Starstruck (6 page)

M
Y PINK SWEAT SHORTS
are only slightly better than my popped-open jeans with a window to my undies. They’re hopelessly tight, clinging to the folds around my hips like plastic wrap over Silly Putty. My legs poke out of them like two buffet lines filled with nothing but cottage cheese. I’m not sure what Wish was thinking earlier when he met me outside, but maybe there was sun glare or his sense of reason was thrown off by the six-hour plane ride. Of course, when he sees me looking like an aerobics instructor who accidentally Botoxed her butt, he will probably come to his senses.

I step outside, yanking the shorts down as far as I possibly can manage without allowing my stomach to spring free of the waistband. These shorts give me a major crotch wedgie. Yes, this will make Wish wake up. There is no man alive who can be turned on by a crotch wedgie.

I see him down the hallway. Actually, I don’t see him; I just see the burnt orange shock of hair that belongs to him peeking out from the middle of a crowd of girls. Well, not exactly a crowd, but three. As I get closer, I realize that two of them are Erica and Terra. There’s also a girl named Destiny, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Barbie, right down to the skinny waist that cannot possibly hold all the required internal organs. Terra whinnies loudly, her horse nostrils flaring. Erica stares up at Wish with sultry, “take me now” eyes. Wish isn’t really looking at them; he’s telling them about his eventful plane ride and is completely into his story, gesturing with both hands in classic Wish fashion. He could always spin a great yarn. But he’d always been the funny Mr. Personality, not Mr. GQ. Still, as I get closer, I can almost make out a little glistening something in the corner of Erica’s mouth.

I stand outside the circle, ready to bolt down the hall, when Wish notices me. There’s no sun glare or bad lighting or large objects in the way or anything whatsoever that would stop him from seeing me in all my chunky glory, but contrary to what I was expecting, no disgust registers on his face. “Oh, hey, Gwen, what’s the name of that place in Princeton? Where we used to get the ice cream?”

Three sets of eyes turn in unison to glare at me. And is it me, or do they all narrow to evil slits?

“Um. Thomas Sweet,” I squeak, remembering when his mother, who was working on her thesis, would take us up there on Saturdays. We would walk around the campus, eating giant vanilla Blend-Ins with M&M’s and Butterfinger and Oreo pieces until we nearly puked. I’m kind of flattered that he can remember it, that he can think of anything at all with Erica’s sex eyes focused on him.

“Right. So yeah, they make the best ice cream. Like, sell-your-mother-for-it good. And then this guy in the seat next to me says …”

Wish yanks me into the circle, where I stand like an uneven table. At that point I lose track of the story. I lose track of pretty much everything, including how to breathe, because I begin to hyperventilate again. I have no idea what the bridge was between his plane ride here and Thomas Sweet, but I don’t care. Those three sets of eyes keep trailing toward me, running over the length of my body, narrowing and widening whenever they stop on my goose-pimply white legs. Clearly, I have invaded their circle. The story seems to go on forever; then finally he gets to the punch line and the girls laugh at him like they’re on speed. I muster a few polite “heh’s.”

Then, suddenly, all four sets of eyes trail back to me. Uncomfortable silence sets in.

“Hey!” Wish says, pulling me to his side like I’m his bookend. “You guys know Gwen, don’t you?”

Erica and Destiny mumble yeses, and Terra blurts out the sunniest, fakest “Oh, yeah, hey!” She reaches over and swipes her ice-cold hand over my arm as if she’s flicking dust from it. “What’s up?”

Nobody seems to notice the irony. Wish, who has been away for years, introducing me. Me. As if he’s been here all along and I just arrived from Planet Fat.

More uncomfortable silence. Finally, Wish says something like “I’ll catch you later,” and the girls head down the hallway, whispering, shoulders touching. I am sure words like “hottie” and “gorgeous” are being freely batted about.

I turn toward Wish and he’s looking at me. Again, I dart my eyes away. “You okay?” he asks.

He probably keeps asking that because I look anything but. “Great,” I mutter.

He reaches into the pocket of his baggy pants and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. “Your schedule?”

“Oh.” I search clumsily through my bag and pull it out. There are a crushed Skittle and one of my mousy brown hairs attached to it, but I pick them off and hand it over.

