Authors: Jessica Brody
on it at al times.
I didn’t have time to make a lunch today because of the whole, you know, criminal situation, but I’m not real y that hungry anyway. So I bypass
the food line and just head straight for the center table. I can see that Shayne is already seated before I arrive.
As usual, she’s surrounded by a group of people and talking animatedly about something or other.
I take a deep breath and start a slow approach to the table. As I get closer I notice that my usual spot on Shayne’s right-hand side is
occupied by some girl I’ve never seen before. And across from her is another stranger. In fact, as I slowly glance around from face to face, I notice
that the whole table is practical y fil ed with newcomers, most of whom I don’t even recognize. Sure, there are stil a few of the regular crew, like
Bailey Reynolds, Krysta Garrett, and Brittany Harlow (who I like to cal the conjoined triplets, because they’re always together and they have exactly
the same haircut), but everyone else is brand-new. People who never would have had the slightest chance of sitting at Shayne’s table a week ago.
It doesn’t make any sense.
I decide it’s time for some answers. She can’t just not return my phone cal s, transfer out of my math class, and invite a bunch of nobodies to
sit at our table without having to explain herself. I don’t care who she is. So I march up behind her and brusquely tap her on the shoulder.
She turns, and upon seeing my face, brandishes one of her perfectly rehearsed beauty-pageant smiles. I must have seen that smile a mil ion
times. And my heart lurches in my chest.
Because I know, al too wel , that this is the smile she puts on for appearances. It’s an insincere, diplomatic mask that she only wears when
she’s being especial y fake. Behind it…there is nothing.
“Hey, Brooks,” she says breezily, the practiced smile never faltering.
“Hi, Shayne,” I reply, taking a glance around our now unfamiliar table. “I missed you in pre-algebra last period.”
“Oh, yeah!” she says, giving the side of her head a light smack with her palm. “I total y forgot to tel you. I had to change my whole schedule
around so I could do this independent study thing.”
A total lie.
Shayne would never be caught dead taking independent study.
But I play along with a nod and say, “Oh, I see,” even though I don’t. What I do see, quite clearly, is that Shayne is throwing every trick in her
book at me. Al the phony, face-saving tactics she has stored up in her arsenal.
A lot of people might admire Shayne from afar. But what they don’t know—what I know—is that being the most popular girl in our school is a
ful -time job. One that Shayne has an uncanny knack for making look easy.
“So how have you been?” she asks, running two fingers down a strand of her silky blond hair.
Her question makes me want to scream. How have I been? HOW have I been? I’ve been to the police station, the courthouse, and nearly to
jail! That’s how I’ve been!
But I don’t. I restrain myself. I remember my five-year training course in “The World According to Shayne Kingsley” and flash my most
unaffected smile. “I’ve been okay.”
She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and with a slight frown goes, “I heard about your little stint with the police. How are you
holding up?”
My grin widens. The corners of my mouth feel like they’re being yanked toward my ears with invisible strings and my cheeks are starting to
cramp. “Oh, no biggie,” I chirp, dismissing her bogus concern with a wave of my hand. “I never found out what happened to you, though.”
Shayne raises her eyebrows inquisitively, like she doesn’t have the faintest clue what I’m talking about. “What do you mean?”
“On Saturday night. After the party. What happened to you?”
She laughs as if the answer to this question is obvious and the only plausible explanation for me asking it is to make a joke. “That was an
insane party. I have to admit, I was pretty hung-over the next day. I was supposed to meet Jesse for brunch at his dorm and I just couldn’t pul myself
out of bed!”
I can’t believe this. She’s total y dodging the question. And making me look like a complete idiot in the process.
Or on second thought, maybe I can.
After al , I’ve spent the past five years of my life watching her do the same thing to so many other poor fools while I stood by, knowing exactly
what she was up to and ready to share a conspiratorial giggle once she was finished. And yet I never once, in a mil ion years, even considered the
possibility that she might one day do it to me.
“Whatever happened to ‘I’m right behind you’ and ‘we’re in this together’?” I ask, cringing at the desperation that’s seeping into my voice.
