Meet Cute

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  To my surprise, her face falls and she shifts away from me. “I don’t know . . . I know this sounds weird, but it just hurts too much,” she says quietly.

  “What do you mean? Are . . . are you talking about your parents?”

  Blythe shakes her head. “No. I mean, watching what we’re doing to the Earth. What does it matter whether we can clean up oil spills if the ice caps have all melted?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “If you care so much about the environment, you have to stay and fight. You can’t give up.”

  “I don’t see it as giving up. I have the chance to help build a brand-new society on an untouched planet. This time, we have the chance to do something right, and I want to be a part of it.”

  I stare at her, sifting through the countless arguments popping up in my head. But as I catch sight of the sparkle in her eyes, the words fall away. This is what she wants, what she’s decided. “They’ll be lucky to have you,” I say, smiling. Besides, the last thing I want to do is convince her to pull out.

  Blythe takes my hand. “They’ll be lucky to have you. I just wanted to make sure you’re in it for the right reasons.”

  “You mean, not as a way to get out of prom?”

  She cocks her head to the side. “Well . . . if we’re both selected, we can organize the first-ever prom on Mars.”

  “I am not traveling two hundred fifty-nine million miles to join the Martian prom committee. Besides, it’d be pretty pointless without music.”

  “I can take care of that.” Blythe grins at me, then starts to sing, the same terrible song she butchered earlier. “I’d stop the world and meeeeeelt with you,” she croons before moving on to the next verse.

  Still holding her hand, I stand up and pull Blythe to her feet. She gives me a confused look, but doesn’t stop singing. Without saying a word, I wrap my arms around her waist and begin to sway in time to the music.

  She finishes the song, then rests her head on my shoulder. “You’re less terrible at dancing than you lead people to believe.”

  “Maybe I just need some practice,” I whisper into her ear.

  “I suppose that’s one way to stay busy on a two-hundred-fifty million-mile journey.” She lifts her head up to look at me. “Though it might be hard in zero gravity.”

  “Only one way to find out.” I tighten my hold, and then lift her off the ground, spinning her through the air while she laughs.

  — — — —

  I don’t know exactly how it happens. I guess the dancing tires us out, because at some point, we collapse onto one of the benches, breathing heavily. We eventually fall asleep like that, curled around each other on the narrow bench. The only way for us both to fit is for me to wedge myself between the edge of the bench and the wall, but I don’t care. I feel like I could stay like this forever. Even if the entire left side of my body has gone numb.

  When the lights go on, we have just enough time to disentangle ourselves and stand up before the door slides open.

  “Hello again,” Lauren says cheerfully. “Everyone okay in here?”

  I exchange a quick glance with Blythe. “Yeah, all good,” I say.

  “Great.” James smiles. “We’re just going to take each of you off for a quick debriefing, and then you’ll be on your way.”

  Blythe turns to me. Her hair is rumpled, and there’s more eyeliner under her eyes than on the lids. She looks beautiful. “I’ll see you later,” she says.

  I nod. “Yeah, see you later.” But I don’t want to wait another four months to see her, so as Lauren starts to lead her away, I call out, “Hey, Blythe?” She turns around. “Want to get coffee or something after this?”

  She smiles, and warmth floods my chest. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  I try to rein in the manic smile threatening to take over my face. “Great. I’ll meet you outside.”

  James leads me away in the opposite direction, and a few minutes later, I’m seated at the long table in the conference room again. Except this time, only Lauren is there.

  “You did very well in the isolation room,” she says as soon as I’ve lowered myself into the chair.

  “Thanks. The fire simulation was pretty brutal, though.”

  “I know. But it’s essential that we see how you perform under pressure. As, I believe, you figured out fairly early.” She gives me a knowing smile before glancing down and her tablet. “Of course, the real test was to see how you and Blythe worked together. And I’m pleased to say that our predictions were entirely correct. You two complement each other perfectly. Your dynamic is exactly what we’re looking for on the team.”

