The Pretty One(75)

The script calls for us to kiss now, so I press my lips against his for a second and step away quickly as if he has a contagious disease.

“What the hell was that?” Drew asks, breaking character.

“What?”

“Your character is supposed to be totally head over heels in love with my character and determined to do whatever it takes to keep him.”

“I know but…”

“I’m not going to get the wrong idea again, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Again? “What? I’m not…”

“No excuses. I don’t know what your deal is or why you’ve suddenly started playing games, but I’m sick of it. If you don’t think you can do this, walk out the door right now. I’d rather cancel the play than have to get on stage with an actress who doesn’t give a shit.”

Drew’s verbal attack has rendered me speechless. He takes a step toward me. “So what it’s going to be?”

I’m breathing fast and my fists are clenched at my side. I’m so furious I’m tempted to either slug him or just walk out of here and never come back.

“We won’t call it a relationship.” My voice is loud and clear. If he wants a kiss, he’s going to get a kiss. He’s going to get a kiss he will remember for the rest of his life. “It’s just about what feels good. And this…this feels good.” I grab him by the neck, pull him close, and kiss him.

The minute our lips connect, however, something happens. It’s like I’m being hit by that car in the rain all over again, but instead of being hurt, I feel more alive than I ever have before. His hands are clutching at my hips and his mouth starts to trail down my neck. I lose track of seconds and then minutes.

By the time he whispers “Megan” in my ear, I’m out of breath and on a totally different planet.

But then I crash back to earth, so hard it sends a jolt through my body and I leap away from Drew. When I see the longing in his eyes, I can’t trust that it’s real. So I snatch my backpack and hightail it out of there as fast as I can.





twenty-seven

dénouement (noun): the moment in a drama when the essential plot point is revealed or explained.

Any enthusiasm I’ve managed to conjure up for the fall festival disappears the minute Simon and I arrive.

“This looks nice,” Simon says, as he glances around the gym. “They did a pretty good job with the decorations.”

Simon is full of crap. Becky Silva, a fellow junior and drama major, was in charge of the decorations this year and chose her favorite book, The Secret Garden, as the theme. Becky, although a talented actress, is no beauty nor does she possess an ounce of my sister’s “charm,” which meant the techies weren’t nearly as anxious to help as they were for my sister. Becky and a few of her friends ended up doing most of the work themselves, which (from the looks of it) amounted to tossing pots and vases filled with horrible-looking, fake plastic flowers around the room. The only thing Becky appears to have succeeded in is getting the janitor to unscrew the lightbulbs again.

“Allergy sufferers will be happy,” I say, motioning toward the fake flowers as I make a weak attempt at humor.

I had Simon pick me up early so I wouldn’t have to have an awkward encounter with Drew. I have managed to avoid Drew for twenty-nine hours and hoped to keep it up until dress rehearsal tomorrow morning, where we will be safely surrounded by techies. In the meantime, I am determined to stop thinking about him. Otherwise, I will lose my mind.

“Do you want to dance?” Simon asks, as he puts his arm around my waist. This uncharacteristic public display of affection only adds to my bad mood, a state of mind made worse by the fact that I have decided that I absolutely hate my black dress. It looks like I’m going to a costume party dressed like Morticia Addams. I should never have gone shopping alone, but the other choice was to go with Lucy, and there was no way I could have handled that.

I follow Simon to the dance floor and the two of us stake out a spot toward the side. As the DJ blasts Justin Timberlake I do my best to wiggle my torso to the beat but I feel stiff and unnatural, as if I’m playing the part of a girl who is happy to be at a dance with her boyfriend. And Simon doesn’t appear to be doing much better. Unlike the previous year when he imitated a chicken just to get me to laugh, this year he has taken on the serious air of a prince looking for someone to bear his children. He sucks in his cheeks and dances by shifting his weight from foot to foot as he snaps his fingers.

Simon and I are on our third dance when I see Drew. He’s not with my sister and is instead standing alone on the edge of the dance floor, watching me. The minute I lay eyes on him I feel the same magnetic pull, as if he could yank me toward him with a simple nod of his head. He looks totally drop-dead gorgeous, too. His longish hair curls up on the collar of his starched white shirt and his dark blue-green eyes stand out against the black material of his tux. Just the sight of him is enough to take my breath away.

“Maybe we should go get some punch or something,” I say to Simon.

“Actually, I’m having a problem with my contacts,” Simon says, cupping his left eye and blinking. “I’ll be right back.”

This is not a good time for Simon to be fiddling with his contacts. But I don’t say that. Instead, unable to look away from Drew and rendered helpless by his power over me, I nod and say, “I’ll wait here.”