He studies the papers. For a minute I think he must be carefully deciding how to diplomatically tell his hippo girlfriend to buzz off, but then he says, “Cool! We have lunch together.” Then he shrugs. “Nothing else, though. Why do you have to be so smart?”

“Er …” I’m so smart that speech escapes me. “You’re in honors precalc; I’m in honors English.”

See? I’m not smarter, just different.

“Still, lunch is good.”

Oh, sure, lunch is just great. After sitting alone for the entire period yesterday, I planned to eat the rest of my lunches in the music wing bathroom. Now Wish will probably encourage me to sit with Terra and Erica and other people I clearly don’t fit in with, and they’ll likely spend the entire time watching me and my cheese sandwich and wondering why we infiltrated their lofty domain. My sandwich and I would much prefer the company of a toilet.

“Well, I’d better get going to English for Dummies. You’d better get going to …” He checks my schedule. “Ooh. Creative writing. Write a poem about me, okay?”

I stand there in my little shorts, dumbfounded. Why is he acting like there’s nothing wrong with this picture? Like everything’s exactly as we left it?

He clears his throat, then looks down at his shirt and adjusts his cuffs as if he’s self-conscious. Then he grins at me, and for the second time today, my eyes briefly meet his. Gorgeous as they are, there’s something not right about them. Somehow it seems like he’s not all there. Like he’s looking through me.

But he has to see it. Has to. Right?

A
T LUNCH
, I skulk through the cafeteria doors late. I purposely spent a few extra minutes at my locker, because I didn’t want to get there first and have Wish see everyone whizzing around to avoid me like I’m a smoking car in the breakdown lane. The moment I walk in, Wish waves to me with both arms. He’s excited to see me. How can that be? Do I have season passes to the Flyers stapled to my forehead or something?

I am acutely aware that the farther away I am from him, the more obvious my cottage-cheese legs are in this horrid fluorescent light. They’re like a beacon in the night. If he’s standing right next to me, it’s harder for him to see them. So that’s why I sprint over to him, like Jesse Owens. It’s only a short trip, but I’m still out of breath by the time I get there.

“There” is a table right in the center of the commotion, where people who don’t mind being seen like to sit. I never venture there. Yet here I am, in all my goose-pimply glory, being given the once-over by two long rows of popular kids. Erica is there, and a bunch of hot guys who don’t know I exist. And—oh, great. Perfect. Rick. He’s farther down the row, surrounded by girls, and he’s the only one besides Wish who doesn’t seem ready to puke because of my presence. Probably because he’s too busy telling a story to his entourage, likely involving himself and his awesomeness.

“Hey, what’s up?” Wish asks casually.

“Um, nothing.” I’m clutching my books so close to my chest that I think my skin might absorb them and they’ll get stuck in my intestines.

He looks around, and I can tell he’s trying to find a seat for me. Nope, no seat. No dice. Guess I’ll just keep my date with the toilet. No biggie.

Then, before I know it, he grabs my sleeve and I lose my balance for a second but end up awkwardly plopping into his lap. But not really into it. I don’t fit neatly into anything. I kind of sit there on one of his knees, balancing precariously. I can’t believe it. I am going to cripple my boyfriend on his very first full day back east.

I can tell that people around the table are just as flabbergasted as I am. Their eyes widen even farther than when the goose-pimply fatty showed up at their table. Erica turns toward the windows, like she’s watching her sterling, geek-free reputation fluttering out of them.

Wish wraps his arms around my fat and pulls me closer, as if he isn’t in the worst pain of his life. He laughs, and his voice is completely unstrained when he says, “There. Problem solved.”

I shyly inspect the people at the table. One of the hot guys who usually ignore me—named Fudge, shortened from DeFuca a while back—half grins. At me. Meaning he sees me. “Zup?” he asks coolly.

There is no way, ever, ever, ever, that my cheese sandwich is going to see the outside of my bag. Not in this company. I feel hot again, faint. Like if I never eat again, it will be too soon.

Another one of the hottest guys on the planet—somehow sexy besides his being completely bald except for one long braid sprouting from the side of his head, and having the nickname Skull—leans toward me. He gives me an intense look, and for a moment I think he might lunge across the table and kill me. Instead, he just nods and says, “Word.”

