by Isobel Irons
“You're kidding, right?”
He smiles. “Sorry, it's my mom's. I didn't think you'd want anything of my sister's. She wears a lot of pink.”
Touché.
I go into the bathroom, and close the door behind me. My mouth almost hits the floor. The towels match. The soap is shaped like sea shells.
If I didn't already know that Grant and I were from two completely different worlds, this seals it. Even his soap is too good for me.
I change quickly, and wash my face with a green nautilus. Then I hunt through the drawers until I find a towel that doesn't look like it’s part of an elaborate home shopping channel display. When I’m done using it, I fold it neatly and leave it on the counter, sparing only a quick glance at the mirror and my face—which looks paler and puffier than usual—before turning to leave.
Grant is waiting for me, in the chair by the bed. He's made it all up for me, turning down the sheets and everything. When I come in, he's looking at me funny. I look down at myself, thinking that he couldn't possibly be checking me out. Not in this granny number. But I find myself blushing, anyway.
He's holding something in his hand—a remote. He gestures to a flat-screened TV on the wall.
“I thought you might want to watch a show or something, before you go to sleep. You know, so you don't have any messed-up dreams.”
My chest hurts. “Okay.”
I crawl into the huge, unbelievably comfortable bed, and tuck myself under the covers. The mattress is so wide and the pillows are so huge, I feel small. Worst of all, I feel like I might start crying. So instead, I do what I always do. I attack.
“So. Why didn't you come to Baskin Robbins earlier?”
Grant immediately looks guilty. I feel my wits sharpen. What is he hiding?
“I had a bunch of errands to run,” he says, sounding sincere as ever, “and they kind of went over. I'm really sorry. I should've called.”
Yeah, I think, somewhat bitterly. Maybe if you had, I wouldn't have almost gotten....
But my mind rebels. I can't even think the R-word in front of Grant, let alone say it.
“Are you really not going to tell me what happened?”
I just look at him. He keeps turning the remote control over and over in his hands, like a nervous gesture, but much more precise. He’s counting, I realize.
“Okay, will you at least tell me, has anything like this happened to you before?”
I shrug. He really has no idea what kind of girl I am, does he?
“Was it...I don't know, your step dad, or?”
I sigh, closing my eyes to block out his sympathetic face. “My dad is dead. I don't have a step dad. And no, I'm not involved in an abusive relationship—at least, not that I'm aware of.”
“Okay. I get it. You don't want to tell me.” He points the remote at the TV. It flicks to life, electricity buzzing through the room a split-second before the sound of music. “What do you feel like watching?”
I blink, but it’s hard to focus on the flashing images through the crystal blur. Whenever he's not looking at me, sneaky tears keep trying to form. I try to sound flippant, but my voice comes out sounding quivery and small.
“I don't know, Grant.”
He turns to me, reaches for my hand. He has to stretch for it, since I'm in the middle of the bed. I smile at how ridiculous it looks. Then I make a decision. I reach over with my other hand and pat the bed next to me.
Grant glances toward the door, a surreptitious look on his face. I snort.
“What, are you going to get in trouble for sitting on the bed?”
“I might.” His answer is almost too quiet to hear.
I smile. “I'm not going to molest you. I promise.”
He doesn’t laugh, but I do. On the inside. That’s me, always crossing the line in my attempt to joke away the pain.
After another second, he kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed, settling next to me on top of the covers. I brace myself for the smell of sweaty boy socks, but it never comes. That's it. Grant Blue is officially perfect. And I fucking hate him for it.
But not nearly as much as I like him.
I lean forward and take the remote from his hand, resting my head on his shoulder as I flip through the channels. I don't remember what we end up watching. All I know is, when I finally fall asleep, I've never felt so safe.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Six days until prom….
On Sunday morning, I talk Grant into driving me home at the crack of dawn.
