Beauty (7 page)

“What I want to know,” Elizabeth Mayer cut in, shoving between me and Sarah, “is what perfume you’re wearing. It smells just like spring.” As we walked, the three of them kept bumping into one another, competing for the two spots on either side of me.

I had no idea how to react. No one had ever fought over me like that, not even Kemper and Hayley. I coughed nervously, watching Brittany, Sarah, and Elizabeth jostle to get next to me. I had a sudden urge to laugh. This was crazy. This was absurd. This was … kind of cool. I let a smile spread across my face. “Sorry,” I said cheerfully. I gave a little shrug, like I did this all the time. “Can’t spill trade secrets.” Then I slipped into chem class, my heart hammering away like a woodpecker. Through the door, I watched Brittany, Sarah, and Elizabeth walk away.

“My perfume’s totally a trade secret too,” I heard Brittany say.

They’d gone for it. I dropped down in my seat, trying to catch my breath. All around the room, heads were turning in my direction. Some people just stared, others waved and called hello. I smiled back, my head swimming. I wasn’t used to this, having so many people vying for my attention. But I had to admit: it felt really nice. Like I was finally being noticed. Like I was finally
here
.

My day only got better from there. I made a joke in chem class that sent the whole class, even the teacher, into a fit of laughter. In the hallway, my locker got stuck like it always did, but David Hart, the biggest guy on the wrestling team, jumped in to help, yanking it open for me. Then, during algebra, Tommy Button—who usually sits next to Blair to help her remember equations—slid into the seat next to mine and whispered answers in my ear all period long.

But it was on my way to gym class that things got really crazy.

“
Molly?
” someone said incredulously. I spun around to see Marcia Davids, Seth’s old babysitter and senior head cheerleader, gaping at me. Marcia was one of those girls to whom things just came easily. Guys loved her, girls loved her, even parents loved her. When I was younger, I used to dream that I’d grow up to be just like her. I even liked how similar our names sounded—Marcia Davids, Molly Davis—like it was some kind of sign. Of course, the last fifteen years of my life had proved that theory not so accurate. Marcia stood there, still gaping at me. “What
happened
to you?”

I wound my way through the crowded hallway to get to her. “Hey Marcia,” I began. But at that moment my foot struck something on the ground and I lurched forward, losing my balance.

“Watch out!” I heard Marcia gasp as I fanned my arms frantically through the air, trying to straighten myself out. But somehow that only made things worse, and suddenly I was flying through the air, landing flat on my stomach, right in the middle of the hallway.

For a moment, it was like the whole world froze. No one moved, no one spoke, I don’t think anyone even breathed. I squeezed my eyes shut. I could feel the bruise already blooming on my hipbone as I waited for what would inevitably come next. Laughter. Whispers. Name-calling. I’d tripped enough times by now to know the routine.

“Molly!” Marcia exclaimed. And with that one word, the silence was broken and everyone sprang back into action.

“Oh my God,” I heard someone whisper. “Did you
see
that?”

Marcia crouched down next to me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not hurt if that’s what you mean,” I groaned. As I pulled myself up, several guys dashed over to help me.

“Do you want help to the nurse?” one of them asked. I was pretty sure his name was Fred and even more sure he’d never spoken to me before in my life.

“I can grab an ice pack for you from the locker room,” the other guy added quickly. I squinted my eyes at him, trying to decide if we’d ever even met before, but after a few seconds I gave up. “There’re always a couple in there,” he explained.

“No, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’m fine, really.” I kept waiting for it to start—the cacophony of laughter and snorts and jabs—but people just kept gathering round, asking if I needed any help.

“Let’s fix this,” Marcia fussed, smoothing out my hair. “You look so pretty today, Molly. I just can’t get over it.”