“So, yeah. You in on Friday?” Fudge asks. He’s looking at me. He can’t be talking to me, though, right? Up until now, I was pretty sure he couldn’t see me. And who wouldn’t be in on Friday? It’s a school day, isn’t it? It’s not a school-optional day. Or maybe it is, but just for the cool people.

Wish leans over. “Party at Terra’s. Friday night. Want to go?”

I feel his breath on my cheek. So he’s talking either to me or to some invisible thing on my shoulder. I’ve never been part of the social scene at Cellarton, not even the lame poker parties the math club has on Fridays. But these guys are all looking at me as if I belong there. So I smile and nod and try to play it cool. My bare knees are knocking together, so I thrust my hand between them to steady them.

At that moment, it comes to my attention that I haven’t breathed in a very long time. I exhale as the guys resume their normal conversation, about the Eagles and how they need to step it up this year if they want to make the play-offs. Wish moves forward more, so I can feel his chest against my back, then holds up a Tater Tot for me. As if this is all completely normal. As if we’ve done this a million times before.

Then he looks out the window. The sun is still shining, but it looks like there’s a storm approaching. “Hey,” he whispers to me, “I’ll be back in a sec.”

I stand and let him get up, and before I sit down in his seat, I realize something. I’m alone. With his friends. Talk about awkward. I spend the next few minutes pretending to follow the conversation while giving Wish ESP vibes to get his butt back here and save me. He must be in the bathroom.

Five, then ten minutes pass, and I feel my face grow redder and redder as the rest of the people at the table gradually go back to ignoring me. I’m expecting a little alarm to go off and one of them to yell, “Intruder! Intruder!” when the bell rings. I jump up a little too much like I have a rocket in my pants. I turn toward the doors, but Wish is nowhere in sight. Then I catch a glimpse of something large and black outside, half hidden behind the trailers where health and driver’s ed are taught. Wish. He’s standing out there, staring up at the blinding sun. The storm clouds beyond seem to crowd around his profile, threatening, ominous. Either he’s been in sunny L.A. so long that he’s fascinated by the thunderstorm, or he’s hoping a lightning bolt will strike him down because he sucks at confrontations and doesn’t want to deal with the uncomfortable task of breaking up with me. I’m going with Option Two.

T
HE REST OF THE DAY
, I field curious glances from people. They look at me as if seeing me for the first time. I’m not sure if they’re wondering about the mess of cottage cheese south of my waist or surprised that I sat on a hot guy’s lap during lunch period, and not only did he survive, he seemed okay with it. I keep my head down and my mouth shut and manage to make it through the day.

As I’m pulling another monster stack of books from my locker to take home with me, Wish comes up behind me and plants his chin on my shoulder. “Hey, you.”

It’s so playful and dripping with sweetness that if I’d witnessed any other guy saying it to any other girl, I’d probably have vomited a little in my mouth. When is this charade going to be over? I turn around and face him, still avoiding his eyes. “Hey.”

He leans against the locker next to mine, then stretches his arms over his head so that his black shirt lifts and I get a glimpse of a sliver of tan stomach. Oh my goodness. Air. I need air. “So what’s going on in that mind of yours?” he asks.

I’m glad it’s not obvious, because it’s way too embarrassing. The part of my brain that isn’t shriveling from oxygen deprivation can only sputter out words like “throbbing” and “juicy” and … I need to be neutered. “Um …”

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he says. “It’s been a crazy day. I can see it in your eyes. You’re thinking, ‘Do I know this guy anymore?’ You and me. We haven’t had any time to connect.”

I gulp. “Connect?”

“Yeah. Alone time.” He reaches over and tries to tuck a tuft of my hair, which has somehow left the trapezoid, behind my ear.

My body starts to shiver and twitch as I comprehend what he is saying. Alone time. Alone. As in me and him. Connecting with his throbbing …

I jump. “I’m going to miss my bus!” I shout so loudly he jumps, too. My teeth are chattering.

He grins, then holds his hand up in front of my eyes. Something shiny drops from his palm, and he lets it dangle, back and forth, like a hypnotist’s chain. A key. A car key. But that’s stupid. In Jersey we don’t get our licenses until seventeen, not for another whole year.

