“No,” she says, “you want me to give you a pass or whatever, so you can have your happily-ever-after with Becca without what you did to me on your conscience.” Something stings inside my chest, but before I can defend myself, she hisses, “Well, you’re not going to get it. No matter what people say, no matter how ‘inexplicable’ IDs may be, this wouldn’t have happened to me if it weren’t for you. You did this to me and I’m never going to forgive you for it. Never!”
I blink. “Can’t we be friends?” I whimper.
Camilla laughs like a maniac, then turns away. But before leaving, she shakes her head as if she could never believe I’d say something so ridiculous.
I stay there, fingers hooked in the fence, watching her trot over to her teammates. I realize they’ve all been observing our conversation—if you can even call it that—for a while now. Others, too. I catch two freshmen girls in the bleachers, staring, and shove my hands into my pockets before walking away from their scrutiny.
So. My plan to befriend Camilla Hadi did not go well. I figured it wouldn’t be smooth sailing, but I didn’t expect a shit storm of this size. Instead of getting her to like me, I probably got her to hate me even more. And so many people saw that. Can we say epic fail?
Shuffling back to my car, I try to process what happened.
Camilla’s upset. Like, seriously upset. She blames me. She blames me for everything. Her words settle in my stomach, heavy, toxic, stirring together into a brew of guilt—even though I know I had nothing to do with her ID.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I turn to my phone, craving a distraction. There’s a text from Becca: My parents are out again, followed by two winking emojis. I might as well take her up on her offer.
“That was really sweet of you,” a voice I recognize says.
I stop walking and check over my shoulder to confirm that it, in fact, belongs to Sara.
“What was?” I ask, looking around for Mike, for anybody. Most people have gone home by now. There are just four cars and a news van still in the parking lot.
Wait. What’s a news van doing at our school?
“Talking to Camilla,” Sara says.
I shrug and keep walking. I’m not going to comment, and I’m not going to explain myself. Especially not to Sara.
“You were always such a great guy,” she continues, following me.
I stop and turn. “What do you want, Sara?”
Her gaze falls to the ground, and she pushes her hair behind her ear. When Camilla did the same thing, it was real, natural. When Sara does it, it screams fake-fake-fake. “Do you want to get tacos?” she asks. “It’s so nice outside.”
I raise my eyebrows. There’s a taco truck downtown, smack in the middle of a huge backyard with white miniature bulbs strung around its edges. It’s a fun, romantic spot, especially on summer nights. After I took Sara there the first time, she loved it so much it became our go-to date destination. We’d sit there for hours, talking, sharing one pair of headphones, grossing other customers out with our lovey-dovey cuddles. Now I know it only meant something to one of us.
“You’re out of your mind,” I say.
“Why are you being so mean to me?”
A huff pops out of my mouth. “You broke my fucking heart, Sara. I was in love with you, and you erased me from your life like I was nothing. Now that I’m attractive, you’re suddenly talking to me like the whole thing never happened?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care.”
She drops the act. Real emotions seem to be pushing up to the surface. “I made a mistake, okay? What if I told you I’d like to give it another chance?”
“Then I’d tell you to fuck off.”
Sara’s eyes fill with tears. Her jaw trembles. I know her too well, though. These are tears of frustration. She’s not getting what she wants and she hates it.
I like seeing her hate it.
“Bye, Sara.” I say, facing my car.
“Becca only likes you for your looks!” she spits at my back.
I don’t even bother to turn around. “I know.”
As I drive home, I have a smile plastered on my face. You know that “I’ll show them one day” feeling? When you promise yourself you’ll prove someone wrong, and even though you’re not sure when, you’re determined to make it happen? I just had that one day with Sara.
But it’s not all relief and satisfaction. I can’t seem to get Camilla off my mind. It’s not just how she made me feel either. How she shot me down. It’s Camilla herself.
If you think about it, she’s pretty amazing. It takes humongous balls (ovaries?) to come to school after an awful ID like hers, act like it didn’t break you, and tell the guy you think caused it exactly how you feel. After today, I have a whole new level of respect for her.
When I get home to grab something to eat before I see Becca, Mom’s outside in the backyard, sitting in a chair on the deck holding a beer. Arthur’s butt is on the railing, his feet dangling over the side. I already know something’s up. Mom doesn’t usually drink, and Arthur only talks to her one-on-one when they’re fighting or something unusual has happened.
It doesn’t look like they’re fighting.
“Your school was on the local news,” Arthur says before I can even close the gate. I go around the deck to the steps, recalling the news van in the school parking. “What?”
“They were talking about that girl,” Mom says.
I stop on the third step from the top. I don’t even have to ask. “Oh.”
“Do you know her?”
“Not really.”
“Can you believe how brave she is?” Mom asks, shaking her head. “If I had an Inexplicable Development like that happen to me … And she went back to school? Unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s pretty brave.”
“Did you see her?” Arthur asks. “Does she look like a burnt nuclear bomb victim?”
“Shut up,” I snap.
“They mentioned you, too,” Arthur says.
