by Donna Cooner
“He’s cute,” Kat says, joining me at the desk after Alex leaves. Her sleeveless red dress shows off amazing biceps, toned to perfection by hours of mixed martial arts. The tattoo on her inner arm says “Darcy” in a bold, black scroll and is today’s reminder of her devotion to all things Jane Austen. Tomorrow, it will probably say something different because all of Kat’s tattoos are temporary and wash off with soap and water. She says she has a hard time with commitment.
I mentally kick myself for underestimating her. Of course she noticed. Even so, I still try to act like I don’t have a clue. “Who?”
“Like you don’t know.” Kat laughs. “I know sparks when I see them.”
Me and Alex Rivera? Sparks?
“You don’t know anything,” I mumble under my breath, and she glares at me.
I give up. “Was it that obvious?”
“Only to me and everyone else who saw you two googly-eyeing each other.” Kat logs in to the computer station.
This is a problem. I didn’t need Kat tainting this … thing with Alex. Whatever it is.
“We’re just friends,” I say, because that’s what everybody says when they don’t know what else to say. But are Alex and I even friends? What are we to each other now? My head is still spinning from our interaction. From the talk of audiobooks and running and snow cones …
Surprisingly, Kat drops the interrogation—for now.
“Why were you late today, anyway?” she asks me. “Detention?” Then she laughs at the absurdity of her question because she knows I’ve never been to detention.
I glance over at her, and brace myself for her sneer. “I was at the prom planning meeting. I was elected publicity chair.”
Her lips twitch into a smile. “Congratulations,” she says solemnly.
“You think it’s silly,” I say, sliding my hands under the stack of books and standing up carefully. I put a couple more on top, stacking all the books up into one extra-tall column, and move them over to the cart behind the desk.
“I’m not saying it’s silly. It’s fine if you want to go to prom,” Kat says. “It’s just not my thing.”
“I don’t know if I’m going,” I say. “I’m just helping.”
“What do you have to do as ‘publicity chair’?” She makes air quotes.
“I have to write some posts on the Hornet … ”
“The Hornet? Really?” She smirks.
“It’s just the starting point,” I assure her.
“Let me see,” she says, scooting out of the way and waving me toward the computer.
I roll my chair over and pull up the Hornet. There’s Heather’s old post about the prom from earlier today.
“You do have your work cut out for you,” Kat says, scrolling down the page. Then she stops, squinting at something on-screen. “Hey. What’s this Worthy thing?”
“Oh, yeah.” I’d forgotten about the app. Checking to make sure Mrs. Longshore isn’t around, I take my phone out of my pocket. Then I tap the Worthy icon and it opens. “It’s this new app,” I say, showing it to Kat.
Welcome to Worthy! the screen reads. A private network for Huntsville High School students to share honest opinions about the weaknesses and strengths of select couples. Swipe here to continue.
“Huh?” Kat says. “ ‘Select couples’? Who’s doing the selecting?”
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling kind of nervous. But I obey the app and swipe to get to the next screen.
There, in the middle of the screen, is a photo of Taylor Reed and her boyfriend, Liam Richardson. It’s clearly been lifted from Taylor’s Instagram. She and Liam are standing on the football field, Liam all sweaty and handsome in his uniform after a game. His arms are around Taylor’s waist and she’s making a kissy face at the camera. Their names are written out above the photo.
And underneath the photo, in big block letters, is one question:
IS SHE WORTHY?
There are two answers to choose from. Yes, with a little heart, or no, with a big red X. I am intrigued in spite of myself. My finger hovers over the heart.
“What is this?” Kat asks, shifting closer to me.
“I’m not sure. Like a popularity contest for a couple? You vote on whether they make a good match or not?”
Taylor and Liam are obviously a good match. They’re the super couple of Huntsville High School. They’ve plastered all of social media with photos of themselves looking gorgeous together. Like the picture that’s on Worthy: celebrating at the football game (#firstfootballwin). Walking through the fall leaves (#fallfunwithbae). Lying out by the pool (#hotdate). Even feeding each other Tater Tots in the cafeteria (#yummy).