“You’re …”

With the other hand, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and flips it open, like a police officer. There’s his California driver’s license, in one of the sleeves. “Legal,” he says.

It strikes me now that he’s not just one of the coolest kids in our class. He is right there at the top. The only one with a license. Hell, he’s too good for naked cheerleaders.

“Uh …”

“I would have driven you this morning if you hadn’t blown me off last night,” he says, mock hurt in his voice. “So come on. Let’s get out of here.”

For a second I want to whoop with joy. My busing days are over. Then a cold breeze somehow finds its way under my hairline, making me shiver all down my back. They’re not over. He’s just … not thinking straight. Give him a few days and he’ll realize what everyone else at school already knows. And what have I been telling Evie? “Don’t get too close. Guys can bite. And by the time they do, you’re the one wearing the dog collar.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I can just take the bus. Really, it’s not a big—”

His cell phone beeps, and he reaches for it. He looks up from the phone and holds a hand out. “No you won’t. I insist.”

I probably could protest more, but I never did like the bus, and I take one millisecond’s look at those piercing blue eyes. Pleading with me. Me. That’s all it takes. “Um. Okay.”

He helps me lug my books down the hall and out the door, and though the hallway is emptying out, I catch shocked glances from everyone who passes us. Wish doesn’t seem to notice. He’s checking his phone. He texts something, talking about cross-country tryouts and horrible Mr. Burns, his chem teacher, and before I know it, we’re outside and the sun is shining down on me and all my flaws and I know he’s going to turn to me and realize that he’s made a horrible mistake. Instead, though, he tilts his face to the sun, as if trying to soak in as many rays as he can. His cell phone beeps again. He grimaces at it and then turns it off. Then, just as I predicted, three steps from the school, he faces me, mouth widening, confusion in his face.

“Earth to Gwen?”

“Um, yeah?”

“You are a million miles away. Did you hear anything I said?”

“No, sorry.”

“I asked if your mom still makes the best white cream donuts in the world, and if I could maybe swipe one or a few dozen, if they have any left. I missed them like crazy.”

Of course. He’s using me to get to my mother’s donuts. Now it all makes sense. “We’ll have leftovers. She usually makes a whole tray and we don’t get many customers in the off-season.”

He rubs his hands together as we enter the parking lot. “Cool.” We stop next to a silver Ford pickup, and he opens the passenger door for me. He explains that it’s a Welcome Back to Jersey gift from his dad. “Surprised the hell out of me,” he says. “You know how my dad and I are. But he’s the reason I’m here. Said he couldn’t stand having a long-distance relationship with his son, so my mom finally agreed to move back.”

I raise my eyebrows. His dad is former military, so he’s kind of strict and I can’t remember ever seeing him smile. He constantly used to get on Wish for the smallest things: his posture, his haircut, the fact that he’d much rather hang out with me than do a hundred push-ups a day. When his parents split up, I knew right away who he’d choose.

“It’s not much, but it’s good for carrying surfboards,” he explains. Then he lowers his voice an octave: “Makes me feel like a manly man.”

I can’t help it: I burst out laughing. “You can climb mountainsides. Haul lumber.”

“Go to my local NRA meeting. Yeah, all that stuff.” He grins, then helps me into the cab of the truck.

If I was in danger of becoming relaxed with him, it doesn’t last long. He spends nearly five full minutes adjusting the rearview and side mirrors, and by the time he pulls out of the school parking lot, an uncomfortable silence has already settled in. He fiddles with the controls on his satellite radio, first landing on some hip-hop, then moving to classic rock, then finally stopping on a cheesy pop song. I know he hates that stuff and is just doing it for me. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I haven’t listened to that kind of stuff since middle school.

I rack my brain, trying to think of something to say, as we cross the bridge over Cellar Bay. Finally, something comes. “How was your first day back?”

He shrugs. “Everything’s just about the same.”

I nearly choke on the breath I’ve been holding. The same? I knew that some Hollywood stars were out of touch with reality, but I didn’t realize that applied to the entire state of California. “Except your girlfriend,” I mumble.

“Huh?”

“It’s just … Did you ever tell those guys that you were going out with me?”

“Sure. They all know.”

“I heard Erica and Terra talking yesterday and they said they thought you were single. They all kind of hate me. So I just feel weird.”

