How can I tell her the truth? How can I tell her I can’t bear to see Konrad in the hallways? That if I do, the shame of what I’ve done to him will only eat me up? “I’ll wake up earlier,” I say. “Take the bus. It’s not going to cause you any extra trouble, I promise.”
“But why now?”
“Now’s the time.”
Her face goes stern. It’s the same expression she puts on when she’s dealing with stubborn patients. “Tell me what happened at the dance.”
“I told you already,” I say. “I met up with Konrad, we danced, and then there was that awful thing with Ashley and Tom.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. What did Konrad do?”
A lump forms in my throat and I start breathing faster. I have to stop pretending. If I want things to change, I’m going to have to be honest with everyone. Including myself.
“Nothing,” I say, my voice cracking. “He was perfect.”
Mom shakes her head. She has no idea why I’m acting like this. Or maybe she knows exactly why. Either way, she doesn’t say anything. She just stretches out her arm. “Come here.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Come here,” she orders again.
The affection in her voice makes me stand up. I shuffle over and fall onto the couch beside her. Her arm wraps around me. She pulls me in, tucking me against her shoulder. The moment she rests her chin on the top of my head, I break down.
I let out a tiny sob. It leads to another, slightly bigger, one. And another. Like a trapdoor opening up within me, the sobs keep coming and coming until I’m crying. Really, truly crying.
As my mom holds me, I don’t push the tears back in like I always do. I let them pour out and out and out. They feel like sickness leaving my body.
“Let it out,” Mom says into my hair as her hand slides up and down my back. Her shaky voice tells me she’s crying, too. “Let it all out.”
And so I do.
Minutes later, or maybe even hours, after I’m drained, Mom releases me and holds my face in her hands. “What you went through—what you’re going through—it’s not fair. I hate myself for not being able to do anything about it.”
“It’s not your fault,” I whisper.
She stares me in the eyes. “Looks aren’t everything.”
“I know,” I say. “They’re not even close to being everything. There are so many other, bigger problems to worry about.”
Mom’s lips lift at the edges. “You’ve grown into such a smart young woman, Camilla. I’m so, so proud of you,” she says. “And I know your dad would be proud of you, too.” I try to blink away the blur, but the tears keep coming again. “I want you to be happy,” she goes on, “and if you think changing schools will do that, then I’m on board.”
I think about Konrad. I may not be able to fix what I did, but I do want to turn things around. I do want to become a better person. And I do want to give myself another chance to love, and, maybe even someday, be loved by someone again.
What better way to do that than by giving myself a clean slate?
CHAPTER 29
KONRAD
HALLOWEEN FALLS ON A WEDNESDAY.
Usually, I’m a fan of the holiday—jack-o’-lanterns and horror flicks, climbing over cemetery fences on midnight dares from Lauren, the general silliness in the air. Usually, it’s great.
But this year, I barely register the witch hats and cat ears parading the hallways at school. The whole vibe is lost on me, like I’m on one wavelength and all the Halloween stuff is happening on another.
I didn’t even bother dressing up. I’ve done enough of that for Spirit Week. Besides, you might say I’ve been wearing a costume for over a month now, and I’ll have to keep wearing the same one for the rest of my life.
What I do register, though—what’s been dominating my thoughts—is the fact that Camilla hasn’t shown up to school since the dance.
I know. She hurt me. Embarrassed me. Used me. I get it. But I can’t help flicking my eyes around the halls searching for her anyway, my chest prickling with anticipation of the moment when I see her and she sees me. What will her eyes convey? What will mine?
But as hard as I search, I don’t see her anywhere.
Eventually, though, before lunch, I do spot something that makes my stomach lurch.
Jodie Mathews and Ashley Solomon. Talking to Lauren.
“What?” Alan says, stopping a second after I do.
Jodie’s the only one of the three in costume. She’s wearing high heels, leggings, and a leather jacket—all in black. Her hair is hidden from view under a purple headscarf that drapes down her chest, and her lips are smeared in deep-red lipstick. I have no idea who she’s supposed to be, but I have more pressing questions I need answers to.
