by Marni Bates
I had a feeling that two minutes with Melanie would have him reconsidering that policy.
“Sorry to bail so early, but I’ve got to head home.” Melanie waited for Corey’s back to be turned before she mouthed, “Good luck!”
Then, with a quick little wave, she skirted the pile of clothes that had now taken up residence in front of the door and vanished.
She was too nice for me to even resent her properly.
So instead I focused on obeying all of Corey’s commands, with the end result that I eventually collapsed on my bed, the slightly freaked-out owner of an entirely new wardrobe from Kenzie’s designer castoffs. Kenzie kept insisting that she wanted to get rid of the stuff, but I couldn’t help imagining the price tag attached to each Valentino dress and BCBG blouse.
It was only when Isobel found a pair of funky gladiator sandals for herself that I started to get into the whole makeover thing. I didn’t even try to roll my eyes when Corey insisted we cover up all evidence of my fight with pounds of makeup. Not even when he pulled out the stuff my mom had purchased as my birthday present in the hope that I would become more feminine like Elle. The old photos of my mom rocking a cheerleader uniform paint a very clear picture: Like mother, like . . . one of her daughters.
Corey finished applying my eye shadow before he handed over the tube of sealed mascara.
“I’m amazed you’ve never touched this stuff. Your mom has a real eye for makeup.”
Nodding seemed dangerous, given how easy it was for me to jab myself in the eye with the wand. “Um . . . reality check? It’s not like we go clubbing on the weekends.”
Isobel waggled her toes in her new shoes. “Just because you don’t go to clubs doesn’t mean you can’t wear makeup.”
“Well, yeah,” I agreed. “I guess. It just doesn’t seem like me.”
Corey rolled his eyes. “That’s because you give a whole new meaning to the term ‘wallflower.’ ”
Okay, that sort of stung.
“She punched Alex Thompson today,” Isobel pointed out. “Not that I’m thrilled about what happened, but . . .”
“She held her own,” Kenzie finished when Isobel trailed off. “Logan said he was impressed by some of your punches. I warned him that you’ve also got a mean right hook.”
I grinned and decided not to comment on her abrupt change of attitude from this afternoon. Maybe she had just needed a few hours to cool down.
“And if you show up tomorrow in one of these outfits, your social standing is going to skyrocket,” Corey enthused. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re hobnobbing with the Notables.”
I snorted. “Hobnobbing? Yeah, right. Chelsea Halloway and I are going to become lunch buddies. Get real.”
“Well, my work here is done.” He flapped a hand in the direction of the mirror. “Go admire yourself some more.”
It was strange feeling like I was at the part in a movie when the camera zooms in to capture the expression that says it all: a mixture of doe-eyed innocence, confusion, amazement, and nerves on the plucky heroine’s face. That’s kind of how I looked—a little panicky, but pretty nonetheless. And “pretty” is not a word that ever gets applied to me. Unless I put a lot of work into it and hit “cute,” I usually land squarely in the “all right” category.
But the girl staring back at me in the mirror looked more like the leading lady instead of the trusty sidekick.
One thing was obvious: I wasn’t going to be Invisible anymore.
Chapter 9
I was careful to follow Corey’s instructions the next morning.
Well, most of them.
I put on the dark gray jeans with the pebbled silk blouse, then added a chunky necklace because despite what Corey thought I wanted to display a little less cleavage. I applied makeup until my bruise was barely visible. My goal was to become virtually unrecognizable. I wanted to fool myself into feeling like a top-secret spy poised to break into an underground vault, crack a high-level security system, and gain access to nuclear launch codes.
All of which sounded less stressful than walking through the doors of my high school.
“Jane?” My mom stared at me when I entered the kitchen like I’d been replaced by a Jane Smith from a parallel universe.
“Yeah?”
My outfit clearly had her flustered. “I, well. You look . . . oh, sweetie. You look nice.” Then her eyes started watering. “Very nice.”
Oh no.
“My little girl is all grown up,” she snuffled. “Do you have your camera, Janie? We should take pictures.”
“No, it’s, uh . . . not charged, Mom,” I lied without guilt. She was acting like it was my first day of high school all over again. If I’d known that she would make such a big deal out of it I would’ve done my primping at school.
“Morning, ladies.” Then my dad saw me and pulled up short. “You’re not going to school like that, are you?” he demanded, jerking his gaze from me to my mom, then back to me again. “She’s not going to school like that, right?”
I grabbed my frozen waffles from the toaster and decided to leave before my mom started sobbing, my dad ordered me to change, or Elle commented on my new look.
“Here—” He pulled off his sweatshirt and handed it to me. “All yours. Keep it. Wear it. Enjoy.”
“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later, Dad.”
On impulse I pulled him into a hug. I don’t know which one of us it was supposed to reassure, but I left him blinking in confusion while my mom continued to sniffle. All I wanted was to sprint back upstairs, tug on my discarded pajamas, and sink beneath my covers. I couldn’t let go of my dad’s sweatshirt. It was like being handed a stuffed animal before going to sleepover camp for the first time. I knew it was weak, but I just couldn’t resist taking it with me. On impulse, I zipped up the sweatshirt so that it entirely concealed my upper body. Cleavage issue resolved. I felt guilty for chickening out—but not guilty enough to unzip.