I tell him it’s because my mom will freak out if I don’t get home before she does. Of course, it’s a lie—I’m sure she could really care less about who I spend the night with. To be honest, I just don’t want to have to fake my way through the perfect family breakfast. I’ll bet Grant’s mom even makes homemade waffles and bacon. I’ll bet she asks if I actually like eggs, before she gives them to me.
Hell, I’ll bet they even go to church.
After the night I’ve just had, there’s only so much surreal, unreachable happiness I can handle.
At about 2:00 AM, I woke up to find Grant sleeping beside me, still respectfully on top of the covers, fully clothed and not even close to copping a feel. In fact, the only part of him that was touching me was his hand. Our fingers were still tangled together, but his face was totally relaxed. With his eyes closed, without his eyebrows knitted together in concern or sympathy, he didn’t look like a superhero or a savior. He just looked like Grant.
In that moment, I realized I couldn’t breathe, because I have fallen for him. Way too fucking hard.
Somewhere in between the hating and the plotting, this beautiful, kind boy stole my heart. With my torn, battered heart in his hands, Grant Blue is now the most dangerous person I know. He holds the key to my ultimate destruction, and he doesn’t even know it.
So no, I cannot handle homemade waffles this morning.
Instead, I need distance. I need time. I need to break something. I need to smother my pain with some good, old fashioned anger. And maybe some Pop Tarts. It’s the only coping strategy I know.
When Grant and I pull up in front of my house, Mom's car is still gone. I wait for a second, bracing myself for what I'm about to say. He seems to misinterpret my silence as fear.
“Do you want me to go in with you?”
“No.” I shake my head, and it only hurts a little now. Dimly.
Maybe my head really is as thick as my mom always says.
“I just wanted....” I take a deep breath and turn toward him. “I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of me.”
“You're welcome.”
“And, I also wanted to tell you that I'll completely understand.” I look out the window. “If you don't want to go to prom with me. I think it's obvious at this point that I'm...I'm really fucked up, and a gigantic pain in the ass, and you're obviously perfect. And—contrary to popular opinion, I'm not a charity case. So...let's just quit being ridiculous, okay?”
I reach for the door handle, but Grant’s arm reaches across me. His hand touches mine. Stopping me, without even the slightest hint of force.
Slowly, I turn, knowing that his face will be dangerously close to mine. I finally get there, and I'm not wrong. His eyes search mine, before dropping to my mouth. Instinctively, I lick my lips. His hand traces my arm, up to my neck. Up to my face. His thumb brushes across my chin, then over my lips.
I swallow, much too loudly. Waiting.
Grant dips his head, and his lips brush mine. Gently at first, but gradually, the pressure builds until every hair on the back of my neck is standing straight up.
Like him, the kiss is perfect. I'm so happy I could die. And I sort of want to, because this moment is better than anything I ever could have imagined. And I know I don't deserve it, no matter what Grant says.
Slowly, carefully, I pull away. I allow myself to smile stupidly at him for a second. Then I kiss him. Then he kisses me again. And I kiss him. We go back and forth like that for
a while, until I force myself to end the moment.
The fairy tale was great while it lasted. But like I said before, I am no princess. Not by any stretch of anyone’s twisted imagination.
When I finally go inside, I lock the door behind me and go straight for my room. I pull my prom dress out of the closet, and set it on the bed. I try to imagine myself wearing it, as I enter the room on Grant's arm. I try to imagine myself standing on stage, smiling. Winning. But I can't. Because even after everything I've accomplished, even after everything I've survived, it's still not enough.
It's not just about Margot anymore. Or getting revenge on Becca. It's also about me. I want that scholarship money. I need to get out of here. Away from Trent. Away from Lazy Acres and all its apathetic citizens, away from this god-forsaken town and all the petty people in it.
But most of all, I want to get away from myself.
Because I don't want to be ‘Skangly’ or ‘Natty’ or ‘Tasha’ anymore. I don’t even want to be ‘Tash,’ or ‘Natasha Doreen Bohner.’ I want to be someone else. I want to be...better.