“Who started the app?” Kat asks.
“Don’t know,” I answer. “But it probably wouldn’t be that complicated to make.”
“Obviously,” Kat says. “Anyone who’s taken Tech I would know how to create this piece of bland. I could do it in my sleep.”
“So what do you think?” I ask, looking at the picture of Taylor and Liam. “Is she worthy?”
“Why is this only about the girl?” Kat asks. “Why does she have to be worthy of him?”
“Good question,” I say. “One you should be asking every fashion magazine article ever written. But I figure this is no different than liking someone’s photo on Facebook or Instagram, right?”
Kat frowns.
I notice that, if I scroll down on the app, there are comments posted. Some are pretty harsh.
Eww, she’s evil.
She’s not worthy of anyone!
Not surprisingly, Taylor has made some enemies over the years. And behind fake screen names, everyone’s snarky side is coming out in full force. I guess it makes it easier for people to be rude if they don’t have to face the person they are talking about in real life.
And other comments are obviously written by Taylor’s BFFs.
Of course she’s worthy. She’s hot. Everyone who disagrees is just really jealous.
“Are they going to show the results?” Kat asks. “It seems kind of gross.”
I shrug. “But it’s probably just part of being in the popular crowd. Everyone has an opinion about you. They’re used to it.”
Kat stands up. “I’m out,” she says, turning away to pull a bunch of DVDs out of the return box.
“Well, I think they seem perfect for each other,” I say, with a slight sneer. I push the Yes button underneath the picture. “Mr. and Mrs. Perfect.”
My finger hovers over the keypad. Should I write a comment?
No, I decide. I won’t let myself get sucked in entirely. Just voting is enough.
Taylor Reed & Liam Richardson
IS SHE WORTHY?
Here’s what you are saying:
* Eww, she’s evil.
* She’s not worthy of anyone!
* Has anyone ever seen these two apart? Don’t they ever get bored of each other? I would!
* Of course Taylor is totally worthy of him. The only thing they fight about is blocking each other’s view of the mirror.
* She couldn’t survive without him. He’s the perfect accessory.
* Have you ever noticed that one of her eyebrows is higher than the other?
* Why is everyone slamming her???? She’s gorgeous and you all know it.
* Of course she’s worthy. She’s hot. Everyone who disagrees is just really jealous.
* SMH. Seriously, you guys will vote for pretty instead of smart and talented every day.
* Perfection isn’t real.
* TBH, I’ve never thought she was that hot. He could do better.
* Taylor Reed is pretty enough on the outside! Too bad she’s so shallow and stupid.
Comments now closed. Voting is complete! Stay tuned for the result …
“You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago,” Nikki says when she opens the front door.
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br /> I frown. “Hello to you, too.”
Nikki steps aside and lets me into her house.
“Hey, Mrs. Aquino.” I wave to Nikki’s mom on the way through the kitchen.
“You want to stay for dinner, Linden?” Mrs. Aquino calls back. “We’re having adobo and pancit.”
Mrs. Aquino knows how much I love her cooking, especially when she makes Filipino food. She also knows my mom is not the best cook in the world.
“Can’t tonight, Mrs. Aquino,” I say with a sigh. “Thanks.”
The Aquino house is always full of people and noise. So different from my empty, quiet house. That’s why I love hanging out here. Tonight, Nikki’s older sister, Perla, is sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. Just like every night for the last two weeks, Perla is arguing with her mother. According to Nikki, all Perla cares about right now is leaving Huntsville, Texas, and going away to college. The problem is that the Aquinos can’t afford the college Perla wants to attend. So every evening turns into a battleground between Perla and her mother. Nikki says she just tries to ignore them both, but it never works.
Mrs. Aquino’s voice is tense. “If you live at home for a year, we can make it work the next year. I promise.”
