by Marni Bates
“I want to hate her. I really want to hate her because she makes me feel so lame. But she’s right: I am lame.” I threw up my hands in disgust. “Do you know how pathetic I was before YouTube? I couldn’t say no to anyone. ‘Hey, Mackenzie, can you look over this essay?’ ‘Sure, no problem.’ ‘Great! We’ll pretend you don’t exist starting ... now.’ ” I sighed. “I had a crush on Patrick for four years. FOUR YEARS. And it took me until now to realize the guy I like doesn’t exist.” I fumbled for my seat belt. “I don’t feel so good.” Logan got me out of his car and facing the bushes in record time, which is where my body tried to dump all the salt, tequila, and lime.
“I’m sorry,” I said before a fresh wave of nausea doubled me over again. I still felt detached from my body, like it was some other girl spilling her guts. Someone else hurling up her bad decision into the bushes—some less intelligent girl.
“It’s okay, Mack.” He held back my hair. “You’re going to be fine.” My legs were wobbly from exhaustion, and all I wanted was to sleep until the world righted itself again.
“You’re really nice.”
“Yeah,” said Logan. “You mentioned that.”
“I still don’t feel good.” I rested my head against his jacket and tried to absorb the warmth.
“We just need to get you hydrated. Get some electrolytes in you.” He halfcarried me to the door. “Some Gatorade, water ... maybe some food. You’ll be fine. Just be quiet, my parents are sleeping.” He unlocked and opened the door while I leaned against his house. Then he pulled me into the kitchen that had become so warmly familiar. I sat on one of the bar stools at the counter and watched him fill a glass of water. He handed it to me before he opened the refrigerator to examine its contents.
I took a sip. “Why’d you date her?”
“A few reasons. Drink.”
“Beyond her looks,” I added before I obediently focused on the water.
“Let’s save this conversation for another time.” He found the Gatorade, uncapped a bottle, and handed it to me. “Finish the water and then drink this.” “No,” I said forcefully. “Tomorrow I’ll feel guilty about prying. Tell me now.” I looked suspiciously at the Gatorade. “If you want me to drink blue stuff, you owe me.” He laughed. “I owe you. Right.” He sat down next to me though. “Okay. Well, I met Chelsea my first day of middle school. She walked right up to me and introduced herself. One second I was memorizing my locker combination and the next this gorgeous girl is talking to me. Drink.” I took another gulp.
“Chelsea always goes for what she wants, and she’s not stupid. She might not be a merit scholar, but she knows how to make a situation work for her. Drink the Gatorade.” He got up to refill my water while I tentatively sipped the bright blue liquid in front of me. I didn’t feel any better, but I didn’t mention it.
“So why’d the two of you break up? It sounds like you had something.” I pressed my forehead against the cool granite surface of his countertop.
“Not enough common ground, I guess. Chelsea likes to be in the center of everything. So we started going to parties together, and at first she was cool with me being on drunk duty and helping out the designated driver. Then she got sick of me spending all my time with people who were puking. I don’t blame her. She was bored, annoyed, and lonely—and I didn’t know how to fix any of that. So when she met Jake she promptly broke up with me.” He looked contemplative for a second. “They seemed good together, so I’m surprised they didn’t try to do the whole long-distance thing. Then again, Chelsea likes to have options.” “Was it a bad breakup?”
“Could’ve been worse. Of course, it could’ve been a lot better too. It’s not exactly fun to hear that your girlfriend has been seeing someone else—the day after the seventh-grade dance.” He shrugged and placed the water refill behind the Gatorade. “The more you drink now the better you’ll feel tomorrow.” “Okay. The world is still spinning.” I shut my eyes tightly before I opened them again. “I don’t know why you’re telling me all this.” “You asked ... and now I get to ask you questions.”
I made an expansive gesture that nearly knocked over my water. “I’m an open book.” “I’m dyslexic.”
I laughed. “Ask away, then.”
“Why did you really say no to Patrick tonight?”
“A bunch of reasons.”
“Such as ...”
“I kept writing his lines.”
Logan gave me an exasperated look. “What does that mean?”
“In my head. I kept coming up with all these things for him to do or say or think. It was like ... It was like if I could just believe hard enough he’d be what I was looking for. And I just, well, I want ...” I drifted off as my head went fuzzy.
“Yes ...” he prompted.
