The Pretty One(46)

Lucy looks at me, stunned. “You are such a psycho.”

“I was only kidding.”

“Don’t worry about it!” she yells, as she stomps down the steps. “I’ll just throw them out.”

The kitchen is directly under our bedroom and I can hear some cupboard doors slam and then the TV turning on. I know I didn’t handle the whole doughnut thing all that well, but in my defense, it is a little weird—she never bought me doughnuts until recently. So I pick up the phone and dial my mom’s number, anxious to get her advice on how to apologize to Lucy. My mom doesn’t pick up and I hang up rather than leave a message. I decide that it’s in my best interest to give my sister a little time to cool down, so I slip on my black hoodie and go back upstairs. As I walk into my room I catch sight of my reflection in the vanity mirror. Why am I acting all wishy-washy about this George thing? I didn’t look like the type of girl who needed help with her love life. I looked like the type of girl who should be hanging out with the Marla Coopers of the world, not doing their math homework. I focus my attention back on my computer, determined to deal with the George thing once and for all.



To: George Longwell

Subject: Re: Thursday

Dear George,

You are a really, REALLY great guy. But I’m sorry—I can’t make it on Thursday night.

All best, Megan



I press Send and the message flashes off my screen. Totally relieved, I sit down on my bed and pick up Moby. But seconds later, I see I have a new message.



From: George Longwell

Subject: Re: Thursday

Sorry B. forgot u r busy. Friday or Saturday. Take your pick.

G



Now what am I supposed to do? How can I get out of this without hurting his feelings?

I type a quick response:



Dear George,

Thanks, but I can’t.

Megan



But I don’t send it. I really want to get Lucy’s take on this whole thing and if that means I have to eat humble pie, so be it. All this turmoil is giving me angina.

Lucy is sitting on the couch with her arms crossed angrily in front of her, obviously still fuming. I take one look at the giant frown on her face and realize she’s in no mood for a sisterly hug out.

“What are you making for dinner?” I ask.

“You’re on your own,” she says, not even looking at me.

I want to ask her what she planned on making, thinking that if she isn’t going to make it, maybe I will. “Thanks for the doughnuts,” I say instead.

“I threw them out,” she says.

I go into the kitchen and open the cupboard where we keep our trash. The doughnuts are there, right on top, never been opened, still perfectly good. I take them out of the trash and open the box. I put two doughnuts on a napkin and climb back up the stairs. I sit in front of my computer, take a bite of doughnut, and press Send. I don’t need my sister’s advice. I have a game plan. I will avoid George until he forgets about me.



I manage to avoid him all the next day, right up until 3:25 p.m., when (in my hurry to get to my first play practice) I accidentally turn down the hall where he has his locker and sure enough, he’s right there, pretty much smack in front of me. I do an immediate (and obvious) U-turn. I see Catherine, and even though I’m in a total rush I go out of my way to say hello to her, but instead of saying hello back, she looks straight at me and kind of smirks as she walks away.

Excuse me? What was that? Although we weren’t friends before my accident, we were definitely friendly. We have been in almost all of the same classes since freshman year.

But I don’t have time to ponder my nonrelationship with Catherine. I glance over my shoulder and see that George is following me. Crap! I pick up my pace, practically running.

“Hey, Drew!” I burst into the classroom and slam the door shut with my foot.

“What’s going on?” he asks, obviously startled by my grand entrance.

“Nothing,” I say, as casually as I possibly can. I keep my back to the door as I unzip my backpack. Drew looks over my shoulder toward the window on the door and gives someone a nod.

“I think he’s leaving,” he says, his eyes shifting back to me.

“Who?” I ask innocently.

“Your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” I practically shriek.

Drew raises his eyebrows.

“We’re just…friends,” I say carefully.

“Okay,” he says as he looks back at his script.

Oh great. What a way to start my first play practice. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind. What I had in mind was proving to him (and myself) that my looks were inconsequential. In other words, I was the best actress for this role. I turn back toward my backpack and pull out my script. George’s voice floats through the room: “Oh, it’s time to start living, time to take a little from this world we’re given!”

“Pippin,” Drew says quietly.

I turn around to face him. “What?”

“That song he’s singing. It’s from Pippin, the musical we did last year.”

“I’ve never wondered if I was afraid when there was a challenge to take…”

“He’s singing kind of loud,” I say. “Do you think he’s trying to impress you so you’ll give him a good part in the musical?”