by Lara Chapman
I smile and nod. “I’ll get the dishes. Why don’t you change out of your work clothes?”
“What’d I ever do to deserve you?” she asks as she walks out of the kitchen.
Our house normally has plenty of silence since it’s just the two of us. Mom married her high school sweetheart right after she graduated, and then promptly divorced him six months later. She never married again; she said she just didn’t have the time. It’s hard to date when you work eighty hours a week.
Husband or not, she wanted children. So she did what any self-respecting, liberated, twentieth-century woman would do: she was artificially inseminated. And voilà, here I am.
Officially, my father is known as number 55341. What I know about him is that he was in medical school and was tall and athletic. What I got from him I’ll never really know since I have a distinct aversion to blood, stand only five feet five, and have seen crippled dogs run better than me. I don’t wonder who he is; I don’t pass people on the street and think “That might be my dad.” I don’t daydream about missed father-daughter moments and I don’t cry during Hallmark commercials.
I am decidedly like my mother, which is something I embrace. There are worse people to emulate than a successful news anchor in a market the size of Houston.
Still, I wouldn’t mind having a guy show some interest in me.
But looking at my reflection in the window over the sink, I’m reminded of the reason my social life has been lackluster. And for the hundredth time since meeting Rock, I wonder if Mom’s right.
Maybe it’s time to fix the one thing holding me back.
My nose.
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
—SIR FRANCIS BACON
Chapter Six
After school the next day, I drive into the parking lot outside the food-court entrance at the mall, looking for the closest space while Kristen rambles endlessly about the stores she intends to hit while we’re here. By the time we step through the automatic doors and inhale the mixed aroma of Cinnabon and french fries, I’m mentally exhausted. Shopping with Kristen is not for the weak.
“I want something kind of dressy for Friday,” she says, walking so quickly I have to double-step to keep up. “Don’t you think?”
“If that’s what you want.” I know a rhetorical question when I hear one. “It’s just Amber’s usual back-to-school thing. Don’t know that you really need to dress up.”
Kristen stops and turns to face me. “It’s the only back-to-school party, Sarah. It sets the social tone for the rest of the year.”
I put a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. “Wow. Sounds serious.”
“Not funny.” She pouts, then grabs my wrist and pulls me into the Buckle. “You may be content to commit social suicide but I’m not going to let you. I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a loner.”
Kristen’s probably right. If it weren’t for her, I’d spend most nights at home studying or working on college applications. She’s mastered the art of dragging me out of the house and I’m always glad when she does.
One of the things I love most about Kristen is her financial prowess. She’s going to make some man very happy one day. She may love to shop but she’s as frugal as they come.
“Here,” she orders, “take these and try them on while I look for me. The most expensive item in there is $14.99. Even I can afford that.”
“Excuse me?”
Kristen stops raking through the sale rack and looks up fully exasperated. “Just try them on.”
“What if I don’t want to go to the party Friday?” Sometimes teasing her is just too easy.
“You’re killing me, you know that?” She points to the dressing room. “Get shaking, Sarah. And I want to see every single thing on you.”
With the clothes draped over my arm, I walk into the dressing room with a smile on my face.
By the time we walk out of the Buckle, I’ve bought a red scooped-neck shirt that will look perfect with my favorite jeans and flip-flops. Kristen managed to unearth an eighty-dollar dress that was on sale for twelve. She always surprises me with what she can find in the deepest, darkest recesses of any store.
We grab a couple of Diet Cokes and a large order of fries to split.
Kristen sits across from me at a food-court table securely fastened to the floor with screws the size of railroad ties. Do they really think someone is going to steal this junky stuff?
She grabs a handful of fries and dips them in the ketchup. “Think I should ask Rock to the party on Friday?”
My heart slams to a stop. “Rock?”
She smiles deviously. “Yeah, Rock. You do remember him, right? He’s the tall, handsome guy we—”
I hold up my hands to stop her description. “Of course I remember him. But you barely know him. Don’t you think it might be too soon?”
“Yet,” she says. “But I intend to fix that.”
“I thought we were going together.” As much as I wanted to see Rock again, I wasn’t sure I was ready to face a party without Kristen by my side. We’ve always done those things together.
“That’s the beauty of inviting him to the party. The three of us can go together. It won’t be like a ‘date’—it’ll just be a group of friends going out together. I won’t leave you stranded. Promise.”
“It’s not that,” I say, desperate to find the right words to change her mind. Going with Kristen and Rock sounds worse than going alone. “What if he’s not the partying kind of guy?”
“With a face like that? Trust me, he’s the partying kind. Maybe not a beer-guzzling, football-playing kind of partyer, but he has definitely seen a party or two.”
Mom’s advice comes back to me and I know that if I’m going to say something about my feelings for Rock, this is the time to do it.
“About Rock …” I drum my fingernails on the side of my cup, my eyes glued to my straw like it holds the winning lottery numbers. I force myself to look at her. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.
