#famous(68)

“It’s like she’s trying to avoid me,” I said, grabbing the bag of Doritos off the coffee table. Ollie was over to watch Rachel’s latest segment. They’d run my tux thing Tuesday, they were running Rachel’s hair today, then they’d film the dance over the weekend and air it next week.

“Maybe.” He grabbed a chip. “Probably.”

“At least you’re happy, right?”

“Why would I be happy?”

“You made it pretty clear that you wanted me to get back together with Emma.”

Ollie frowned. His tongue: moving around in his mouth like it was trying to dig words out of his cheeks. Could’ve just been Doritos, though.

“What I wanted was for the whole Flit thing not to change you.”

“What?”

“Okay, Rachel: she’s a nice girl, right?”

“Yeah.” I said it grudgingly. It was true, she hadn’t been mean about anything. She just seemed . . . distant. New Rachel: nice, but farther away. Less nice to me.

“But you never talked to her before this. None of our friends knew her. And she posted that picture of you, so obviously she had a crush.”

“Not that obviously,” I muttered.

“Kyle, I don’t care who you hook up with, I just didn’t want you to become some massive tool. Like Dave, if Dave were ever able to close the deal.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ollie dug his fist into his forehead.

“I thought maybe you were using her. Like, just to make yourself feel better.”

“Dude, what the—”

“I know. I should have known you better. It just seemed so . . . random. I didn’t get it. But I do now. She’s different and . . .”

“What?” If he said something crappy about Rachel, I didn’t care how good a friend he was. I’d punch him.

“You’re different with her.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I dunno. Just . . . you seem more . . . like, okay, last week you were talking about theater.”

“So? What’s wrong with theater?” I could feel myself bristling. Kyle Bonham: human porcupine.

“Nothing. Theater’s cool, you just never cared about it before.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Maybe you should, though. Like, maybe that’s your thing.”

“So theater’s not for weirdos anymore?”

“Dude, Dave said that, not me. And only guys like Dave care who’s a weirdo, anyway.” I exhaled. He was right. I’d always known it deep down, but I’d still been afraid Ollie would agree with the Daves of the world.

He frowned again, trying to gather his thoughts.

“It’s like this. I’ve known you for what, six years now?” I nodded. “I feel like in the last couple weeks, you’ve been more . . . happy than you were the entire time before. At first I thought that was the show, and you getting attention, but it’s not. I think it’s Rachel. Emma is fine, but Rachel makes you, like, more . . . you?”

“When’d you get so deep?”

Ollie shrugged, grinning a little. I felt something loosen that had been all knotted up inside me. I’d been worried he didn’t like Rachel, and all along, he’d just wanted to make sure I wasn’t becoming a tool. Wasn’t becoming the kind of guy who would play around with a girl just to make himself feel important. I felt a surge of love for Ollie. Ollie: quiet, kinda superior sometimes, but he actually cared about people.

“Yeah, well, too bad she’s obviously not into me. Maybe she’s the one ready to play the field.” I laughed. The laugh: hollow.

“I don’t think so.”

“She’s been avoiding me for, like, a week.”

“Yeah, but I think that’s ’cause she is into you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yeah, well, girls don’t make sense.”

He leaned back, turning up the volume on the television. I grabbed a handful of Doritos and stuffed them into my mouth, barely tasting them.

“So how do I fix it?”

I really, really hoped Ollie had some more surprise wisdom, because I had no idea how to make Rachel even look at me again. Really look at me.

“You really care about her?”

“I mean, I think so. Yeah.”

“Just . . . make her see that.”

“How do I do that?”

Ollie chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, man. But you’d probably better figure it out fast.”





chapter forty-seven


RACHEL

SATURDAY, 3:02 P.M.

“I thought of another pro.” I blinked rapidly. My eyelid itched, but I didn’t want to touch it. It would smear the makeup the Laura people had so carefully applied an hour ago. So of course every part of my face kept alternating where to itch.

“A pro?” Monique fiddled with her hair in the hallway mirror. The crew had started my hair and makeup around noon; now we were just waiting at my house for the limo to pick me up. Setting up at each of the predance locations—pictures in the rose garden downtown, dinner for two at some fancy restaurant I wasn’t allowed to know the name of, the grand entrance at the school—meant our “evening” would start around 3:30. Mom and Dad had already been carted off to the garden, possibly so Mary wouldn’t have to deal with them getting in her shots here. Once the crew picked me up, Monique would leave to get ready.