“More,” I decided. “I don’t want to write his lines! I want to be surprised and challenged and ... pushed to be more than just Mackenzie Wellesley, Queen of Awkward. And I never want to be a placeholder. Patrick would’ve dumped me as soon as the popularity wore off. I didn’t want to see it, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Not that I would expect forever, we’re in high school, but when he said he loved me, I could see the end like it was in high def. I’d be on the cafeteria floor, just like when Alex Thompson shoved me, and Patrick would stand over me and say, ‘We’re over, Mackenzie. ’ Then while I stuttered he’d finish me off. Something like, ‘If you bought that load of crap, you must not be as smart as people think.’ ” I took another gulp. “Sorry, what was the question again?” “You just answered it.”
“Okay. That’s good.” I felt my stomach churn. “I think I’m going to be sick again.” Logan pulled me to the bathroom. He kept saying stuff like, “You’re going to be fine,” as all the Gatorade turned his toilet blue. And when I sank against the wall between the toilet and the sink, he retrieved the water from the kitchen.
“You need to stay hydrated,” he told me when I only used it to rinse my mouth before spitting it out. “You’re going to have a wicked hangover tomorrow.” I shrugged. “It was worth it.”
“I doubt it.”
“No, really,” I insisted. “I thought it would smell bad and taste worse.” I wrinkled my nose. “I still don’t like the way it smells ... but the warmth is great. And now I know what it’s like.” My voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “That’s always the worst: the not knowing. Because then you’re stuck with a hundred questions no one can answer.” “Well, tomorrow you’ll know all about hangovers.”
I couldn’t help grinning. “You’re funny.”
“You’re a mess.” He hauled me to my feet. “And I need to use your cell phone.” “Why do you need that? Wait! Should I be drunk-dialing? That’s part of the experience, isn’t it?” I launched myself at the clutch that was still sitting on the kitchen counter. “This is so exciting. Okay, who do I call ... or should I text?” In one deft move, Logan had my cell phone. “You are not calling anyone right now. You are going to drink more Gatorade while I tell your brother that you’re crashing here for the night. Now, drink.” “This looks way more exciting in the movies.”
“That’s Hollywood for you. Hey, Dylan—no, she’s fine.” I pried off my shoes and giggled as they clattered to the floor. “She’s still drunk and puking, but she’s going to be fine. I’m going to have her crash here. Why don’t you tell your mom she had a surprise sleepover or something.” There was a long pause, then, “Okay. Yeah.” “Logan,” I hissed. “Psst! Logan!” He looked up and irritation shone through. “What?”
“Tell Dylan he’s the best. Dylan, you’re the best!” I called in the general direction of the cell phone.
“She says you’re the best,” he repeated, probably just to shut me up. “Okay. I’ll tell her. Yeah. Thanks, man.” “Well,” I said when he snapped it closed, “what’d he say?”
“That you should warn him the next time you want to destroy your liver. He’s a good kid.” “He’s the best.” I tucked the phone back in my clutch. “I—wow, dizz
y.” I relaxed my head against his shoulder. “Can I sleep now?” Logan moved my arm so that it draped over his shoulder and held me firmly around the waist. You’d think since I was drunk, had just thrown up, and was crazy sleep deprived, I wouldn’t have felt anything at the touch. But I did. I just didn’t have the energy to puzzle out what exactly I was feeling.
Logan grabbed a salad bowl before he led me out of the kitchen.
“Where are we going?” I mumbled near the hollow of his neck. “I don’t want to move anymore. I just want to sleep.” “That’s why we’re going to bed.”
I think at that point I was so exhausted he could have said, “That’s why I intend to ravish you until morning,” and I wouldn’t have blinked.
Alcohol and me ... not such a good combination.
Chapter 30
Logan Beckett did not try to take advantage of me. He loaned me a pair of sweatpants and a shirt and left his bedroom until I finished changing. He even stepped out again when I noticed my sleeping shirt was on backward. Although maybe he shouldn’t have done that, since I took advantage of his absence. I crawled right into his bed and was nearly comatose when he knocked on the door to check on my progress.
“Come in,” I mumbled. “Oh, hi. You have a very nice bed. I like it.”
“So glad you approve. Now get out and I’ll show you the guest room.”
I clutched his pillow even tighter. “No way.”
He sighed and placed the salad bowl next to the bed. “Fine. If you feel queasy, use this.” He prowled around his room until he located a water bottle and placed it next to the bowl. “You should keep drinking. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“What?” I demanded. “Where are you going?”
“To the guest room.”
