I shook my head and felt even more self-conscious. I mean, Logan Beckett is a Notable. And a guy. I don’t exactly hang out with a lot of people who fall into either one of those demographics.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.” Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty, but I knew Corey and Jane would flip out if I turned down Logan freaking Beckett for tutoring. That kind of thing can rescue social lives at Smith High School.

  That’d been about two months ago. Not a bad streak for a geek like me, all things considered. But I’d hoped I would last even longer before Notables were pointing me out. And things were about to get so much worse.

  Chapter 4

  I tried to catch up with Logan after the bell released us from AP US. Not to discuss what had happened with Alex, or to escort him down the hallway, but because of Mr. Helm’s stupid diagnostic test—the one that supposedly showed us how ready we’d be for the national exam if we took it tomorrow. If Logan had done well on it, I wouldn’t have to freak out about Chelsea crashing our next study session. If, on the other hand, he didn’t get the material, I needed to come up with a solution—fast.

  Logan moved a lot faster than me, probably because he wasn’t gawky, or clumsy, and he didn’t lug around textbooks. Actually, he rarely showed up with a backpack, preferring to carry a spiral notebook with a pen tucked inside. Occasionally the pen would be misplaced and he would have to ask someone nearby for a loaner—which was probably the subject of many a nerdy girl’s diary entry. There’d probably be a whole page of: OMG! My hand touched his! They touched!

  Lame.

  Anyhow, he was already moving down the packed hallway when I stepped out of the classroom, forcing me to yell, “Hey!” to get his attention. Maybe I should have been more specific because a dozen kids turned to look at me and none of them were Logan.

  “Um ... Logan!” I tried again. He stiffened at the sound of my voice, like he’d been moving extrafast in an attempt to avoid me. Which just made me feel terrific. Not.

  “Hey,” I said lamely when I reached him. “So, um, how’d you do on the diagnostic test?” I could feel the eyes of other students send my blood pressure up. “I thought it was pretty rough. The multiple-choice section in particular wasn’t easy. I guess it’s a good thing the real exam isn’t for a while and ...”

  Yeah, I know. I babble. I’m working on it.

  Logan didn’t interrupt me though. He seemed to find it vaguely entertaining—like I was some walking science experiment that struggled to control motor functions. I cut myself off instead.

  “So ... um, how was your test?” I repeated awkwardly.

  He shrugged and started walking down the hall again.

  “Wait, does that mean it went well? Is a shrug good?” I didn’t think so, but it rarely hurts to ask.

  “It was a diagnostic test. I’m diagnosed.”

  “Sure, but I need to see the diagnosis.”

  Logan nodded in the direction of the now-empty classroom. “Mr. Helm told us not to feel pressured to share our results.” His voice was mockingly solemn.

  “Right. No pressure to share with classmates. Except I’m your tutor. Which makes it my job to know how you’re doing. So if I could just see the test?”

  I didn’t mean to make the last part sound like a question, but tellin
g Logan Beckett what to do didn’t come naturally to me. Something else I had to work on.

  Logan held his test out of reach. I’m tall for a girl, but he still had a good few inches and a lot of muscle on me. There was no way I’d see it unless he handed it over or I kicked him really hard in the shin. I figured I should save that particular move for something more important than a diagnostic test.

  “Or what?” he asked childishly. Great, it was like preschool all over again.

  “Or I tell your parents?”

  Damn.

  Logan grinned at the note of indecision in my voice. “Right. You can hardly speak at school but you’re going to tell my parents everything.”

  “Okay, so I probably wouldn’t do that.” I decided to try out a slippery slope fallacy on him. “But if you don’t show me, I won’t know what you need help on, which means that I wouldn’t be a good tutor. Which means the AP test will be harder for you. And the consequences of that ...”

  “Okay,” Logan said, probably just to get me to shut up. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Great, we had graduated to elementary school.

  “Why don’t you just show me your test?”

  Logan just shook his head, making his bangs fall attractively over his eyes.

  “Nope. Why don’t you want to show me? Not able to ace it?” His eyes danced at the idea.