  Excitement fizzes through my chest. Oh my God, I think. This is it. I did it. We did it. I’m going to Mars! Blythe and I are going to Mars. I don’t think my smile can get any wider.

  “Oh, dear,” Lauren says quickly. “I suppose I should’ve been clearer. I apologize. While you’re a very strong candidate, Philip, I’m afraid you weren’t selected for the mission.”

  Her words land like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of me. “But you just said . . .” I trail off.

  “Yes, it’s a difficult situation. You see, we can’t just think about the group dynamic for this mission. We have to think about how the new colonists will interact with the team we sent six months ago. There’s a young man on that team we think will do well to balance out Blythe’s exuberance, but we wanted to make sure before we made our final selection. Luckily, you and he have nearly the exact same personality markers, so we figured you’d be a good test case.”

  The air still hasn’t returned to my lungs. I can’t talk. I can’t breathe. The room starts to spin, and I place my hands on the table for balance. “So . . . I was never a real candidate?” I finally croak.

  “Oh, no, of course you were! You made it all the way to the penultimate round. But we only brought you in for this round so we could keep evaluating Blythe. Sorry to mislead you. We very much appreciated having you here. We couldn’t have chosen Blythe without you. She should be very grateful.”

  I take a deep breath. “Can . . . can I tell her all this when I see her? We’re meeting after this.”

  Lauren shakes her head sadly. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry, Philip. Blythe’s on her way to the shuttle. Tessa put her on the helicopter a few minutes ago.”

  — — — —

  In a daze, I stumble through the rest of my brief conversation with Lauren, then manage to make it out of the building before I collapse onto a bench. My heart is beating so fast, I can barely catch my breath. The words she’s gone echo through my head. She’s going to Mars, and I’m never going to see her again.

  I know, rationally, we only spent twenty-four hours together, but something happened in that room. We had a real connection. We had real potential. My heart cramps as I imagine all the things we’ll never do together. Exchanging wondrous looks as we stare out the shuttle window, taking in the dizzying beauty of space. Holding gloved hands as we step out of the craft and set foot on a foreign planet for the first time. Laughing and exploring and dreaming and—

  My phone buzzes. For one brief moment, I think it’s her. She could’ve asked for my number. She would’ve wanted to say good-bye.

  My stomach plummets. It’s my mom.

  How’d it go?

  I’ll wait until I get home. I want to see her face when I tell her I’m not going. That’s one good thing, I guess. The chance to see her crying happy tears for once.

  I let out a sigh and tilt my head back. It’s a beautiful, sunny spring day. The sky is an uninterrupted stretch of clear blue. There are no clouds. No helicopters. Blythe is already gone.

  If I’d been chosen, I’d be on the helicopter with her. I can picture the two of us huddled next to each other, giddy with excitement as we learn about the next stage of our adventure.

  The mission was the only thing getting me out of bed in the morning. It’s what gave me the strength to go back to school to face the cloud of laughs and whisper
s that followed me everywhere. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Finish my homework? Apply to college, where I’ll spend the next four years watching girls cringe when they pass me?

  There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing.

  Even if she wasn’t lying, there aren’t other girls like Blythe out there. Most girls would rather make out with a garbage can than with me. I would know. About a million of them said so online.

  I feel the familiar prickle of morbid curiosity, the same one that compels you to stare out the window when you pass roadkill. I want to know how many views it’s up to. I need to know if the entire planet has now seen the video twice, or if once was enough. Before I can stop myself, I’ve pulled it up. Twenty million views. Awesome.

  I scroll to the most recent comment and brace myself for the jolt of fury or shame I know is coming. But to my surprise, it’s not a terrible comment. I can tell right away, because the cruelest ones are always written in all caps.

  Philip is adorable. I’m kicking myself for not kissing him when I had the chance. He’s destined for great things, I know it.