My eyes widen. “On the news?”
“They didn’t mention you,” Mom says. “They can’t do that, legally. They just brought up the nature of your Inexplicable Development. Mostly for contrast. They’re more interested in your classmate’s incident because it’s so rare, even among IDs. Most of the ones that happened in the past have been, you know, positive. Like yours.” She’s quiet for a moment, her eyes trying to read me. “What’s wrong, honey? You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”
I shrug. “Camilla’s ID happened on the same day as mine.”
“Come here,” Mom says. Sighing, I shuffle over to her chair and she reaches out to squeeze my hand. I realize that she hasn’t really touched me like this since my transformation. “You had nothing to do with it,” Mom tells me.
“Unless you wished for that girl’s ID, too, of course,” Arthur says.
“Arthur,” Mom barks, “go inside.”
Smirking, he jumps off the rail and walks into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Mom focuses her attention back on me. “There’s no point in thinking about these things, trying to explain them. They’re inexplicable for a reason. Your father and I had a hard time at first. We didn’t handle your ID very well, and I want to apologize to you for that. We should’ve been happy for you, no questions asked.”
One of my eyebrows hikes up in suspicion. “So you only realized this after you heard about what happened to Camilla Hadi?”
Mom’s face flushes with color. She looks down at the bottle in her hand. “Her situation helped me see things more clearly, yes.”
I sigh. At least Mom’s being honest.
She gives my hand another squeeze. Neither of us says anything for a moment. I move to the chair across from her and fall into it. Since Mom’s opening up, I might as well give a confession of my own. “You were right,” I say.
“About what?”
“Things aren’t as great
as I thought they would be.”
She gives a tiny nod but doesn’t say anything.
“The popular kids want to hang with me, but I don’t really like them much. Alan and Lauren hate me—they think I wanted to be better looking so I’d become popular and ditch them. And I didn’t even do anything. I’m just trying to deal with this sudden change, you know?”
“Why can’t you just tell Alan and Lauren that, then?”
“Why can’t they just see it? They’re supposed to be my friends.”
Mom sighs. “Honey, miscommunication is a waste of time that will only end in regret. You can’t expect people to interpret events and actions the same way you do. Everyone is different. Everyone has different experiences and expectations.”
I think for a minute. “I guess.”
A small smile creeps onto her face. “Soon after I first started dating your father—this was when I was still in college—I saw him giving this beautiful girl a hug. I got so jealous, it nearly broke me. It turned out it was just his cousin. You know, Aunt Elizabeth—she was even more beautiful back then. She was visiting him from Poland. But I didn’t talk to him for a month because of it. A whole month of our lives, wasted.”
I watch her remembering, rubbing the neck of her beer bottle with her thumb.
“So what are you saying?”
She looks up. “So I’m saying talk to them. Be clear. If you want your friends back, if you want things to return to the way they used to be, tell them how you feel. Make sure they understand your true intentions. It will help you understand theirs, too.”
I nod, remembering what I said to Sara earlier. Telling her everything I felt gave me closure. I’m not so sure I’m ready to get my old friends back just yet, but Mom’s story does make me want to make a new one. And for real this time. Not because I think it might help my reputation. Because I want to.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Camilla is pretty damn amazing. She’s strong and confident and devoted. There’s a fire within her I admire. A fire, which I wouldn’t mind borrowing a few flames from for myself. And, plus, she likes the Leaky Lizards.
I want to get to know her. I want to be her friend. And, this time, I want to make sure she knows my true intentions.
I just have to figure out how to do that.
CHAPTER 14
CAMILLA
ANOTHER ONE OF MY NIGHTMARES is coming true. Wonderful.
In Jodie’s words, I’m becoming a “sensation.”
Apparently, my story has made national news.
The media can’t release my name without permission because I’m a minor, but all you have to do is google our school and my name is all over the comments on all the websites. And don’t even get me started on the #IStandWithCamilla hashtag. Not only is half my name already in it, the stir around the movement is the worst part. Apparently, it’s uniting the student population and beyond. I’m a hero and the inspiration to so many young girls.
What a load of crap.
Twice today, I was accosted by reporters. Not once, twice. First, in the morning when Jodie was driving us to school—a news van pulled parallel with us and a reporter leaned halfway out the window, begging us to pull over, screaming at the top of her lungs that she promised they’d blur out my face. Then, at lunch, another reporter, a man this time, pleaded for me to give him two minutes from the other side of the fence.
Like I’d actually do an interview. And even if I did, the reporters would only hate it, because I wouldn’t be like I’m so happy something positive could come out of this blah, blah, doodly-do. No. Fuck that. I’d tell the truth. I’d tell them how my life sucks now and how the media’s making it even worse.
My only hope is to ignore this mess until it dies down. And if it doesn’t? Well, then some pretty correspondent will have to put on a somber expression during a special report and explain to the world how the whole thing drove me over the edge.
Or, more likely, drove me to murder Konrad Wolnik. Because after I get three more palms on the face from random kids at school and lock myself in the girls’ bathroom to get away from it all, this is what I overhear:
“Cindy said she saw Konrad talking to Camilla Hadi yesterday.”