  There was no point in stalling. I opened my backpack, pulled out the test, and held it tightly in front of me. “All right, on the count of three.”

  Logan ignored me and effortlessly swapped the tests. Logan had scored 29 percent. I had clocked in at 98 percent. I’m not sure which one of us felt more uncomfortable with the results.

  “Ninety-eight percent.” Logan didn’t sound surprised, just impressed and half-amused. “How the hell did you do that?”

  I examined the tops of my black Converse shoes. “Um ... I studied?” God, could I sound like a bigger dork? “A lot. I studied a lot. History has always been my best subject, so ...” I turned my attention to the test in my hands. “I think we should have an extra study session, maybe try a new studying technique or ...”

  He handed my test back and nodded in agreement.

  “How about Sunday?” There was no trace of a smile on his face now.

  I usually tried to keep my Sundays clear, so I wasn’t exactly psyched about spending it discussing the Colonists ... again.

  “Great!” I told him. Stupid, stupid, Mackenzie. “Sounds totally ... um ... great. So study sessions on Saturday and Sunday. A history-packed weekend.”

  Throughout our conversation the two of us moved in the general direction of the lockers. The nearer we came to the scene of my most recent embarrassment, the more gawky I felt—like a mini–growth spurt was shooting me up several more inches. And trust me, I’m plenty tall already.

  People had started noticing us too. Well, not me so much, but certainly Logan. Notables kept greeting him in passing, and he nodded back casually while I tried not to freeze or trip.

  My enthusiasm over studying earned me another one of his “you are an amusing freak of nature” looks. I felt myself go redder. Not an attractive flush either. My face gets ruddier, which makes it more difficult to see my freckles but does not create any other positive changes.

  “Well”—I tried to undo some dork damage—“I mean, no one actually looks forward to homework on the weekend. But I should be able to squeeze you in ...”

  Why is it that popular kids magically show up just when something can be taken out of context to sound sexual? Spencer, another hockey-playing Notable, strolled over just in time to cut me off mid-babble by saying, “That’s what she said.”

  Which I admit was a little funny—juvenile and overused, but still, funny. My face turned another shade of tomato while Logan grinned and went into guy mode.

  “Hey, Spence, how’s it going?”

  I instantly felt like a third wheel. I couldn’t talk about hockey or partying or anything else Notable. It was better for me just to keep my mouth shut.

  “Just bombed a Geometry test,” Spencer said, unperturbed. “Maybe next time, I’ll borrow her.”

  Spencer grinned good-naturedly while he gave me an appraising once-over.

  “I doubt she’s your type,” Logan said as if I weren’t standing right there. “You really don’t want Mack here nagging about your grades. That’s what your parents are for. Besides, I’m not sure how well you’d handle the pressure. We just got your Woodshop grade up to a B so you can stay on the team.”

  I could really learn to hate Logan Beckett. For the record: more like “you’re not her type.” Spencer was the straight-C student, and if he hadn’t been such a great athlete, he would have been booted out. Well, that, and if his parents hadn’t donated a building to the school. Private schools aren’t the only ones that respond to lots of money. Even in Oregon, bribery can get you anything from a discreet nose job to higher test scores. Not that I would know about either, but I’ve heard stories ... and watch cable.

  Spencer’s stroll became noticeably more slouched. “You know I hate waking up early for class. Eight a.m.—it’s just not right.”

  “Not when you’ve got a hangover from the night before.”

  “Damn straight. You going to Kyle’s party tomorrow? The weekend starts on Thursday, man.”

  “Today is Thursday,” I corrected helpfully. And no, it doesn’t.

  “That’s great! All the more reason for you to come. Are you down?”

  I waited, hoping that he would say, “Sorry, man, but I’ve got too much studying to do.”

  No such luck.

  “I’ll be there.”

  I reached my next classroom (AP Gov) and had to make a polite departure, which is hard to do when the Notables barely recognized your presence in the first place.

  “So I’ll see you Saturday,” I said to Logan.