  I jump to my feet. As I’m standing there, staring dumbstruck at my phone, another new comment pops up. I wish he’d make his own video. I’m about to go on a pretty scary trip and need something inspiring to watch. The username is ISpeakModernEnglish.

  Everything in my body turns fizzy, every cell tingling. I need to write back, even if it means ten million people are going to fill the rest of the thread with cruel comments. But then I hear her voice in my head, clearer than I’ve heard anything before. You can make a statement about not living in fear, how it’s better to fail than never try at all.

  I take a deep breath and let my finger hover over the most terrifying button on VidHub, Go Live. Just pretend she’s the only one watching, I tell myself, pressing it. A light starts blinking, and to my surprise, a strange feeling of calm washes over me. “Hi, everyone,” I say. According to the number on the screen, more than ten thousand people are watching. “My name’s Philip. I figured it was time for you to meet me . . . the real me . . . so here I am. So, hello to everyone out there who’s watching, whether you’re in the U.S., Asia, Europe, wherever. Or even if you’re on Mars.” I pause and smile. “Especially if you’re on Mars.”

  Something Real

  — — — — — —

  JULIE MURPHY

  “HAVE YOU EVER been on TV before, June?” Daria asks as she brushes a matte coral blush along the line of my cheek where a cheekbone would go if mine protruded.

  “Mm-mm,” I practically grunt, trying my very best to tell her no but also be still, because I’ve never had my makeup professionally done and I can only imagine it involves staying perfectly still.

  Daria, the lanky Asian makeup artist, is one of those human beings who looks like she’s not wearing makeup and probably doesn’t even own a hair dryer, but for whatever reason she’s been entrusted with the job of preparing my face for camera—and rightfully so. The girl is damn good at her job. With my rosy cheeks and double chin that not even obscenely overpriced foundation can hide, I look like an airbrushed cherubic version of myself. All that’s missing are wings and a bow and arrow.

  Okay, but really, self-deprecation aside, I look pretty amazing. She added a touch of bronzer, too, that suddenly made me look much more like my father’s daughter than I ever had before. I’m the result of my Irish mom and my Mexican dad. Somehow I ended up with all mom’s complexion genes, while my brother is a more natural mix of the two.

  Daria shields my eyes as she sprays my curls with a sugary-sweet hair spray before brushing out every last light brown ringlet into glamorous waves that look as foreign on me as a football helmet.

  “Impressive,” I say.

  Daria winks. “The power of transformation.”

  The trailer door swings open as a production assistant rushes inside and guides a stomping girl to the chair next to me.

  “Here’s the other one,” says the PA.

  “Do we have an ETA on Dylan?” Daria asks.

  The PA shares a meaningful glance with Daria’s reflection in the mirror. “We’re gonna get some intro film on these two for now.”

  Dylan. I have to remind myself to breathe. For the first time, I glance over to the other girl. And it is immediately apparent that I don’t have a chance in hell. The other girl wears thick-soled Dr. Martens and fishnet stockings seamed up the back. Her midnight-blue crushed-velvet babydoll dress swishes around green-bean-like thighs. Her long white-blond hair is streaked with black and sits piled into a sloppy bun on top of her head. On me, her whole look would look like I got in a cage fight with a clearance rack at Hot Topic, but on her, it works. Really well. The girl is the exact opposite of me in every way, but worst of all, she’s my competition.

  Three years ago, I would have been the person flipping through channels at home, briefly landing on A Date Come True and snickering at the contestants for a moment before settling on reruns of The Simpsons, King of the Hill, or Bob’s Burgers. (If I were religious or whatever, my holy trinity would be Lisa Simpson, Bobby Hill, and Tina Belcher.) But all that was before Dylan. His legal name is Timothy Dylan Wachowski, but when his manager discovered him and his tiny little garage band, he became a solo act simply known as Dylan. To be honest, his name could be Wallflower Zambino Bubba and my love for him would still be just as endless.