“What is Lauren saying to them?” I ask.
“I’m going to the library,” Jackie Baker says. She gives Alan a shy peck on the cheek.
“Bye, Jackie,” I mumble, my eyes attached to the trio up ahead. Jodie looks my way and gives me a weak smile. My heart starts pounding.
“You’re being weird and creepy,” Alan whispers, but he drags me to the side, out of the way of hallway traffic, and waits with me. After what feels like hours, Lauren finally raises a hand at Camilla’s friends and shuffles over to Alan and me.
“What’s up, geeks?” she says nonchalantly, her hands tucked in the back pockets of her holed-up jeans, as if having little chats with Ashley and Jodie is totally normal for her.
“What were you guys talking about?” I demand.
“Who?” Lauren asks. I glare at her. She purses her lips into a sad smile and sighs. “Camilla’s transferring.”
My chest compresses so suddenly it hurts.
Lauren’s hands leave her pockets. She performs a dramatic display of cracking her knuckles. “I kind of feel like quinoa salad today. Let’s drive up to that spot near the mall.”
“Which school?” I ask, annoyed.
She watches me for a moment, lips twisting from one side to the other. “Roosevelt.”
“Oh,” Alan blurts. “That’s not too bad! That’s only like fifteen minutes away.”
It is, but it might as well be a different continent.
I keep staring at Lauren. “Is she all right?”
Lauren shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” She bares her teeth. “Who’s with me? Yes or no to the quinoa salad?”
“What else did they say?”
“Well, Jodie’s supposed to be Grace Jones. You know, the legendary singer and supermodel? Studio 54? Pretty cool, eh?”
Shaking my head in disappointment, I turn away.
“Quinoa salad?”
“You guys go ahead,” I say. “I brought my lunch today, anyway.”
Lauren snaps her fingers. “Dang. Okay, let’s just eat in the cafeteria then.”
“Nah, you guys go. I’m going to eat in the library.”
A scowl forms on Lauren’s face. “Depressing much?”
“It’s … fine.”
“You sure?” Alan asks.
But I’m already walking away. “See you guys later.”
In the library, I zigzag through the aisles, so I can avoid Jackie or anybody else I may know. I want to be alone, so I’m happy to spot an isolated table all the way in the back. Flopping in the chair, I unwrap my sandwich and stare at the giant pork cutlet jammed between two sourdough slices. After a minute, I wrap it back up.
My face falls into the nook of my elbow. I keep it there until the chair across from mine scratches the carpet and the table wobbles.
When I lift my head, I’m sitting face-to-face with a doctor. No, not just any doctor, I realize. A brain surgeon.
“Hey,” Becca says, pulling down her surgical mask with a gloved hand.
I take in her hospital cap and the boxy green scrubs. This is the last person I expected to see right now. And in the library? At lunch? Isn’t this the time when Becca Lipowska usually reigns over her minions? I ha
ve to give it to her, though. This is the least revealing thing I’ve ever seen her wear, and yet I’ve never been more fascinated.
“I like your costume,” I say, because holding grudges, I’ve learned, is a pointless waste of time.
“Thanks.” Her cheeks redden just a bit.
I lift my brows. “So … what’s up?”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, okay?”
The words take me by surprise, but I nod and drop my gaze to the table. “Me, too.”
She chuckles, and I look back up at her. Becca’s eyes are aimed down at her hands. Her head is shaking. “I’m shallow as fuck,” she says.
I shift in my seat. She has a valid point, but it doesn’t feel right to agree with her at the moment. “You’re not.”
“No, it’s true. I basically used you.”
I take a deep breath of my own. “I used you, too, Becca.”
She nods, but doesn’t seem concerned by my admission. “You’re the only guy who’s ever rejected me.”
I snort. “Well, you don’t always get what you want, I guess.”
“What happened, it didn’t make any logical sense to me.”