Especially when I climbed onto the bus only to be met with open-mouthed staring. The news of my fight with Alex Thompson must have spread like wildfire. Either that, or everyone around me had witnessed the whole thing firsthand in the cafeteria. I wondered how the story was being relayed. I definitely preferred to be known as the totally awesome girl who punched the jerk from the football team versus the freaky girl who randomly went berserk in front of everyone.
All the attention made me appreciate Corey’s meddling the night before—I couldn’t have hidden my bruises otherwise. The rest of his style upgrade . . . well, I’d just keep that under wraps until I felt a little more confident.
In the meantime, I tried to distract myself with another fictional death, since Isobel was nowhere to be seen.
Jane Smith lived a very boring life . . . until she accidentally incited a fight. That’s when people began to take notice. Only instead of swaggering the hallways, Jane skulked in the shadows and sprinted behind corners. Yet hundreds of pairs of prying eyes followed her everywhere. Fully freaked out, Jane misguidedly sought a hiding place by crawling into an air duct.
She died from starvation when she was unable to squirm out.
Hmm . . . death by air duct lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. Maybe—
“Smith!” Mr. Elliot roared, interrupting all thoughts of fictional deaths the second I walked into class. As he stormed toward me, everyone nearby shrank away. “What the hell were you thinking?”
I knew Mr. Elliot wasn’t going to lower his voice. He didn’t care if the entire school heard him blast me. I just hoped he would segue into one of his motivational you need to show more leadership rants instead of anything more personal.
No such luck.
“Fighting with a football player! You better have a damn good explanation. And don’t you dare say this has anything to do with your story! The Smithsonian does not condone this kind of behavior!”
My mouth gaped open. I knew word must have spread among the students, but I kind of expected the faculty mem
bers to be too insulated due to their budget-cut drama to pay any attention to it.
“How did you hear about that?”
He looked at me with disgust. “Word travels when you attack someone, Smith.”
“I didn’t just spontaneously attack him!” I protested.
“You mean you planned it?”
“Of course not!”
Mr. Elliot’s scowl never lessened. “Did he punch you first?”
“Well . . . no. I was, uh, taking initiative?”
I trailed off as Mr. Elliot began a deep-breathing exercise that sounded rather like the snorting of an outraged bull.
“Why did it happen, Smith?”
I weighed my words carefully. “Irreconcilable differences? It was . . . personal. Although I could type some—”
He slammed his hand down on a nearby table. “You are not writing about that for my newspaper!”
“Are you sure? Because I thought maybe if I—”
“Fraser!” he bellowed, cutting me off. “Get over here!”
I closed my eyes briefly. This isn’t happening, I told myself. This. Can’t. Be. Happening.
Scott glanced up, then walked over without looking even slightly cowed. It was like he hadn’t noticed Mr. Elliot was practically foaming at the mouth.
“Congratulations, Fraser. Due to Smith’s utter stupidity, you now get to consult on her piece.”
“What?” I gasped. “Mr. Elliot, I can handle this!”
But he just ignored me and continued speaking to Scott.
“You want to show me what you can do, Fraser? Go for it. From here on out, I give you complete authority to shape this story.”
“But this is my story!” I protested weakly. It was my chance to prove that I could be more than Grammar Girl or Mackenzie Wellesley’s little friend.
Mr. Elliot turned to me. “You should’ve thought about that earlier! Just be grateful I’m not making you cover the football team for the sports section, Smith.”
I hate the whole girls don’t like sports stereotype. Plenty of girls are die-hard sports fanatics who would absolutely love to get that assignment. Then again, plenty of girls also hadn’t been on the receiving end of a football player’s fist.
“I’m fine with sports,” I blurted out. “I’m happy to interview Logan Beckett about the hockey team. It’ll be a hard-hitting piece. Just . . . please don’t put Scott in charge.”
Scott leaned back against a desk, as if he were perfectly content to just enjoy the show. Even though he had to realize that it would force us to work together even more closely.
“Not going to happen, Smith,” Mr. Elliot told me coolly. “Consider this your punishment for making the school principal ask if I was encouraging my students’ violent behavior!”
Okay, I could see why he’d be mad . . . not that he ever needed an excuse to yell.
“Look, I’m really sorry about that, Mr. Elliot. But please, you can’t—”
The flash of a camera momentarily rendered me speechless. I blinked a few times to clear the blotches of color from my vision while Scott proceeded to snap another shot.
“Say cheese.”
“Mr. Elliot, please don’t do this to—”
He didn’t even give me a chance to beg. “The two of you better make an excellent team.”
Then he marched off to lecture someone else, leaving me alone in my own personal worst nightmare. Scott lowered his camera, revealing a Grinch-like smirk.
“Well, this is an interesting development, partner.”
Chapter 10
“We are not partners.”
“You’re right,” Scott said, shocking me with his sudden acquiescence. “As the consultant, I’m really more of a boss than a partner.”
Oh no.
“You are not my boss!”