Definitely not the impression I wanted to put out today but that doesn’t stop me from continuing. “Did you forget that the party was your idea?”
Shayne cocks her head to the side, looking like a lost puppy as she says, “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” And then before I can even
think of what to possibly say next, she motions to the packed table and with a flawless look of phony disappointment goes, “I’d total y ask you to sit
down, but as you can see, it’s kind of ful today.”
I nod as if I understand, but real y, I’m just trying to fight back the tears that are springing to my eyes. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of
seeing me cry. Or better yet, I refuse to give her the ammunition.
I turn to the conjoined triplets, hoping to find just the slightest trace of sympathy on their faces, but they refuse to even look at me, keeping
their eyes glued to their matching plastic salad containers.
“So I guess I’l see you around,” Shayne says, al chipper and bubbly, like she’s an assistant on some cheesy game show offering me the
crappy consolation prize of a lifelong supply of denture cleaner.
And before I can even mutter a response, she turns back to her waiting “audience” and continues tel ing her story, right where she left off.
Without even missing a beat.
Meanwhile, I’m left standing in the middle of the cafeteria, the imaginary spotlight beaming blindingly down on my face, il uminating my pain
and humiliation for everyone to see. For everyone to talk about.
Mr. Simpson was absolutely right. There are two sides to every equation. Even this one.
Because just as Shayne has been known to turn nothing into something—water into wine, straw into gold, Kmart into Dolce and Gabbana—
the opposite is also true. And with just a flick of her magic wand, what she giveth, she can taketh away.
Southern Comfort
I burst out the back door
of the school feeling breathless and weak. Like someone’s been chasing me for miles. Except in reality, there’s no one
behind me. There’s no one anywhere near me. I am alone. Freakishly alone.
I col apse onto a smal patch of grass and pul my knees to my chest, burying my head between my kneecaps as I rock slowly back and forth.
The tears are flowing freely now, spil ing out and dripping down the sides of my legs.
How can Shayne do this to me? How can she use me like that and then just throw me away? I’m not some random guy she met at a party.
I’m her best friend. Or at least I’m supposed to be.
One wrong move, one pair of handcuffs, one community service sentencing and I’m tossed aside. Shunned. No longer deemed an asset but
rather marked—branded—as a liability. A screwup. Just like I’ve always been. Except now the whole school knows about it. Now the queen of al of
them has cast me out of the kingdom.
And as I sit here alone on the grass, staring up at the red-brick building that used to welcome me, I feel completely and utterly rejected. Like
a failure. The weight of my crappy choices crashing upon my shoulders.
Why did I have to say yes to that party? Why couldn’t we have just gone to the movies? A basketbal game in her dad’s reserved clubhouse-
level box? Stayed home and baked cookies? Then none of this would have happened. Everything would be back to the way it was. The way it
should be.
“You know you’re not supposed to be out here,” a voice says, startling me back into the present moment.
I whip my head around, realizing that I’m not alone after al . Evidently, I have company. And he’s cute.
Real y cute.
Tal and dressed wel in a pair of dark wash jeans and a button-up white shirt. He’s leaning casual y against the side of a nearby tree trunk,
one hand in his pocket, the other holding on to the end of a half-smoked cigarette. His longish dark blond hair sweeps dramatical y across his
forehead, just tickling the tops of his lashes. And he has these piercing crystal blue eyes that look like two sapphires.
Who the hel is that?
I quickly attempt to wipe the embarrassing tears from my face, absolutely certain that I’m leaving behind unsightly smudges of black
mascara, identical to the ones smeared across my kneecaps.
“Oh, hi,” I mumble, wanting to crawl under a bush somewhere. “I didn’t see anyone there.”
If he notices that I’ve just been sobbing like a baby (and I’m not sure how he can’t), then he certainly doesn’t let on because instead of
bringing up the topic of my tearstained face (and knees), he simply steers the cigarette to his mouth, takes a long drag, and says in a smooth,
total y heart-melting Southern accent, “You could get in serious trouble for being out here.”
