#famous(49)

Twenty minutes was not enough time to get ready. The girls Kyle hung out with probably spent that much time on eyeliner. I was going to look like a tornado. Or that cartoon guy that makes them, what’s his name? The Tasmanian Devil. According to the internet, we shared a body type.

I figured the best option was to lower expectations from the start, so I’d texted that my hair would suck—most days, that was a given. As though he would even care what I looked like—I had to keep reminding myself that he wasn’t into me, not that way. This was just friends hanging out on a Saturday. One incredibly gorgeous, sweet friend who stands up for girls he barely even knows, and one troll doll.

I ran upstairs to my room, almost knocking Jonathan and a stack of gaming cards across the landing.

“Sorry,” I yelled, not looking back, veering into the bathroom, and slamming the door behind me.

What would help most?

I looked desperately at my makeup bag—it had a few weird-colored eye shadows I’d bought in middle school, sparkly fake eyelashes I wore for Halloween a couple of years back, when we’d all gone as Midsummer characters, a tube of mascara, random colors of eyeliner, and a handful of lipsticks I’d never liked, so they’d made their way out of purses and into the very bottom of my makeup bag.

This is what I get for never making any effort at girldom.

I grabbed the mascara and the eyeliner—the only things I ever really used—and jogged over to my parents’ bathroom. Mom had an eyelash curler—that would probably make it look more professional and cover the spots where my eyeliner hand was less than surgical. That and some of the lip stain I wore on days when I remembered would have to be enough. Not only was I out of real options, I was still wearing an oversized T-shirt Mom had brought home from some Art Center event and a pair of flannels so old the bottoms were fraying. He might not notice my horror-show makeup; he wouldn’t be able to ignore pajamas.

I swiped blackness around my eyes and headed back to my room, whipping open the top drawer of my dresser and pulling open the closet. I pulled out some T-shirts—stupid, and they made me look even stumpier than I was. A couple of blousey things hanging all the way to the left had seemed cool when I bought them—artsy—but now they just looked like something a kindergarten teacher would wear. I had a couple of good sweaters, but it was supposed to be in the sixties today, and I’d probably be sweating buckets already—why guarantee it?

Jesus, how is it possible to have so many clothes but have nothing at all you like?

Finally, overwhelmed, I grabbed an oversized tunic and a pair of leggings—the new ones I hadn’t worn yet, since the other ones were “still good.” Annoyed, I ripped all the tags off the new pair and balled up the old, saggy leggings and threw them into the Legend of Zelda tin garbage can I’d picked up at that garage sale.

Oh my god, why was I even bothering? I had a Zelda garbage can—my loserdom was clearly incurable, anyway.

I combed gingerly at my hair in the mirror over my dresser, trying not to electrocute it further. I could put on a hat?

No, I was not a hat girl. I would look ridiculous in a hat.

I was contemplating changing my entire outfit—maybe the blousey things actually were cool—when I heard a horn honk in the driveway.

Dammit.

I glanced at the mirror again, stuffed my phone into my purse, and ran downstairs.

Mom was peering out one of the long windows next to the front door, looking almost ready to walk outside and actually talk to him.

“It’s for me, Mom,” I yelled from across the room.

She turned, obviously confused.

“Kyle wanted to hang out. We were gonna . . . talk about show stuff and . . . stuff.”

Smooth, Rachel.

But Mom just smiled, like she’d completed some secret Mom mission.

“Oh, that’s great. Tell him I say hi, would you?”

“Sure.”

She looked like she had more thoughts on the topic, but I didn’t want to hear them, so I kissed her fast on the cheek and ran out the door. Kyle was sitting in the driveway in an old Subaru wagon, obviously a parental hand-me-down. For some reason, I just assumed he’d have one of those big, aggressively new SUVs.

But I didn’t have time to ponder the significance of my preconceived notions of Kyle’s car; I had to focus all my energy on looking natural, normal, like a girl who makes last-minute plans with ridiculously attractive, a-little-bit-famous senior guys all the time.

Obviously not an easy job for a weirdo like me.





chapter thirty-four


KYLE

SATURDAY, 11:33 A.M.

Rachel slid into the front seat, smiling slightly, like she had a secret.

That’s when I remembered we didn’t know each other at all. Forget what she was thinking now, what did she think about ever?

Oh jeez, this had been a terrible idea.

“So . . . what do you wanna do?” I asked.

“Right now? Get out of my driveway.” She stared through the windshield at her front door. I glanced over; you could see the outline of someone behind the pebbled glass panel on the right.

“Good place to start.” I pulled out and arbitrarily turned left at the bottom. “What’s next?” I smiled, so she wouldn’t know how awkward I suddenly felt. What were we going to do? What did girls like Rachel do? I really hoped she wouldn’t suggest some art film or poetry reading. Poetry reading: impossible to pretend to like.