Kristen nods, but her eyes are like laser beams directed at two junior high kids who are walking by slowly. One of the boys is laughing hysterically and the other has his arm bent at the elbow and stuck out in front of his face like it’s a bird beak.
I give Kristen a wink, take a quick swallow of my soda, then walk to the boys. I hook my arms around theirs like they’re my prom dates. I lower my head and whisper softly so only they can hear.
“When I saw the two of you walk into the food court wearing jeans six sizes too big, I didn’t stand up and make a scene, did I?”
Both boys shake their heads quickly.
“I could have pulled my pants way down past my butt, letting the whole world see the pink lace panties I chose to wear today. But I didn’t. And do you know why I didn’t?”
More nervous glances pass between the boys. “No,” the one on my right mumbles.
“Because I have a little something called decency. Respect. The three of us have something in common. All three of us make pretty easy targets for bullies. But there is one significant difference. Want to know what that is?”
Their silence makes me grin. I’m taking way too much pleasure out of making them squirm.
“The difference is that you can change the way you look with a cruise through the mall. A quick trip through Old Navy, and you can have a closet full of jeans that actually fit. Me? I was born with this nose. So I take offense to your ridicule.”
The boys blush, eyes still on the ground, feet shuffling restlessly.
“Now … where’s my apology?”
“Sorry,” they grumble in unison.
“Alrighty, then. You two have yourselves a fabulous day.” I pat their shoulders with two quick, forceful taps and watch them slink off in shame. I walk back to the table, where Kristen is smiling. She loves it when I stand up for myself almost as much as I do.
When Kristen and I arrive at school
the next morning, Rock is getting out of his truck and walking toward us. He looks amazing in a dark blue Hurley T-shirt and well-worn jeans. His hair is still damp; my fingers itch to run through it. A flash of him in the shower shoots through my brain. Just the thought of his muscles fully bared is enough to render me speechless.
“Damn, he’s hot,” Kristen utters as she slams her car into park.
I can only manage a nod and step out of the car with my backpack and purse slung over my shoulder.
“Morning, girls,” he calls out, waiting for us in the middle of the parking lot.
Kristen waves and walks with a purpose I’ve never seen before. She half slithers, half skips to where he stands, never looking back to make sure I’m following. When Kristen reaches him, she starts walking toward the school, but Rock waits for me. As soon as she realizes she’s alone, she quickly returns to his side, shooting me an irritated look as if I’m purposely holding them up.
Rock smiles wide, nearly stopping me in my tracks. “We’re twins,” he says.
I look down and realize he’s right. Like Rock, I’m wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. “So we are,” I say as unaffectedly as possible. Once Kristen realizes the wardrobe coincidence, she’ll spend the rest of the day obsessing over why she isn’t wearing something similar.
“Except you look about a million times better than I do,” he says warmly.
Geez, would he quit being so freaking perfect?
“Hey, either of you know Amber Wakely?” he asks.
Kristen stops walking. “Of course we do. Why?”
Rock shrugs his muscular shoulders. “She asked me to a party on Friday night. Sounded fun.”
“Funny you should ask about that,” Kristen says. “We just went shopping for that party last night.”
“How would you feel about our riding together? I want to go but don’t love the thought of walking in and not knowing a single person there.”
I stand outside the conversation, feeling fully forgotten.
“Sounds great,” Kristen breathes. “Why don’t you pick me and Sarah up at my house?”
“That’ll work,” he says, tossing me a quick smile.
I fumble around in my head for something witty to say, but all I can come up with is, “I’m going to run ahead. I need to talk to Mrs. Freel before class starts. See you in there.” Of course today, of all days, we have first period together because of a schedule change for the DARE assembly. I won’t be able to escape them for long.
Before either one of them can protest, I take off in a half jog and I know how ridiculous I look. But I’d rather run like a clumsy, newborn moose than listen to Kristen ooze her charm all over Rock. And worse, watch him suck it all up.
I’m the first one in Mrs. Freel’s class. I don’t have a single reason to talk to her, but I’m sure not going to get caught in a lie, so I take my seat and open The Scarlet Letter. The novel was part of my summer reading list before my junior year, so I’ve read it before. But Jacobi is famous for pop quizzes, so I’d better be prepared.
The class begins filling up and there’s still no sign of Ken and Barbie. At 7:59, the two of them race in just as Mrs. Freel is closing the door.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?” she sneers. Nothing irritates her more than tardiness, something she and I have in common.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rock answers. “Won’t happen again.”
The entire class watches them walk back to our corner of the room, me included. I mean, let’s face it. It’s hard not to stare.
Before Rock takes his seat, he turns the full wattage of his killer smile on me. “Get your business taken care of?” he whispers.
I nod, incapable of muttering anything intelligible.
He crams his too-tall body into the old desk and leans back with a sigh.
I do my best to focus on Freel’s lecture about elements of a headline news story (like I don’t already know—I could practically teach this class), but for the life of me, I can’t focus on anything but the tiny little leaf wedged into Rock’s still-damp hair.
When Kristen reaches up to grab the leaf from his hair, she turns to me with a victorious smile.