I look her in the eyes. “You can’t apply logic to everything.”
“I know.”
For a minute, we sit in silence.
“Funny thing,” she says. “After I got to spend more time with you, I actually started to like you. And then you broke up with me, and right before homecoming, too. That’s why I acted like a bitch. I think that’s my natural defense mechanism.”
I chuckle, uncomfortably. “Yeah …”
“Anyway,” she says, “I hope we can still be friends.”
I don’t think I’ve ever liked Becca as much as I do right now. “I don’t see why not.”
She nods and looks down at her hands again, but her shoulders relax a little.
“How’s Tom?” I ask.
“I broke up with him. I don’t like him that way. I’ve decided to try a different approach to relationships. Like a guy first before trying to date him.”
I chuckle again. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Plus,” she says, “Tom’s an asshole. I’m sure you heard about what he tried to do to Ashley Solomon at the dance.” I nod. “I’m going to apologize to her, too.”
“Hmm, yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”
Becca’s eyeing my sandwich. “Can I have some of that?”
I slide it toward her. She takes a tiny bite. I watch her chew.
Through the bread in her mouth, she asks, “So you really liked Camilla Hadi, huh?”
My chest tightens. I focus on a nearby bookshelf. “Yeah.”
“Well,” Becca mumbles, “I think she’s an idiot for turning you down like that, then.”
I cringe. “Thanks.”
“And I don’t just mean because you’re the hottest guy at school.”
I try to catch her gaze, but she’s too busy pretending Mom’s sandwich is the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted. I smile anyway. “Can I have my lunch back now?”
Becca sighs dramatically before handing the sandwich back to me. She stands up, giving me a better view of her well-pressed green scrubs. “Happy Halloween, Konrad.”
“Happy Halloween, Becca.”
CHAPTER 30
CAMILLA
THE CROWDFUNDING MONEY IS OFFICIALLY in the hands of the charity.
I wrote a message and posted it on the site. This is what it said:
To everyone who contributed to this campaign, thank you. Your act of kindness means a lot. I’m writing this to let you know that I have donated the entire amount to Direct Relief, a nonprofit organization that provides medical aid to those who need it.
Yes, my Inexplicable Development had an unwanted effect on my physical appearance. But I’m also still healthy, still surrounded by people who love me, and still able to do all the things I was able to do before. There are so many people out there who are much less fortunate.
I’m not saying looks are not important or that they don’t affect lives because that would be a lie. But I am saying that if you pay too much attention to them—to this one small part among so many others (SO MANY!) that make you who you are—you might become blind to other things that matter much, much more. And you might not even realize it until it’s too late. At least that’s what happened to me. I hope you don’t make the same mistake.
Yours Truly,
Camilla Z. Hadi
P.S. Jodie, I love you. XOXO.
Reading all the (mostly positive) comments people have left since the message went up has served as a welcome distraction from thinking about Konrad. I try not to, but I keep replaying every interaction I’ve ever had with him and stalking him on social media—which is totally pointless anyway because he hasn’t posted anything in a long while.
I guess this is another thing that only time will help me with. It’s only been about two weeks after all.
Today, it’s Saturday, and Ashley, Jodie, and I are going to Six Flags to celebrate. Yes, celebrate. We haven’t exactly defined what it is we’re celebrating, but we don’t have to. It’s a combination of things: our friendship, my philanthropic moment, new beginnings.
As expected, Ashley is right on time. Her incessant honking tells me she’s in a good mood. I lock the front door behind me, yank at the doorknob three times to make sure it’s really locked, and then glide down the front steps.
The weather could definitely be better, but that hasn’t stopped Ashley and Jodie from wearing giant pairs of sunglasses, too. I point to mine (well, Jodie’s, technically), they point to theirs, and by the time I slam the car door, we’re laughing our asses off.
“Road trip!” Jodie yells. I voice my approval with a loud, “Yay!”
