The Pretty One(60)

“It wasn’t that big a deal,” I say quickly, not sure if I want to burden him with the details. Plus the last thing I need is to find out that underneath it all Drew is alien, like everyone else I know.

But then he raises his eyebrows and gives me a sweet smile. It’s all the encouragement I need.

“It’s Simon. He’s been my best friend since my first day of school here. Until my accident, we did everything together. But lately, well, he’s been…going through a hard time. But it’s not all his fault. I mean, I have, too.”

Drew keeps his magnificent eyes on the road. “With good reason. Look at what you’ve been through.”

He’s right. I have been though a lot. If anyone deserves to be miserable right now, it’s me. “Well, I always thought life would be easier, you know, if I looked like Lucy and lived in the spotlight. But now that it’s all real, a lot of it isn’t the way I imagined.”

Drew turns down the volume of the car radio. It’s as though he wants to be listening only to me. “What do you mean?”

“Before my accident, I thought if people just got to know me that they’d like me, but they never got past my face or body. Or that’s what I told myself. I believed things would be different this year. I thought I’d have a ton of friends and everybody would like me…” Oh, man. Wa-wa-wa. What a cry baby. If Simon were here, he’d be having a field day. “Poor baby…it’s so hard to be beautiful…” “I know it sounds conceited,” I say, just in case Drew’s having the same thought.

“It actually sounds a little sad.”

I blink away the extra water in my eyes as I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Must be my nonexistent allergies.

“Look, Megan, I’m no expert, but it seems to me that anyone in your shoes would be out of sorts right now.”


Drew has a point. After all, less than a year ago Simon and I were arguing over who got to be Luke Skywalker.

“And as far as what the other people think or don’t think of you…,” he continues, “so what? You can’t worry about other people. You just have to be who you are.”

“What if I don’t know who I am anymore?”

“Luckily I know who you are.” Drew takes one hand off the steering wheel and places it on my knee. “You’re fun, you’re smart, you’re interesting to talk to. And I want to know more.”

The words came out of him just like that, as if they were indisputably true. I’m not used to cute guys saying nice things to me—or touching me!—and although I have the feeling I’m supposed to say something really sweet back to him, I’m not sure what that might be.

“Thank you.” The words squeak out of me in a quiet little voice. I’m not even sure Drew hears me.

But when I feel his hand squeeze my knee, I can tell he did.

Drew takes an exit off 83 and soon we stop on a slightly war–torn looking street, just like a million other streets around Baltimore. “We’re here,” he says, nodding toward the building beside us.

“Green Alien Comics?” I say, reading the sign above the beat-up glass storefront.

“The owner is one of my best friends. I showed him your Batman and he was really impressed.”

“Really?” I can’t believe Drew was talking about me to one of his best friends.

Drew grabs the door for me and holds it open. He smiles at me as I walk inside.

The store is divided into three big and shabby-looking rooms. Neat rows of comics line the dirty pale yellow walls, intermixed with stands displaying comic dolls and assorted comic-related accessories, such as a Wonder Woman hairbrush and a giant Xena doll.

“Hey, Fred,” Drew says.

A scrawny, studious-looking man in his twenties with small wire-rimmed glasses (and wearing a T-shirt heralding the last Superman movie) jumps off his stool behind the cash register and bounds over to us. “Drew!” he says, and gives Drew a high-five. “Good to see you, dude.”

“Likewise. Fred, this is Megan,” Drew says, nodding in my direction. “She’s the one I was telling you about.”

“The Batman girl,” Fred says with a wink. “You’re awesome.”

I can’t believe this. I’m actually blushing because the comic book guy called me awesome.

“Big news, guy,” Fred says to Drew. “Look what I got.” He holds up a comic book wrapped in what appears to be layers of plastic.

Drew takes a step back and gasps. “Is that what I think it is?”

Fred stands perfectly still, a slight smile creeping up his lips. “A D copy,” he whispers.

“How much?” Drew says feverishly.

“Two-six-five,” Fred replies. Once he sees the confused expression on my face, he is kind enough to translate. “That’s two hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

“For a comic book?” I ask.

“Not just any comic book,” Fred says solemnly. “Part of the D collection.”

“The D collection because they belonged to a collector who handwrote the letter D on his comic books,” Drew explains. “He started collecting in the thirties, and when he died, his family put his entire collection up for auction. This one is from the nineteen fifties.”