The bagel I’d slammed for breakfast lands with a solid thud in the bottom of my stomach. Looks like they found something to do besides talk after all.
“Omigod, Sarah. It was amazing.” Kristen drops into the seat across from me in the library during our study hall.
“I’m sure it was,” I say, wishing I could escape the blow-by-blow she’s about to deliver. I don’t bother looking up from The Scarlet Letter, not really reading but desperate to block her out.
“He started teasing me about being so small, and I told him I could totally take him.” Kristen continues rambling while I stare at the book in front of me, willing myself to read the words on the page instead of listening to her recount every millisecond of their morning tryst.
“Then he tripped me and we wound up on the lawn.”
“Wow,” I mumble, dying a little with each word.
“Geez, could you show a little excitement?” she complains. “I mean, this is what we’re trying to accomplish, remember?”
How could she know that, for me, watching them together is the equivalent of watching someone torture a defenseless animal? I had my chance to tell her how I feel and blew it.
“So anyway, I’ve written the first letter,” she says with an exasperated roll of her eyes, unzipping her binder in one smooth motion. I can’t help but notice she’s already managed to destroy the organization I’d put in place for her. It’s taken her less than a week to obliterate my efforts.
“Honestly, Kristen.” Taking her binder, I make quick work of filing the papers back in their rightful spots before sliding it back across the desk to her. “What’s it take?”
She ignores me as she grabs a sheet of paper from the back of her binder. “I know where everything is. That’s all that matters.”
When she moves the paper in front of me, the first thing I notice is a lot of scribbling and drawing. Hearts, flowers, that kind of preteen thing. Nestled in the middle of the artwork is a tiny paragraph in Kristen’s familiar bubbly handwriting. Most people outgrow their junior high cursive script, but not Kristen. She’s still putting hearts above her i’s and ending all dangling letters like g and j in curlicues. A hopeless romantic.
I read the words scrawled on the paper. It doesn’t take long.
Rock,
I am so glad you have come to Houston.
I hope we get to know each other better.
Much better.
Call me … 555-0250
Love, Kristen
I look up from the note.
“I know it’s awful. Can you fix it? Make it … I don’t know … unforgettable?” She looks at me, hope shining in her eyes.
Can I? Sure.
Should I? No.
Will I? Probably.
“Before I even attempt to rewrite this, you need to have a clear purpose. Are you writing to prove you’re intelligent? You are, you know.” I push the letter closer to her.
Kristen rolls her eyes again. “Not about the right things. That’s why I need you.”
“Well, it’s not exactly like you can send a letter with a list of the things you know, Kristen. You have to slip it into conversation.”
She looks at me like I’ve told her she has to solve a quadratic equation in the next ten seconds. “I have no idea how to do that.”
“Okay, let’s start with this. Let’s focus on the feelings you have for him and forget about proving something to him. What did you think the first time you saw him?” I ask.
“He’s smoking hot.”
I chuckle at her honesty and remember thinking the exact same thing. “Okay, so honest is good, but maybe it’s too much. Did your stomach flip? Did you begin to sweat? What kind of reaction did you have to him?”
Kristen squints her eyes, thinking back to that morning. “My heart was definitely r
acing, but I didn’t sweat. Gross.”
Yet my hands sweat every time I lay eyes on him. She’d definitely have something to say about that.
“That’s a start,” I say. “You could say something like ‘When I see you, my heart dances.’ ”
“Isn’t that kind of corny?” she says, frowning.
“Yeah,” I agree. “How about ‘You set my heart on fire’?”
“Ooh! That’s good! Write that down.” Kristen taps the paper lying on the table between us.
I grab a pencil from her open binder and scrawl the phrase on the back of her letter. “What kinds of things do you want to do with Rock?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Do I really have to spell it out?”
“Okay, you little hussy, keep it clean. What would be your dream date? Maybe you should ask him out.”
“Me? Ask a guy out? I don’t think so,” she snorts.
“You’re already going to be with him on Friday night. What’s the big deal? Do you want to go out with him or not?” I ask, frustrated at her stubbornness. If I thought Rock would say yes and it wouldn’t obliterate my friendship with Kristen, I’d have asked him out the first day we met.
“Well, yeah, but …”
“No buts. This is your chance to show him you’re a risk taker. That you’re not afraid to go after what you want, especially him.”
“There’s always the movies,” she offers with a shrug.
“That’s your dream date? Come on, you can do better than that.” I shake my head and do the thinking for her. There has to be something unique they can do. Something Rock probably hasn’t done or seen before.
“I’ve got it,” I tell her. “How about the Aquarium? You could go there for dinner. I doubt he’s been there before and even if he has, it’s still a great date restaurant.”
“I love that place. Definitely.” She taps the paper again. “That should do it. Let’s go send it.”
“Now?” I ask, head spinning. Surely she doesn’t think I’m going to be able to just whip this out in thirty seconds.
“Yes, now. When else?” She stands and walks to the bank of computers lining the perimeter of the library. “Come on.”