“Aww! For real? How adorable!”
“I know! Seriously, can he be any more perfect? He’s, like, actually worried about her. And he doesn’t have to be. You know what I mean?”
“Becca Lipowska is so freaking lucky.”
“Right? I would seriously, like, pay to be his girlfriend.”
“He’s not a gigolo, Michelle.”
“Did you just say ‘gigolo’?”
Giggles.
One of the voices loses steam. “He still hasn’t followed me back.”
“Maybe he’s just not into freshmen?”
I slap my hand down on the flush handle. I can’t listen to this. The perfect guy? Are you fucking kidding me? My appearance at school was supposed to make Konrad’s life less glamorous, not more so. It was supposed to make everyone see how selfish he really is. Now he’s got freshmen fangirling over him even more?
It’s official: I’m the only person who can see through Konrad Wolnik’s act. Everybody else is blinded by his looks, by his performance. They don’t know everything he does is for show, that he doesn’t give a crap about anyone else.
But, you know what? That’s okay. If me coming to school isn’t going to make that clear, I’m going to have to break the spell he’s cast on everybody another way. One that’s guaranteed to work. How do I know it will? Because it’s worked for me in the past.
Since there’s no practice today, Jodie gives me a ride home. When we get to my house she turns off the engine and invites herself in.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, faking a yawn. “I’m kind of tired.”
Jodie’s hand pets her perfect bun a little more aggressively than usual. “I have to tell you something,” she says, “and I can’t do that here in the car where you can strangle me.”
I stare at her, my heart rate rising. “Oh God. What now?”
“Come on.” She prods my side.
Heavy with dread, I open the car door. All the way into the house, I beg her to tell me her grave secret, but she refuses until she has a Diet Coke in her hand. Now I’m sitting on the couch and she’s leaning against the wall as far away from me as possible. She’s not kidding. This is going to be bad.
“Jesus,” I say, bracing myself for the worst. “Just spit it out.”
“So, I might’ve done something without your permission.”
“You might’ve?”
“Okay, I did. Last night.”
“Jodie, what?”
“You know how I said we could make money off of this #IStandWithCamilla thing?”
I nod. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, it turns out we can. I mean, you can.” She pauses. “Actually, you already did.”
My mouth goes dry. “What did you do?”
“I set up a crowdfunding account on your behalf.”
A quiet whimper sneaks past my lips. “You did not.”
“Camilla, look at this.” Jodie already has the page open on her phone. “You made six thousand dollars. In one night.”
I spring from the couch and yank the phone out of her hand. The first thing I take in is the number: $6,045.
“You’re getting money from people in New York, Camilla. New York!”
Jodie had used a picture of us for the post, but relief washes over me when I see that it was taken from behind. I remember the shot. Ashley snapped it when we went camping last summer. Jodie and I are sitting at the edge of a cliff, our arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, a valley sprawling out below us.
Panic slams into me when I read the message below the photo.
“Hey, guys,” I read aloud. “Jodie here. As you may have heard, my best friend recently underwent an unfortunate Inexplicable Development related to her appearance.” I pause, trying to control my shaking voice. “
My friend is the most wonderful human being in the world. She’s kind and determined and she fights hard, no matter what. She deserves to lead a happy life. If you could find it in your heart to help her fight the biggest battle she’s ever faced, I know she’ll be able to put her life back on the wonderful track it was on. XOXO, Jodie.”
I look up from the screen. Jodie’s back is pressed against the wall, her eyes wide.
Part of me is moved by the kind words she wrote. And I’m grateful the description is kind of vague—why would people give away their hard-earned dollars based on this message alone? But the biggest part of me really does want to strangle her.
And that part wins.
“How could you?”
“Camilla—”
“You knew I’d hate this!”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“You’re making my life even worse!”
“If you’d just listen to me—”
“Can you leave now? Please?”
“GIRLS!”
Startled, both Jodie and I whirl toward the kitchen. Mom’s standing in the doorway, still in her scrubs, her tote bag hanging from her shoulder. Her head is shaking. “What’s going on?”
I clench my jaw. “Nothing. Jodie was just leaving.”
“Mrs. Hadi!” Jodie dashes up to her side like my mom will protect her from Hurricane Camilla. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Sit down,” Mom orders, pointing at the couch. “Both of you.”
There’s so much authority in her voice, Jodie and I have little choice but to oblige. We sit as far away from each other as the couch allows. Mom drops her bag on the dining table and pulls out a chair. “What is this about?”
“Jodie decided to ruin my life,” I say.
Jodie’s voice is stronger than mine. “I set up a crowdfunding page. She’s already getting all of this attention. We might as well use it. We made six thousand already!”
Mom’s lip twitches. “Six thousand? Dollars?”
“Yes! And the number keeps growing!”
“Mom!” I say, raising my voice to drown out Jodie’s. “She’s even worse than the media!”
Mom shakes her head. “What do these people think they’re paying for?”
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