I have to laugh at this. It feels good after al the crying. “And you couldn’t?”
He blows out the smoke and smiles. Actual y, it’s more like a knowing smirk, fol owed shortly after by a blasé shrug. “I suppose I could. But
Martin and I have an understanding.”
“Who’s Martin?”
He takes another drag. “The school security guard.”
“Oh, him,” I say, the disdain evident in my tone. I remember him al too wel . He’s the one that busted Shayne and me last year for sneaking
off campus during lunch. “I didn’t realize he had a name.”
“Everyone has a name,” he replies with another smirk.
“Wel , yeah,” I fumble. “I mean, I just…didn’t…you know…” Final y I give up, sighing exasperatedly. “Who are you?”
He chuckles and tosses his cigarette to the ground, smashing it underneath the heel of his dark brown work boot. “Hunter Wal ace
Hamilton…the third,” he says, like he’s introducing himself to royalty.
I snicker. “That’s your name?”
“My ful name, anyway. Most people just cal me Hunter.”
“I’ve never seen you before,” I blurt out, instantly wishing I hadn’t. Because it’s an incredibly lame thing to say. Especial y to someone who
looks like Hunter. But it’s true. I think I would have noticed someone this hot before. Or, at the very least, Shayne would have and pointed him out to
me. And then started dating him two seconds later.
“That’s probably because I’m new,” he’s quick to inform me, his Southern drawl sweetening the air like the smel of spun sugar. “Just moved
here from Atlanta. Today’s my first day.”
“And you’re already on a first-name basis with the security guard?”
“Hey,” he says, raising one hand in the air. “I have my priorities straight. Those are the kinds of people you have to befriend if you want to get
away with certain things.” Hunter pushes himself off the tree, takes a few steps toward me, and pul s a pack of Marlboros from his front pocket. He
holds them out to me. “Want one?”
When I hesitate, he nods to my puffy eyes and drawls, “It’l help.”
I figure I’l take any ounce of help I can get these days, so I pul a cigarette from the pack and secure it between my lips. Hunter removes a
lighter from the other pocket, squats down next to me, and flicks the wheel. A flame sparks.
My heart flutters in my chest as his hand hovers inches away from my face. He’s even more spectacular up close—with this smal shadow of
facial hair around his cheeks and chin. It’s so sexy I nearly drop the cigarette from my mouth.
He has to be a senior. No doubt about it. How many under-classmen can grow facial hair like that?
As the flame comes in contact with the end of the cigarette, I attempt to emulate the smokers I’ve seen and suck in hard. Hot smoke
immediately drenches my lungs, singeing my throat and devouring al the oxygen in my body. I break out in violent coughs, hacking up spouts of
gray clouds. It feels like a three-hundred-pound wrestler is standing on my chest.
Hunter plops down on the grass next to me and slaps me on the back. “Aww, kiddo. You should have told me it was your first time.”
I’m unable to respond with anything but more coughs as I feel further humiliation sink in. Kiddo? How’s that for a low blow?
“You stil haven’t told me your name.”
It takes me a minute to respond. Mostly because I’m stil hacking up my lung. But also because this guy is so freaking hot, I’m having trouble
forming words.
“Uh, Brooklyn?” I manage to get out.
“Are you asking me or tel ing me?”
I try to squeeze out a smile. “Sorry. No, it’s Brooklyn. Brooklyn Pierce. But most people just cal me Brooks.”
“Nice to meet you, Brooks,” he says politely as he reaches out his hand to me.
Like an idiot, I just stare at it in confusion.
“Maybe it’s a Southern thing, but where I come from, we shake hands when we meet someone we like.”
I instantly blush at his comment and then shove my hand into his. “Sorry,” I say again.
“Brooklyn Pierce,” he echoes thoughtful y. “That sounds familiar. Are you famous for something?”
I exhale another rugged cough and attempt a second skil ful (looking) drag on the cigarette, this time being careful not to inhale. “Yes. Being