“Yo.” Andrew Ross butted in, pushing his way through the crowd to get to me. Immediately, my whole body tensed up. Andrew Ross was one of the toughest guys in school. The last time I’d fallen in the hallway, it had been right before my freshman year English final. Only a couple of people had been in the hall at the time—including Andrew Ross. He’d taken one look at me, all sprawled out on the ground, and suddenly he was “accidentally” tripping over me, soaking me with his very full cup of orange soda. I’d had to take my English final looking like an Oompa Loompa and smelling like a soda factory.

“I saw that trip from all the way down the hall,” Andrew went on. “Looked nasty.” I could feel his eyes running up and down me as he said it, and slowly, an appreciative grin spread across his lips. “Come on, I’ll help you to your next class. Wouldn’t want you falling again and messing up that pretty face.” He shoved Fred out of the way and slid his arm around my waist, nudging me forward.

Marcia winked at me. “What a white knight,” she whispered in my ear. But I was too dumbfounded to respond. Andrew Ross—cruel, orange-soda-spilling Andrew Ross—wanted to help me. Andrew Ross might even be flirting with me.

“Just lean on me,” Andrew said. Squeezing my waist, he led me away from the group, several people calling out behind me to let them I know if I needed help later.

“Have a good day, Molly!” Marcia yelled after me. I looked over my shoulder, and she gave me a friendly wave. As if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. As if I hadn’t just fallen flat on my face in front of everyone. As if she—perfect senior, Marcia Davids—yelled bye to me every day of my life.

“Bye,” I called back faintly.

“Hey, look.” Andrew nodded toward a poster on the wall as he led me toward the gym. PROM, SATURDAY MAY 11! it read in big, bright letters. “Only two weeks away,” he added slyly, smiling down at me.

I smiled back at him, too dazed to eke out even one word. There was no doubt left in my mind: Andrew Ross was flirting with me.

It really was the twilight zone.

A Little Birdie Told Me
Hudson Taylor Is H.O.T.

“WE’RE STARTING OUR badminton section today, class!” Mr. Templeton announced as the bell rang to signal the start of gym class. Several people groaned. “All right, all right,” Mr. Templeton said. “Don’t worry, we’ll start out slow. Why doesn’t everyone partner up? We’ll just practice our shots today.”

I swallowed back a groan of my own at that. Mr. Templeton was always making us partner up in gym class. I used to partner with Sarah Cho, the exchange student from China, but then she met Sam Chu, president of the AV club, and I was as good as forgotten. Without Sarah, I’d gotten stuck working with Mr. Templeton during our golf section. Not only was he our teacher, which was bad enough, but he also weighed approximately three hundred pounds and sweated profusely during any type of physical activity. Why he chose to teach gym in the first place, I had no idea. All I knew was that when he helped me practice my golf swing, the smell got so bad I almost fainted.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Templeton said, gesturing for us all to get started. I watched as everyone scrambled into their usual pairings. It was like a game of musical chairs; we had an odd number of students in the class and no one wanted to be the last man standing. I took a deep breath, making the most of my last few seconds of clean, un-Mr.-Templeton-tainted air.

I was still stocking up on fresh oxygen when someone tapped me on the shoulder. “What do you say, Molly? Want to partner up?”

I spun around to find myself face-to-face with Hudson Taylor.

Hudson
wanted to partner with me? What was
with
today? Across the room, I caught Lauren Kaplan, Hudson’s usual partner and the perpetual top of the cheerleading pyramid, giving me a glare so cold it could freeze lava. Mr. Templeton was heading in her direction, holding two badminton racquets, several beads of sweat already gathering at his temple.

“Sure,” I said quickly, shifting a little so Lauren was out of my line of sight. “Sounds good.”

“Cool. I’ll get our stuff.” Hudson jogged over to the equipment bin and grabbed two racquets and several birdies.

“So, you any good at this?” he asked as he tossed me a racquet.

I looked down at the foreign object in my hand. I couldn’t even remember how to hold it. “Actually,” I admitted, “I’m kind of terrible.”
At this and at every other sport known to man
, I thought—but I kept that part to myself.

