The Pretty One(45)

“Who can talk to that guy?” he asks. “He’s so full of himself.”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t any great catch, either. But when he dropped me off, he acted like we were made for each other. Get this: He told me he wanted to see me again and then he tried to give me a big wet one, right on the lips.”

“You kissed him?” he asks, squinching up his face.

“My reflexes were too good. He got my cheek instead.”

“The guy’s a little thick,” Simon says, picking up a napkin and folding it. “You’re going to have to be blunt, otherwise he’ll never get the message.”

“I don’t know if he’s thick. He’s in all AP classes.”

“So what. He’s still thick about other things.”

“Well, what do I say then?”

“How about no thanks, not interested. Sayonara.” Simon has turned his napkin into a little paper hat.

“I’ll try,” I say weakly.

“Jesus, Megan,” Simon says, throwing down the hat in frustration. “You have to learn how to say no. Unless, of course, you don’t want to.” He shakes his head and crosses his arms as he leans back in his chair. “I’m beginning to think you got a little more than just Lucy’s nose.”

I feel as if he just slapped me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”


“It means you’ve never been a girly girl. That’s what’s so great about you. You’re just you. But you’re beginning to act like Lucy with all this so-many-men-so-little-time stuff.”

“I don’t think Lucy has ever been like that. She’s always had a lot of guys who liked her, but, still—”

“And now you’re the one with the guys,” he interrupts.

“Like who? George?”

“All the guys notice you now, Megan. Don’t pretend that you don’t notice them.”

“Yes, I notice them, but I haven’t figured out what to do with them yet. What am I supposed to do? I’m still the same inside, but it’s like everyone around me has turned into aliens.” I yank my napkin to my mouth and spit out the chemicals I just consumed while I was chomping on my nail.

But Simon doesn’t say anything. He just sighs and looks away.





fifteen


antagonist (noun): the adversary of the hero or protagonist of a drama.

After all the recent hubbub, I can really use some peace and quiet. Since Mom has to work (even though it’s Sunday), Dad is out of town, and Lucy is not her usual chatty self, it is quiet. Very quiet. At least until I get an e-mail from George.



From: George Longwell

Subject: Thursday



Hi B-utiful,

Had a blast on Fri. Want 2 see usoon. Maybe Thurs? Dinner? G



“Oh God,” I mutter under my breath.

“What?” Lucy asks. It’s her night to make dinner and she has just returned from picking up some ingredients at the store. She leans over my shoulder to read George’s e-mail.

“I don’t understand this,” I say. “Why would he want to see me again? We had a terrible time.”

“I told you he likes you. He wants to give you another chance.”

“Ugh,” I say.

“So tell him you’re not interested. End of subject. Otherwise it’s like you’re leading him on, playing hard to get. And not only is that mean, it will just make him want you more.”

“What am I supposed to say: I don’t know you and I don’t want to get to know you?”

“Of course not.” My sister rolls her eyes as she picks up her brush and begins running it through her hair. Lucy is the only person I know who brushes her hair for no reason whatsoever.

“How many times do I have to tell you this? You have to be diplomatic or else everyone is going to hate you. You can’t keep acting like you’re the same old ugly duckling, because you’re not. You have to be extra special nice.”

“Extra special?” I say, looking at my reflection in the mirror on the vanity.

“All I’m saying is that like it or not, you have something all these people want. And if you don’t want them to hate you, you’re going to have to turn on the charm.”

Lucy is making this all sound so easy, but I know for a fact it’s not. I know this because one time Marla Cooper, the prettiest girl in seventh grade, was totally nice to me one day and I found out later it was only because she wanted to copy my math homework. Everyone who looks like I used to look has a million stories like that and views people who look like how I now look with distrust bordering on disdain. And besides, as informative as all this is (not), it’s doesn’t help me with the task at hand. “So what do I tell George?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy puts down the brush. “But you’ll have to think of something. By the way, I got you a box of chocolate-covered doughnuts.”

What? Why would Lucy pick me up a box of doughnuts when we weren’t exactly getting along? Not only that, this was like the fifth box of doughnuts she had bought me in the past month. Either the doughnuts were a peace offering or…or…

“Are you trying to make me fat?” I joke. But my question sounds more angry than funny.