Awkwardly Ever After (9 page)

M
elanie Morris was a dead girl.

Or at the very least she was going to be dead to me. No more favors. No more expecting dorky Isobel Peters to magically find a way to bail her out. Not.Going. To. Happen.

Rope me into hanging out with Notables once? Shame on me.

Ditch me outside Mackenzie Wellesley's house with the most obnoxious boy at Smith High School?

Shame on
you.

Not that Melanie stuck around to hear my opinion of the
huge
violations to the Friendship Code that she was breaking. She was too intent on her pursuit of Dylan, in more ways than one, and if she hadn't just left me standing uncomfortably next to Spencer “I Practically Own This Town” King, I would have sympathized with her. She was obviously trying to pretend she felt nothing more for Mackenzie's little brother than . . . something vaguely little brotherly, but the only person she'd probably fooled was Mackenzie.

Normally, watching someone else's social life in a state of flux would have appealed to the future psychologist lurking inside of me, but I couldn't focus my attention on Mel when I was stuck next to a guy who was probably either a narcissist or a megalomaniac.

Or maybe he was just a garden-variety jerk.

Sometimes the simplest diagnosis gets overlooked for a flashier title. I should have known better than to discount the obvious, especially given that I was stuck in a high school that was chock-full of a range of jerks. They came in all sizes and, well, there wasn't a whole variety in color—Forest Grove being one of those communities in Oregon where everyone looked like vampires who would burn to ash if they ever left town without the protection of a daylight ring.

But regardless of their pallor, the jerks tended to brighten their days with a little geek hazing.

And since I happened to be the obligatory chubby freshman girl, I was often the target.

There were days when I really wished I could move and start over at some other high school—one where no football-playing jerk ever yelled, “Move your ass,
Fatty,
” at me in the cafeteria at a decibel level that basically ensured everyone within a fifty-yard radius would overhear.

I was still trying to live that down.

Not that anyone mentioned it to my face. It was more of a hushed snicker that buzzed in the background every time I raised my hand in my honors psychology class. One that could have been “geek” or “loser,” but that probably went right for the posterior:
fat-ass.

So even though Spencer King himself hadn't treated me like trash for the past—oh,
year
—that didn't mean plenty of his ilk hadn't beaten him to the punch. Or that he wouldn't take advantage of Melanie's hasty departure by playing a quick game of
tease the fat chick.

Yeah, that was a fun one.

Ten points if you make her cry.

Fifteen if you can make her run away.

“Are you coming or not?” Spencer didn't even pause to hear my answer before he opened the driver's side door and slid behind the wheel.

I glanced briefly at Melanie's retreating form and then over to the door of the Wellesley house, where only thirty minutes ago I had been pretending to watch a Disney movie. It seemed ridiculously PG now. Especially since having Mackenzie's dad show up was the emotional equivalent of dropping an atomic bomb on both Mackenzie and Dylan.

I didn't exactly want to stick around and observe the aftermath.

Well, that wasn't entirely true: I did want to soak it all in. Maybe even jot down a few notes while I was at it. But I had learned the hard way that most people don't enjoy being studied and treated like a case subject when they are at their most vulnerable—or at any time, actually.

And since I didn't exactly want to alienate the handful of people at Smith High School who didn't feel the need to put a brainiac nerd like me in my place, I crawled into the passenger's seat and buckled in with sweaty palms.

I braced myself for an attack. Not a physical one. That would be too easy. No, it would be something snide and cruel that he could rationalize to himself later had “just been a joke”; if I was offended by it, that was because I obviously lacked a sense of humor.

Oh yeah, because nothing was quite as hilarious as being asked if I wanted to grab a muffin, only to have someone point to my stomach and say, “Never mind. You've got a muffin already!”

Although I didn't think there was anything worse than having someone lean in too close, gaze pointedly at the round swell that began right under my rib cage, and murmur, “Have you picked out a name for it yet?”

Fake had earned her fifteen points with that one.

“So where am I taking you?” Spencer looked totally unperturbed about being stuck with the biggest geek at Smith High School. I had half expected to hear him muttering about Logan sticking him with the chubster, but then again I hadn't counted for how unflappable he could be . . . well, all the time.

Okay, maybe he had looked a little flustered when Fake and Bake tried to corner him at school.

But he'd managed to stay a whole lot cooler through the exchange than just about anyone else—certainly better than me.

Come to think of it . . .

“Why were you running from Fake and Bake?” The words just kind of popped out of my mouth and I found myself nervously shoving up the bridge of my glasses while I waited for his response.

None of your business, Fatty.

Spencer glanced at me and there was something in his eyes I didn't quite trust. Something mischievous that made me achingly aware he was not going to be categorized into a personality type that fit neatly within my psychology textbook.

He was one-half bad boy and the other half . . .

I couldn't help shivering slightly with unease. The other half I doubted anyone at Smith High School knew at all. Well, nobody beyond Logan Beckett, and I had a feeling the hockey captain wasn't going to start spilling his best friend's secrets anytime soon.

“Steffani and Ashley,” he said pointedly, while my cheeks overheated from my social slip, “have different interests than I do. That's all.”

“They have
interests?
” I couldn't hide my fascination. “Really? In what?”

I wasn't being facetious. It was difficult for me to imagine either of them having any kind of passion for, well . . . anything. As far as I had seen, they were all about status, style, and securing their place in the high school yearbook so that someday they could toss their hair back and brag to their kids about how they'd been the queen of the prom.