I go into the kitchen and pull out the emergency coffee can with the credit card we’re never supposed to use. I change into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt—Keely’s fucking style profile be damned. I grab my yearbook, then I get in my car and drive to Kinko's across town. It's the only printing place that's open on a Sunday.
When I tell the lady behind the counter what I want, she raises her eyebrows at me. But she lets me borrow her scissors and a Sharpie marker anyway. Half an hour later, I leave the Kinko's and swing by the bulk grocery store for the rest of the supplies I'll need.
When I get back home, it's late afternoon. Mom is still gone, but I barely even notice. I spend the rest of the afternoon cutting and gluing.
Then I go to bed early, because I've got to get up at the crack of dawn.
It’s time to finish what I started. I can’t let anything stop me now. It’s time for Phase Three of the Plan.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Five days until prom….
I try not to yawn when I walk into aerobics on Monday morning. I'm a little bit early, so I take my time getting ready. This morning, after coming home from my ‘mission’ at 4:00 AM, I paced around for a while, because I was too wired to sleep. Too full of angst. Too haunted by my own demons.
I think I’ve established how bad I suck at math, but if I had to guess, I’d say I’ve had a grand total of about five hours of sleep in the past two days.
At this point, I'm fueled by nothing but caffeine and my undying thirst to see Becca Foster crumble.
After changing into my gym clothes, I find a good vantage point on the bleachers. I sit down. I wait, but nothing happens.
Girls arrive in clusters, lining up on the bleachers below me like it’s just another morning. Ms. Tailor appears to give everyone the bad news: it’s Mile Day. Then, we run the mile. I actually run it this time, because without Margot, walking it just seems excruciatingly long and pointless.
Also, I really want to be back in the locker room before the fireworks start.
From what I can tell, at least from afar, Becca is behaving like her usual, snob-like, bitchy self. But she leaves me alone now. Ever since Margot has been absent from school, it's like there's this unspoken ceasefire between her and I. I don't know if it's because on Becca’s end, she thinks we no longer have beef. Like, now that she’s taken down the one person I care about most, I’m just going to call it Even Stephens. Or whatever. But I'm not going to sound any alarms, just in case. Let her believe we’re square. Let her think I’m trying to play nice, so she’ll accept me into the fold. I make sure to act as civil and detached as possible, without being friendly or arousing suspicion.
Everything seems like a normal day, so far.
It's not until the end of first period that I start to notice a disturbance in the force. Girls with early-ending morning classes filter into the locker room a few at a time, spreading the gossip. I pretend not to hear them whispering, focusing on applying my red lipstick to absolute perfection. It’s like I’ve frozen myself, from the outside in. My core is still volcanic, but no one needs to know.
I’ve finally learned how to fit in. The answer is so simple: feel nothing. Give zero fucks. Accept the fact that I have nothing left to lose. That I can’t afford to hope, or want, or be afraid. There's a faint purple bruise on my neck, where Trent grabbed me. I cover it with makeup, trying not to think about how it happened.
After physics, Grant holds my hand and walks me to Leadership. His smile is a thousand watts stronger than usual. It’s blinding, like the damn sunrise. He’s so happy, so optimistic. He has no idea how ugly things are going to get, and soon. I take the seat next to him, and he puts his arm around me. Carrie passes by and smiles at me. She says good morning, and uses my name. I try to pretend like it doesn't get to me, but it does. How easily Grant has accepted me. How quick others are to follow his example, no questions asked.
If only they'd done the same for Margot, maybe I wouldn't be in this position.
A few minutes into class, this Asian kid named Tyler—I think he might be Sophomore class treasurer, or something—comes bursting in, late.
“Hey, did you guys see the soccer team?”
Mr. Dodge is in a humorous mood this morning. He smiles. “You mean, have we ever seen the soccer team, or have we seen them recently?”
Grant laughs. “Wait, are they missing?”