It rains for the first twenty minutes of the ride, but eventually the sun peeks out from behind the clouds. The three of us sing along with the radio. We interrogate Jodie about her bowling date with Joe Park. (“Bowling, Jodie? What are you, five?”) I make sure no one’s been talking shit to Ashley, and I restate my promise to help her kick anyone’s ass again if there’s a need. We laugh and laugh and laugh. I haven’t felt this at ease in a long time.
But there’s one thing we don’t do, even though the urge sits on my chest the entire time, like a trapped bunny ready to leap out.
We don’t talk about Konrad.
“You’re so getting on the drop tower with us, Jodie,” I say.
Jodie purses her red lips and shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”
Hanging on the back of her seat, I poke my finger into her armpit to tickle her. “You owe me, remember? For saying that I need plastic surgery?”
She recoils, then turns to face the back seat. “Uh, no. You owe me, sweetheart. Where do you think you got the money to turn into Mother Teresa? And I never said you need plastic surgery. I’m not apologizing for bringing it up. It’s a totally viable option. As long as a person is doing it for themselves, if it boosts their self-esteem, then nip and tuck away, baby.”
“Touché,” Ashley says from behind the wheel. She gives Jodie a high five.
“Stop calling me sweetheart,” I mumble, but I smile anyway. “And I know that plastic surgery is okay. I might even consider it down the line. But I don’t think now is the right time. Besides, you need a parent’s permission and all that if you’re a minor.”
“Oh!” Jodie exclaims, accusingly. “So you did look into it.”
I wink at her. “Maybe just a little.”
Six Flags is full of loud children and even louder roller coasters. The lines are long but the rides are totally worth it. Not to mention the lines are prime locations for people watching.
Through our sunglasses, we check out all the guys, claiming the cuties and making fun of the douchebags. On the way to the third ride—the one where your legs hang loose in the air, which took some convincing to get Jodie to go on—Ashley grabs me by one elbow, Jodie by the other, and they pull me into a little
courtyard.
“Pretzels!” Ashley announces.
“You get pretzels and I’ll do smoothies,” Jodie orders, unusually enthusiastic about carbs. “Camilla, you go find a good spot to sit.”
“Got it,” I say, slightly bewildered by the random turn of events. I shuffle over to a stone ledge enclosing a little batch of dirt where flowers grow during warmer times and sit down.
The girls return a few minutes later. I attack my pretzel, eager for the next ride’s promise of thrills and flushed cheeks. Unfortunately, neither Ashley nor Jodie seem to share my enthusiasm. Jodie’s on her phone and Ashley’s nibbling on her pretzel, scanning the crowd.
“Hurry up,” I tell them. “Jodie, stop texting Joe Park!”
Jodie looks up from her screen and exchanges a look with Ashley. She gives her a weird nod and turns to me. “Oh my God,” she says. “You won’t believe what he just sent me.”
“Who?” I ask, blushing. “Joe?” I never thought about Joe Park that way, but now that she says it like that, I’m kind of curious.
“It’s pretty graphic,” Jodie warns. “Are you sure you want to see it?”
I shrug and glance at Ashley, but Ashley appears totally uninterested. Her eyes are still checking out the crowd like she’s desperate to find a cute boy of her own. Jodie scoots closer, cradling her phone like it contains a CIA secret.
“So?” Jodie asks, pinning me down with her gaze. “Do you want to see?”
“Not really,” I lie, but aim my eyes on her phone and wait.
“Come closer and hide the screen,” she says. I huddle in, even though nobody’s close enough to see it, anyway.
“Okay, you ready?”
I roll my eyes. “Jodie, I’ve seen a dick before.”
Jodie’s mouth pops open. She leans away from me. “Really? Whose?”
I glare at her. “Whatever,” I say, wiggling my butt away on the stone.
And right then, across the courtyard, standing with a churro frozen on the way to his mouth, I see him.
Heat explodes in my face. The world around me goes silent.
At first, I’m overwhelmed with relief. I resigned myself to never seeing him again. Not in person, at least. And here he is.
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