  I’ve had plenty of crushes, but none of them compare to the pain that is falling in love with someone’s every word, every note, and feeling like they can both fix you and break you all in one song without you ever having even met them. Not once. It’s the kind of pain you’ve either got to shut out entirely or embrace completely. I guess you can call me a glutton for punishment, or you can just refer to me by my official title: June Smith, President and Founder of the Official Dylan Fan Club International. Yeah, I’ve got it bad.

  Which is why I didn’t even have to try out for A Date Come True—a show where totally normal, achingly average-looking people compete for dates with their most beloved celebs. Nope, the producers went to the pain of tracking me down, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t say no.

  “I guess now is as good a time as any for you two to meet,” says Daria as the door swings shut behind the PA. “June, this is Martha. Martha, this is June.”

  I lift my gaze to say hello via the mirror. Martha turns to me, though, before glancing into the mirror. Awkwardness explodes in my chest. Why didn’t I just turn to her instead of insisting on communicating via our reflections? Why didn’t I say hi immediately the moment she walked into the trailer?

  “Hi,” I finally sputter.

  “Hello,” she responds, her voice cool. And I don’t mean hip. I mean even and self-possessed.

  “So you’re the competition, then?” Heat spreads beneath my skin, and I wonder how long it will take for the blotchiness to surface above Daria’s amazing makeup. If I’m this much of a mess just meeting the other girl, what’s gonna happen when they put me in front of Dylan?

  But then Martha smiles at me with her lips still pressed together, and something about her expression soothes me. “I guess so,” she says. She shrugs. “Maybe we’ve already won just by being here, though.”

  If I close my eyes, her voice feels like warm water being poured on my head, like when you’re getting your hair cut and the stylist presses the nozzle of the shampoo bowl right against your scalp.

  Daria clears her throat. “Martha was one of sixty thousand girls who tried out.”

  “Wow,” I breathe.

  “And I hear you didn’t even have to audition,” says Martha. “Sounds like a head start to me.”

  I laugh a little too deeply. “Trust me. I’m gonna need all the advantages I can get.”

  Martha smiles into the mirror, and it’s easy to forget, for a moment, that she’s my competition and that tons of production people are waiting outside to film me in all my awkward glory. As I meet Dylan. The Dylan. Oh my God.


  I watch as Daria freshens up Martha’s face, but just barely. Martha’s bone structure alone has already done half the work for her. I force myself to really study my transformation in the mirror. For a moment, the smallest bit of logic nudges its way into my brain, and I realize that Dylan has no idea who I am. Well, other than what they tell him. But besides that, I can be whoever I want to be. He doesn’t know the girl who showed up here this morning in leggings and a baggy fleece with uneven skin and frizzy hair and a double chin. All he’ll ever know is the finished product. The perfectly made-up face and the lush waves cascading over my shoulders. There’s no hiding the double chin, but to be honest, I don’t hate it all that much to begin with. When I walk out of this trailer, Dylan will see the upgraded version of me in my long-sleeve navy maxi dress and suede booties. So maybe you can’t take the awkward out of the girl, but you sure can hide it.

  — — — —

  “Okay!” shouts Jill, a petite white lady and the head producer on set. She’s the one who reached out to me about the show in the first place. She wears all black and is barely tall enough to hop into her director’s chair sitting across from me, but her voice compensates for whatever she lacks in stature. “We’re gonna get some intro footage. June’s first. Everyone, shut the hell up!”

  Daria fusses with my hair once more, twisting my waves so they frame my face just so.

  “Five,” says the burly cameraman just behind Jill’s shoulder, “four, three, two, and action.”

  Jill clears her throat. “June, we’re going to ask a few questions. You’ll look just over my shoulder the whole time at Zeek behind me. Got it?”

  I nod. Four cameras are trained on me, ready to capture me at every angle, which is only slightly horrifying. I have to squint to see beyond the looming lights that feel like the heat lamps my brother uses for his pet lizard, Ralph. Just beyond Jill, Daria hovers with her belt full of brushes, and a few feet behind her sits Martha, who offers me a short wave.