“No,” Tyler says. His smile is cruelly ecstatic. “Seriously, come out here. You guys need to see this.”
We all go to the hallway, and Tyler gestures for us to follow him out into the parking lot. The soccer team is running laps around the school, just like they do every morning, three times a week. But today, they're doing it topless.
Except for the white paper bags on their heads.
On the front, the bags say VOTE 4 BUTTERFACE FOSTER, with two eye holes on either side of the ‘4.’ On the back, there's a grainy, blown up picture of Becca's face, with a big check mark running through the middle, adequately obscuring her slightly crooked nose and general rat-like appearance.
As they pass us, everyone laughs. Except for Mr. Dodge. And me, of course. I just try to look like I'm shocked, yet mildly amused.
High school kids can be real assholes, after all. I know that better than most.
Plus, it's not like I’m the only one who ever called Becca ‘Butterface’ behind her back. And I'm definitely not the only one who hates her. The bags could've been made by anyone. I try to show all of this on my face, the perfect combination of innocence and speculation.
I think Mr. Dodge buys it, because instead of immediately coming toward me, he goes storming back into the building. Probably to tell Principal Shoemaker about this, before someone else does.
By lunch time, there have been at least half a dozen more sightings of students—mostly guys—walking around with ‘Butterface Bags’ on their heads.
Some of the computer lab geeks even got creative and started an email meme. The kid who sits next to me in art class showed it to me on his phone. It's a yearbook picture of Becca in her cheerleading uniform, with a bag Photoshopped over her head. The caption says ‘There. Fixed it.’
During the last period of the day, we're all called out of class for an impromptu locker search. Almost every student at school has a Becca Bag in his or her locker, and some people—like Trent, and Becca's best friend, Brittany—have dozens.
Of course, they both say they don’t know anything about it, but Principal Shoemaker suspends them anyway. Because unlike me, and even Trent, Becca has a dad willing to call the administration office and demand the school take disciplinary action against students who dare to hurt his daughter’s precious feelings. I didn’t plan on that, necessarily, but I had a feeling it might happen. If nothing else, Trent has now made Becca Foster’s shit list, which should hopefully keep him distracted for at least another week.
By the time we're released
to go home, most of the conversations I overhear in the hall are talking about some variation of the Butterface Scandal.
Ironically, not a single person has asked me about it yet. I'm not sure if it's because my new makeover has them thinking I've changed, or because they wouldn't have thought me capable of such a sophisticated prank in the first place. I probably wouldn't blame them if it was the latter. A month ago, I'd have settled the score by punching Becca square in the face, and everyone knows it.
After school, I meet up with Grant at the library.
He doesn't bring up the Becca thing at all, but he does keep hinting about what happened on Saturday night. He’s not very subtle about it, either. I get the feeling Grant Blue is harboring some vengeance demons of his own. But I can't let him get involved in my shit, just like I can't tell him about how much I hate Becca Foster, or why.
He'd never understand. In his world, people are civil. Honest. They talk things out. They apologize.
In my world, people hold grudges for years. They light each other's lawn flamingos on fire over the slightest snub. And they don't call the police, unless someone’s trailer is on fire.
So instead of talking about Saturday night, or Becca Foster, I bring up limits. Then prom decorations. Then corsage colors. Not that I give a damn about any of that stuff. But at this point, I'd rather talk about Auschwitz than what's going on in my head. Because what’s in there now is more disturbing and contradictory than ever.
The way Grant's been looking at me, since we kissed in his car...it's like everything has changed. But I don't know if that's good or bad. He doesn't ask permission anymore, either. Like, when he met me at the library, he automatically grabbed my hand and gave me a peck on the lips.
What the hell does that mean? Am I his girlfriend now?
I want to ask him, so badly. But I'm so terrified of messing up prom, of having him break it off at the last second. And even though the diabolical ‘bag phase’ of my plan worked out better—or butter, ha ha ha—than I hoped, I still don't know if I can beat Becca without Grant by my side.