“That’s because the two of them have a combined IQ of ten. And they don’t hate you. They just don’t know you. You’re quiet. You keep to yourself. You just need me to break the ice, and they’ll all love you. Trust me.”

“Okay,” I say, doubtful, and that’s when I notice he’s blinking. The sun is bouncing off one of the mirrors, hitting him directly in the eyes. That’s got to hurt. I reach over and push his sun visor down. “Better?”

He quickly pushes it back into place, looking alarmed for the first time. For someone as laid-back as Wish, it’s weird, and he must sense that, too, because he laughs nervously afterward. “No. I mean, I like the sun. I can see better with it like this, anyway.”

“Oh,” I say, wondering how that’s possible. Maybe the California sun has fried his eyeballs, which would explain why he hasn’t noticed how much I’ve changed. We’re pulling up to the bakery, anyway. In another few minutes, I can escape. As soon as he stops at the curb, I push open the door and scoot my backside off the seat. I’m far enough away that even if he was thinking about kissing me, which I know is highly unlikely, it would be completely out of the question.

“Hey,” he says, his voice bright. “You up for a walk on the beach? Haven’t seen the Atlantic in ages.”

I just stare at him. He really wants to spend more time with me? On the beach?

“We can play Gone with the Wind. There’s a great breeze. I can whip your butt.”

I can’t help smiling. So he remembers. When we were little and ignorant, and before we knew who Scarlett O’Hara was, we invented a game called Gone with the Wind. Basically, the only objective of it was to run around as if being lifted up by the breeze, arms out, floating like leaves. Then we would tackle each other, laughing like mad, completely oblivious to everyone staring at us from their beach towels like we had two heads. We’d kick up sand, make a huge disturbance, get the tourists to give us dirty looks and the lifeguards to whistle at us, but we didn’t care. We didn’t care what anyone thought about us then; it was just fun. That’s about it. To this day, I’m not sure how one would win at a game like that.

I cringe as I force away the mental image of him reaching for me, putting his hands on my body, touching the folds of flesh that weren’t there all those years ago.

“Maybe some other time. I’m just going to get you those donuts.”

I hurry away before he can say another word, and walk into the empty bakery. Christian doesn’t even come out when the bell above the door jingles; he’s probably OD’d in the back room. I throw a dozen cream donuts into a white paper bag and return to Wish’s truck a minute later. “Awesome,” he says.

“Yeah.” I’m already holding the truck door, ready to slam it. “So, thanks.”

“Hey,” he says, which makes me turn toward him, and our eyes momentarily meet. He leans over. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

I nod.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

I nod again. “But you don’t have to pick me up. I’ll just see you at school.” When he opens his mouth to protest, I say, “I don’t mind taking the bus. I, um, like it.”

“Okay,” he says, his face solemn. “Have a good—”

I wasn’t expecting him to say anything else, so I accidentally slam the door before he can finish. That was rude. I give him a smile and wave and try to look as happy as possible. I’m thinking I pulled it off when I go into the bakery and Christian, who somehow miraculously appeared out of nowhere, says, “Dude, you look like you’re coming from your own funeral.”

I want to tell him to go blow it out his crack pipe, but I’m still not sure about his past. On the off chance he’s a mass murderer, I’d better keep quiet. I’m starving from not eating lunch, so I grab a carton of Nesquik and a coconut strip and walk past him, gnashing my teeth.

“Was that the boyfriend you told me about?” he asks, obviously mistaking my teeth-gnashing for a sign I’m open to conversation.

“I guess. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” He laughs. “Because, dude, you guys seem really in love.”

I narrow my eyes. Murderer or whatever, he’s a jerk and must be silenced. “Could you please not spy on me?”

He shakes his head, those dirty dreads brushing the tops of his shoulders. “No way, man. You and your sister are the most entertainment I get here.”

I give him a look.

He shrugs. “If you don’t want me to watch, don’t park outside the window.”

I definitely prefer the walker-using help of previous years. The most annoying thing about them was the faint smell of approaching death and their tendency to bring up the benefits of Metamucil to customers. “I’m going to start my homework. I know you probably don’t know what that is, but …”

He’s grinning at me like he knows he’s under my skin and happy to be there. And I feel the same way I’ve felt pretty much all day. Foolish.