“They want you for prom, don't they?” I could feel the rightness of the words in my mouth and I knew—I just
knew—
that I had nailed down the situation. “Let me see if I can get this right. Okay, so Fake and Bake both want to be crowned prom queen, but neither of their former boyfriends had the social power to make it happen. Which wasn't a problem back when Chelsea Halloway was at our school because it was obvious to
everyone
that she would be the one wearing the crown. But now that Chelsea goes to an entirely different school, there's a power vacuum and . . . they're trying to suck you in!”

“That's,” Spencer coughed, “one, um . . . descriptive way to put it.”

“So they're thinking it'll be easy; land Spencer King and take the crown.” I couldn't help but whistle admiringly. “You know, they're probably right. The only real contender you've got for prom king is Logan, and now that he's dating Mackenzie and
your
family is picking up the tab for the dance . . . you're the safe bet.”

“Well, thanks for telling me. Do I turn left or right at the stop sign?”

“Left,” I said absentmindedly. “I'm missing something, though, right?”

“You're missing the scenery,” Spencer pointed out. “I think we've probably passed some woodland creatures. Maybe a deer or—”

“You don't want any of it!” I crowed, unable to contain my excitement at figuring out the missing piece, moving that final bit of motivation until it clicked into place and formed a perfect picture.

Spencer raked one hand through his golden boy hair, which only succeeded in rumpling it perfectly.

Life was so freaking unfair.

“Would you mind dropping the inquisition and focusing on the directions?” His voice was slightly strained, which for all I knew meant that he was seriously pissed off. It was hard to tell with someone who was practically unflappable.

Although I suspected he was starting to get . . . flapped.

“Another left at the light.” I drummed my fingers against my knee as I looked out the window without really seeing anything that was flashing past. “So you don't want to be prom king.” I leaned back farther into the super-plush seat of his car. The luxury wasn't a surprise—nothing but the best for a member of the King family. “I thought that was part of your genetic code or something.”

“It must have skipped a generation.”

“Hold up!” I yelled, and Spencer smoothly drove to the shoulder of the road and idled there.

Spencer glanced around. “Are we near your house or something?”

“Nope.” I swiveled in my seat to face him and then kind of wished I hadn't. He was just too . . . everything. “You're not just ambivalent to this prom king thing. You actively don't want it. You're trying to sabotage your chances!”

Spencer took a deep breath. “Are you for real right now? You made me stop for
that?
”

“I didn't
make
you do anything,” I muttered uncomfortably as I tried to escape from the look of utter disbelief that was aimed right at me. It's not exactly an unusual thing for me to be on the receiving end of snarky looks from the Notable crowd, but they never came in such close quarters. And I had never felt so trapped before.

He rolled his eyes. “You're unbelievable, Isotope.”

“That's not even a name. An isotope is created when there are an equal number of protons but a different number of—”

“I get it!”

I looked at him doubtfully. Spencer wasn't exactly known for having a pristine academic record, but for the ridiculous ways he was able to scrape by with a passing grade. Most of the stories I had heard depended heavily on his charm and his parents' generous donations. “Do you, though?”

“Yes, you're an enormous pain in the ass. Thank you for confirming what before I merely suspected.”

Well, crap. That hurt.

Do not react. No wincing, no flinching, no nothing. Poker face, Izzie. Keep it locked in place.

“You can turn right at the next light.” I kept my eyes on the view through the windshield and waited for him to move back into the flow of traffic.

The car didn't budge. I fidgeted as the air seemed to thicken. Or maybe I was just imagining that, because at some point the seat warmer had apparently kicked in and the car now smelled like . . . money.

Loads of it.

“Do . . . do you want me to get out here or something?” I asked as my stomach lurched lower.

He did.
Of course,
he did. He probably wished he'd never agreed to play chauffeur in the first place. “I think I'll walk the rest of the way. Thanks for the . . . well, see ya!”

I tried to say the last part the way Melanie always did, effortlessly cheerful in a non-perky way. Less cheerleader, more casual and devil-may-care.

Too bad my voice cracked at the end of it.

“Spit it out already, Isadore. I know you're dying to ask.”

I didn't even bother trying to correct him this time. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Spencer.”

Saying his name out loud felt weird to me. Too familiar. We weren't friends, or even classmates for that matter, given that he was concentrating on wood shop instead of world history. We weren't anything to each other beyond acquaintances, and we were already failing spectacularly at that.

“You want to know why I'm not interested in being prom king,” he said bluntly. “So ask away. I've got nothing to hide.”

“I don't need to ask you anything.” Spencer raised an eyebrow skeptically and I couldn't help grinning just a little as I continued, “I already worked that out for myself.”

He snorted in disbelief, turned off the engine, and leaned back in his seat as if he had nothing but time. “Let's hear it, then.”

I squared my shoulders.

Think like a psychologist, Izzie. Approach him as if he were just part of a case study. What is it that Melanie called them again? Hockey erectus.

“Well, you're loaded”—I gestured at the control panel of the car—“obviously. You throw the best parties.”

“I thought you knew better than to put any stock in hearsay, Isolde. I know I've never seen you at any of my parties.” He winked at me. “I would have remembered.”

Yeah, a whole lot of people would have remembered a party where mocking the freshman dork provided entertainment for the night.

“Fine. You're
rumored
to throw the best parties. You have no trouble getting girls. That's also plenty obvious after your close encounter with Fake and Bake earlier today.”