“That’s fine,” Hudson said easily. “Because I’m kind of a master.” As if to demonstrate, he raised his paddle in the air and, tossing the birdie after it, smashed it clear over the net.

“Masterful,” I agreed solemnly.

Hudson laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you there too.”

We’ll.

As in him and me. Together.

I felt giddy all of a sudden, like I was so weightless I could float right up to the sky. How had I dreaded gym class for all these years?

“Okay,” Hudson said. “I’ll toss, you hit.” He threw the birdie into the air and I reached up to hit it—and completely missed. Hudson chuckled, exposing his dimple. “One more time.” He tossed the birdie up. I wrinkled my forehead in concentration as I reached, reached, and—missed again. I was always bad at sports, but with Hudson standing so close, watching my every move, I was worse than ever.

“You know what?” Hudson said after my fifth miss in a row. “I think I see what’s going on here.”

“You do?” I bit down on my lip. Could he tell how much trouble I was having keeping my eyes on the birdie instead of him?

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re holding the racquet completely wrong.” I blew out a sigh of relief. “Here, I’ll show you.” Hudson dropped his racquet and birdie onto the ground and stepped behind me. He wrapped his arms around my sides, placing one of his hands over each of mine. My heart thudded loudly and I coughed a little, trying to cover up the noise. “See, your grip should be like this,” he explained, adjusting my hands. “And your arms should be more here… .” He was so close I could smell his deodorant, something citrusy and spicy. His skin brushed against mine and I felt a thousand tiny shivers race down my spine. “Feel better?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmured. Though, of course, I wasn’t talking about the racquet. Across the room, Lauren Kaplan targeted me with another deadly glare, but I didn’t even care. “Much.”

“Cool, let’s try it again. I bet it helps.”

It didn’t.

No matter how hard I tried, my limbs just kept failing me. My arms went in one direction; my legs went in another. My brain said
jump
; my legs went
crouch
. My brain said
hit
; my arms went
drop
. It was like my limbs weren’t mine at all, but some rebel entity, intent on destroying any last chance I had at impressing Hudson. On the other side of the net, Hudson was struggling not to laugh. “So just in case you forgot, Molly, the goal of the game is to actually
hit
the birdie,” he joked.

“Oh, really?” I deadpanned. “So
that’s
where I’m going wrong.” As if to punctuate my sentence, I missed yet another shot, letting the birdie tumble helplessly to the ground. I thrust my arms into the air, making a V for victory. “One drop!” I cheered.

Hudson burst out laughing. “If we’re playing points for drops, then you’re officially a pro by now.” He hit me another shot and I promptly dropped it.

“I’d be happy to give you pointers,” I offered sweetly. I couldn’t believe how normally I was talking to Hudson, like we did this all the time. But when he wasn’t standing right next to me, turning me into a big ball of shivers, he was actually easy to talk to.

Hudson laughed. “Okay, get ready, Molly. I’m going to send you a shot that even
you
can’t miss.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Uh, have you met me, Hudson?”

He gave me a look. “Just get ready. You can get this, I promise.”

“Whatever you say.” I gripped my racquet tightly, holding it out in front of me. “All right, ready,” I declared.

Carefully, Hudson took aim. And he was right; the shot he sent me was perfect. It was high, it was slow, and it was heading directly toward my racquet. I
could
get this. I lunged forward, keeping my eyes glued to the birdie. Pulling my racquet back, I aimed and—
smash
—I made contact! The birdie rocketed over the net, shooting right past Hudson, right past the court—and right into Mr. Templeton. It hit him smack in the middle of his sweaty forehead, then bounced off, tumbling silently to the floor.

“Molly!” Mr. Templeton boomed. “
What
was that?”

I opened and closed my mouth, no sound coming out. I could feel my face reddening, as I fumbled for an answer. “I, uh—” I began.

“I’m pretty sure,” Hudson cut in, walking around the net until he was standing next to me. “That
that
was a bull’s-eye.” He smiled easily at Mr. Templeton. “What do you think? Extra-credit points for our team?”