“Do you know how hard it is to get into Brown?” Perla isn’t yelling, but her voice is angry. “It’s one of the top schools in the country.”
“Yes, Perla. It’s an amazing accomplishment. I know how hard you worked for it, but we just can’t afford fifty thousand dollars in tuition right now,” Mrs. Aquino says.
“I made the grades to be accepted to a real university. Not some community college.” Now Perla is yelling.
“It doesn’t have to be a community college. You can go to Sam Houston State. Just stay for one year. That’s all I’m asking.”
The desperation on Mrs. Aquino’s face makes me want to fix it somehow, but there is nothing I can do except follow Nikki out of the kitchen.
“Hi, Linden.” Maricel, Nikki’s little sister, waves at me from the couch, then goes back to watching The Walking Dead. Maricel is really into zombies, and she has the show turned up loud enough to drown out the arguing in the kitchen.
“Scary,” I say to Maricel. She nods, but doesn’t look away from the television.
“She’s already told me she wants to be a zombie for Halloween,” Nikki says on the way upstairs to her room.
“It’s March,” I say.
“She likes Halloween and zombies.”
“What does she think about Jake?” I ask. Maricel might only be ten, but she’s a good judge of character.
“Don’t know.”
“He hasn’t been over?”
“Not yet,” Nikki says. “Maricel is sometimes a goofball with new people.”
I wonder if the issue is with Maricel or with Jake, but it’s not worth the argument. I follow Nikki down the hall and into her room.
As always, the green wall of Nikki’s small bedroom is covered in masking-taped-notes and chart-paper sheets and sticky pads. Magic marker arrows connect fabric and photos to drawings in some kind of elaborate spider web that only Nikki understands. Large red question marks pepper the chart at various locations, and smaller yellow sticky notes are randomly sprinkled throughout the whole jumble with carefully printed questions on each, like, “What color?” and “What if?” The mannequin beside Nikki’s desk is named Sally. Instead of a punching bag to pound away stupid people’s perceptions of fat girls in a skinny world, Nikki has Sally. But instead of hitting her, Nikki pins pieces of fabric and bits of material from clothes she carefully rips apart and reconstructs. She says it’s her way of working out her anger and frustration. Nikki always tells me Sally wants to come alive and walk outside in the sunshine. Those scraps of fabric and paper want to swirl around her knees in yellows and blues. They want texture and substance. Eventually they will become a Nikki Aquino Creation, just like the skirt I am wearing today.
I throw my backpack on the floor of Nikki’s bedroom and flop across her Laura Ashley comforter.
“I can tell you have something to say, so spill it.” Nikki flips through a magazine at her desk, a pile of books and homework untouched on the floor beside her chair.
“Like what?” I try to make my voice all innocent, but it doesn’t work. I can’t hold it in any longer.
Nikki squints at me. “Is it a chocolate kind of day?”
“I’m not sure. Do you know Alex Rivera?” I ask.
“Sure. The baseball player, right? Kind of quiet.” Nikki tears out a picture of a blue flowered teacup from the magazine, then stands to tack it onto Sally the mannequin. The image joins other scraps and pieces of creations-to-be. Pale pink satin. Ivory lace. Peach tulle. Bright red ribbons. Buttery-smooth leather. Robin’s-egg-blue silk. I know that little square of torn paper will someday be transformed into something amazing. “Why?” She sits back down and faces me, looking intrigued.
“He came into the library today and … ” I stop for dramatic effect. I can feel myself blushing.
“And?”
“I think, um … I think he asked me out.”
“Shut up! Really?” Nikki leans forward in her chair, letting the magazine slip to the floor. “Oh my God, Linden! What did he say?”
“Well, he asked me to come to his baseball game on Thursday, and then he said … ”
“Who said what?” Maricel is standing at the open door with a plate of lumpia in her hands.
“You’re supposed to knock,” Nikki says.
“Mom sent up a snack.” Maricel comes in without an invitation, hands the plate to Nikki, and makes herself at home on the carpet in front of the bed. “So who said what?” she repeats, looking at me with a conspiratorial smile.