“Sure I am. Although I’d be happy to call Mr. Elliot over if he wasn’t specific enough for you.”
The thought of Mr. Elliot yelling at me in front of everyone again had my stomach flipping in tight little somersaults. “That’s okay.”
His grin widened, and I knew right then that Scott Fraser had to be the devil. He must have had one hell of a time hiding the triple sixes on his forehead.
“Excellent. So let’s talk story concepts then.”
“Why are you doing this?” I demanded. “You had no interest in my story yesterday. One fight and suddenly you’re a team player. What’s that about?”
He straightened. “I’m here for the photographs. End of story. Which is why, whether you like it or not, I’m taking charge.”
“Oh yeah?” I challenged. “You and what army?”
A pretty lame retort, but it’s not easy whipping out snappy comebacks when an athletic-looking, overcontrolling jerk informs you that he’s in charge. I struggled against the urge to smack that smug look right off Scott’s face. Not that I would. Cafeteria incident aside, I’ve never hit anyone in my life.
Well, unless you count wrestling with Elle for the TV remote.
“Somehow I doubt I’ll need my friends in the SEAL teams to get your cooperation.”
He didn’t look like he was kidding, but that didn’t mean I was about to back down.
“Look, Scott, I have way too much at stake here to blindly follow orders.”
He ignored me. “The paper comes out on Tuesday, so your article needs to be ready by Monday at the absolute latest. That’s a tight deadline to meet even for people who know what they’re doing. And my photos will make your story look like amateur hour if you don’t follow my lead.”
My back stiffened at “amateur hour.” Okay, so I didn’t crank out front-page articles like Lisa Anne. . . . That didn’t mean my work sucked. In fact, the only reason The Smithsonian wasn’t riddled with errors was because the articles crossed my desk for proofing first.
But my name wasn’t on the byline, so nobody cared.
“Listen, Your Royal Snobbiness, my article will be just fine!” I snapped.
Scott smiled, but there was nothing comforting about the expression. He looked like a sleek black panther who knew he was stalking an injured sloth.
“I’m going to make sure of it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Look, I’ve got it under control. I can’t write about the fight, so I’ll . . . ”—I scanned the classroom for flyers—“go to the drama club meeting at lunch.”
Scott didn’t appear impressed with that bit of quick thinking. “That’ll make a thrilling story. I can see my cover shot now. ‘Grammar Girl: A Portrait of Mundanity.’ ”
“I am not mundane!”
“You’re so dedicated to your stupid routines that you’ve practically got a schedule stapled to your forehead,” he scoffed.
“Fine, what do you recommend? Let’s hear those oh-so-brilliant ideas of yours.”
“Try something new.” He leaned closer and the dark intensity in his eyes was kind of . . . attractive.
What was wrong with me?
“Try something your friends haven’t already pre-screened and selected for you.”
I took a step back, hoping that some distance from him might help clear my head. “So what you’re saying is that instead of listening to my friends, who have yet to steer me wrong, I should trust you? Gee, why didn’t I think of doing that sooner?”
He shot me a pointed look. “You won’t get a good story if your friends are always coddling you.”
“Excuse me, if they’re always what?”
“Oh come on, even you must have noticed it. ‘Oh no, our dear little Jane is in trouble! We must save her!’ ” Scott clasped his hands together while his mouth curled in disgust.
“They aren’t like that!”
“Sure they are.”
I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove this evaluation of my life—but I held myself in check. It didn’t matter what he thought of me. All I had to do was write one freaking story . . . and hope that was enough to redeem me from the journalism doghouse.
“Since you
’re my consultant, I will consider all of your specific recommendations,” I said loftily. “But kindly keep your opinion of my personal life to yourself.”
Scott grinned. “I don’t think I will. You forget: I call the shots now. If you’ve got a problem with that, take it up with Mr. Elliot.”
“That’s coercion!”
His smile only deepened. “That’s journalism.”
“I will hold you in contempt for this.”
Scott’s beat-up leather jacket barely moved as he shrugged. “I’ll live. So drama club at lunch and then what I want after school.”
“I can’t do that,” I told him, relieved that I didn’t even have to make up a lie to avoid him. “I work after school on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. That’s non-negotiable.”
He nodded. “Okay. Where do you work?”
I looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Fiction Addiction Used Bookstore.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah, I do, actually.” Just thinking about the store got me smiling. “I still can’t believe I got the job.”
I braced myself for him to say something snarky like, Yeah, I have no idea why anyone would want to hire you!
But he didn’t.
Instead, he smiled back and it struck me that for the first time since I’d overheard him talking about me with Lisa Anne, we were actually having something that resembled a nice conversation.
“Were there a lot of applicants or something?”
“Not to my knowledge. But my boss is very . . . particular about how her store is run. She won’t accept any books with boring covers. She says that it’s her store, and she can judge them however she wants.”
“Sounds like an unusual woman.”
I laughed. “Oh, she’s that for sure.”
“Good. If I’m forced to go somewhere I always prefer there to be interesting people around.”
I stared at him in outrage. “You’re kidding me. You started that conversation so you could stalk me at work? Was that supposed to be some kind of charm offensive or something?”