  “See you, Mack,” he said without so much as a glance, disappearing around a corner with Spencer before I could protest the nickname. I hate it when people call me Mack. Really, really hate it. I was left standing Notable-less with all the other AP nerds, muttering, “Mackenzie, not Mack,” to myself.

  Lame.

  Chapter 5

  Dinner at the Wellesley house that night was not pleasant. It didn’t matter that I managed to survive the rest of the day without any awkward encounters with Notables—the damage was done. When I got home, tired from a full day of academic activity and social humiliation, I found an irate brother waiting.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Dylan bellowed.

  “Hi to you too, baby brother,” I said, emphasizing the “baby” just to piss him off. That’s my job as the older sister. He was already so mad that my latest offense didn’t even register.

  “Why were you talking to Chelsea Halloway? Don’t you know she’s out of your league?”

  “Don’t you mean out of your league, Dylan? I have no interest in joining her ranks. Of course, you might have to hit the gym and drop a few IQ points to really fit in. I’d also recommend steroids. I’m sure your future BFF Alex Thompson can get you a prescription.”

  “Alex Thompson does NOT use steroids!” he yelled defensively. “Just—don’t screw this up for me. Your actions reflect on me. So why don’t you hang out with Jane and Corey, okay? Leave popularity to people who can actually formulate sentences in public. And for God’s sake, don’t jump football players!”

  Okay, I admit that stung. Getting reprimanded for my lack of social skills by my middle school brother was flat-out embarrassing.

  “How did you find out about that anyway?” I asked, pretending to be nonchalant about the whole thing.

  He looked completely disgusted with me. “You’re kidding, right? Every time you humiliate yourself, I get a text about it. Do you have any idea how expensive you are? I owe Mom fifteen bucks a month for unlimited texting, thanks to you.”

  “You just wanted it so you and your little friends could discuss Chelsea Hal
loway’s miniskirts. Not that you have a shot in hell with her.” I ruffled his hair. “I don’t think she’s looking for a younger man right now. Middle school isn’t exactly what she wants in a boy toy.”

  He shoved my hand away and glowered. “I’ve got a better chance with her than you’ve got with Logan Beckett.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Right, again. But here’s the difference: I’m not interested in Logan Beckett. Or anyone in the Notable crowd.” Except for Patrick, but my little brother really didn’t need to know that. “Which means I can humiliate myself—or you—in front of them whenever.”

  Dylan stared at me in horror. “You won’t say a word about me, understand? Not one word!”

  My mom picked that moment to enter the room. Our yelling at each other (well, more Dylan’s yelling at me) had gotten her attention.

  “What’s going on?” she asked tentatively, as if she didn’t really want to know. In all honesty, she probably didn’t.

  “Nothing new. Mackenzie humiliated herself in public. Again. Can’t you make her stop or ship her off somewhere? Or something!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your sister, Dylan,” Mom said firmly. “She’s just special.”

  That was not what I wanted to hear.

  “Special Ed, maybe,” Dylan muttered nastily.

  The two of us glared at him.

  “Well, it’s true!” he said defensively. “That’s why she’s taking so many AP classes. Too bad socially, she has the IQ of a ...”

  But my mom didn’t let him finish that sentence. “Let’s all calm down before dinner. Dylan, your sister is not going anywhere—get used to it. And Mackenzie—” My mother paused. “Why don’t you try a little harder to ... um ... blend in at school.”

  You know you’re awkward when your mother points out your ineptitude.

  “Gee thanks, Mom,” I said sarcastically. “Blend, huh? You know what? Why don’t I practice ‘blending’ and disappear right now.” I headed up the stairs to my room, hollering behind me, “Now you see me,” and slamming the door to signify the “now you don’t.” But I couldn’t hold a grudge against my mom. So I sulked over my homework for an hour before I went downstairs to set the table, empty the recycling, sweep the kitchen floor, and wipe down the counters. That’s how life works in a single-parent home—you pull your weight. My mom really didn’t need to come home from work to deal with stupid bickering matches.