“None of your business, Nosy Pants.” Nikki resorts to name-calling like she’s Maricel’s age, but Nosy Pants doesn’t seem to mind. She just keeps chattering away, forgetting her original question for now.
“Next month I’m going to be eleven,” she says to me, “and you know what that means, right?
“Not really,” I answer automatically. Nothing is going to get this kid to leave us alone.
“Come on.” Nikki’s grabs her hand and pulls her to her feet.
Maricel pulls away from Nikki’s grasp and leans in toward me on her tiptoes. “It means I get to go to middle school next year, and … you know what that means, don’t you?”
“I guess not,” I say.
Maricel is enjoying the guessing game. Nikki is not. She stands up and walks over to the door, holding it open. “Get out, Mari. We’re talking about private stuff.”
But Maricel is determined to tell me. “It means boys are going to be asking me out, too.”
“Out,” Nikki yells, pointing toward the hall.
With a final twirl, Maricel turns and walks out the door. Nikki closes it firmly behind her.
“Finally.” Nikki collapses back into her desk chair. “Now tell me all about it.”
I laugh. “It seemed so not real. He said he’d buy me a snow cone after the game. I think … I think that’s a date, right?”
“It so is!” Nikki exclaims. “Boys don’t just ask girls to baseball games out of nowhere, you know.” She sits down on the bed beside me. “This is really exciting, Linden. Do you like him?”
My heart races. “I don’t even know him that well … but he’s cute.” Really cute, I think, remembering his big dark eyes.
Nikki is grinning. “Do you think he’ll ask you to prom?”
I let out a laugh. “Prom? Nikki, we just talked today for the first time ever. I’m not even sure we’re going on a real date! How can I think about prom already?”
Nikki frowns. “How could you not? Maybe I could say something to Alex … drop a hint … ”
My shoulders tense. “Don’t get involved, Nikki.”
“Are you sure?” she asks.
I sit up straight. “Yes.”
“Okay. I won’t.” Nikki holds out her hands to stop me from freaki
ng out. “Not now, anyway.”
“Not ever,” I say. I feel a muscle in my neck start to twitch. “This isn’t about you.”
“Okay,” she says. Then she adds, “Now, speaking of prom, I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?” I ask, even though I can already guess.
“Jake asked me!” Nikki squeals and claps her hands. “When I got to the parking lot after school, he’d decorated my car with flowers and was standing there waiting for me. He said there was no one else he wanted to take to prom but me. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Amazing,” I echo. Promposals like that are all the rage now; people can’t just ask each other, there has to be a whole event planned around the asking. “I’m happy for you,” I say, and I mean it, but I’m also full of doubt.
Nikki is quiet. “Can’t you just give Jake a chance?” she asks. She looks down at her feet so I can’t see her eyes. “He thinks you don’t like him.”
“I like him.” My voice comes out flat and sarcastic. We both know I’m lying. I wish I could pretend to like the people I don’t, but my face gives it all away. Nikki hates that about me. But then there’s the way Jake doesn’t even look at me most of the time. Like I don’t even exist. Like I’m part of the wall or the floor. Nikki would never understand that feeling. She’s never been invisible in her whole life. I take a deep breath. I have to be careful or whatever I say next will be wrong. It always is where Jake was concerned.
“Do you like him?” I ask.
“You know I do,” Nikki whispers. “I … I think I love him.”
“Then what does it matter what I think about him?” I blurt it out, brusque and loud. Instantly, her face closes off.
“It matters.” She leans forward, her hands clenched into fists. “I wish it didn’t, but it does.”
I take another deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry.”
My apology is sincere, but we both know I will not change my mind about Jake. Nikki stands and walks back to her desk. She picks up the sharpened blue charcoal pencil off the desktop in front of her and writes a word on the top yellow sticky note.
Ruching?
She peels the bright yellow square off the top of the stack and then carefully places it on the wall beside two notes that read Roses? and Lace?