“But,” I slurred, “you can’t do that. You have to stay here and make sure I don’t die.”
“I really doubt that’s going to happen.”
“It feels like it could.” It did. I felt like I’d come down with something awful, like scurvy or malaria. I patted the bed next to me until he hesitantly sat down. “It’ll be like a sleepover with Corey.”
“Yeah. Only I’m not gay.”
“But see, it’s still fine since you don’t like me like that. And you’re not going to kiss me. You probably could. It might even be nice. But you won’t.” I pulled him so he was lying down on top of the covers. He landed close enough to make kissing possible. “Tell me a secret.”
“Do you ever shut up and sleep?”
“Nope. And I’m bossy. Tell me a secret.”
“Besides the dyslexia?”
I scoffed into my pillow. “I bet lots of people know about that.”
“You’d lose that bet. I don’t publicize my ‘learning difference. ’ ”
I nudged him with my shoulder. “Still doesn’t count. Tell me a secret.”
He laughed, and then he suddenly became serious. “I—” He paused. “I don’t understand you at all.”
“That doesn’t count either.”
“Okay. That day at Starbucks when you looked at Patrick like, I don’t know, like he’d just scored a hat trick ...”
“A what?” I interrupted.
“Three goals in a game. Anyhow, I didn’t like it.”
“Because you wanted to wear the hat trick?”
Logan smiled, and I wanted to brush aside his bangs so that I could see if his eyes were more blue or gray. Of course to tell that, I’d also have to stop seeing double.
“Not quite.” There was humor in his voice when he leaned closer and whispered, “It’s not even a secret. You’re the only one who hasn’t figured it out.”
I must have passed out. The next time I opened my eyes I was alone and very confused. Waking up in a strange bed and wearing someone else’s clothes was not something I made a habit of doing. I sat up slowly. My head was pounding as I stared blearily around the room I’d been too exhausted to check out the night before.
It was clean. There were no huge piles of dirty clothes lying around like in Dylan’s room. And there were no sexy pinup posters of Megan Fox on the door either. Instead, one wall had a huge map of the world with red and yellow pins sticking out of it like porcupine quills. Posters of intense waves, caught midcurl, lined the walls. There was a dartboard with a lot of holes around it where someone had seriously missed the mark. He had a small fish tank on his desk where an angelfish happily bobbed around. At least, it seemed pretty happy to me. Of course my head was swimming more than the fish.
I stood up to get a closer look at the drawings tacked above his desk. My feet sang with pain, and I nearly crumpled. I let out a low whimper and held my head in my hands. Oh yeah, I was regretting those high-heel shoes. Stupid patriarchal culture with stupid ideas of beauty—stupid me for going along with it.
The reminder of my heels triggered a series of memories. Walking into the party with Melanie and Dylan. Hanging out with Spencer. Officially killing the one chance I had at a high school boyfriend with Patrick. Watching Logan and Chelsea kiss in the gazebo.
I felt queasy and blamed it on my hangover. How could I have been so stupid? Who says, “Sorry, you’re mistaken,” when a guy puts everything on the line? No wonder Patrick had been such a jerk afterward. If he had actually been in love with me I would have crushed him like a clunker in a used car lot without any warning.
But my mental slideshow wasn’t finished. I rubbed my head and muttered, “salt, shot, lime” in disgust. I vaguely remembered dancing with Kevin and ... Amy? I must have been seriously plastered.
Classy.
My first party, and I need my little brother to help clean me up. A little fact Dylan would probably remind me of for the rest of my life—particularly when looking for a favor.
I forced myself to stand up and walk over to the fish as the night became seriously jumbled. Something about Chelsea ... and a car ride with Logan. Had I thrown up? I was pretty sure I had. But the big question was where? Did I puke in the car?! I rubbed my eyes and kept walking toward the desk. There was a strip of corkboard on the wall, and all the pictures looked like Logan artwork to me. I leaned closer to get a good look. It was a whole series of drawings that looked like a detailed comic strip. In the very first one a dorky-looking girl (me?) stood on a lunch table and declared, “It’s time for a revolution! I have the right to be seen!”
Which was kind of nice, actually,
Only in the next panel, Chelsea was shooting me a disgusted look and thinking, “I see you. Ever hear of makeup?”
Not so cool.
I looked down at the sweatpants and plain shirt that bagged around me and started to panic. How exactly had I come to be wearing this particular outfit? I thought I had put it on myself. I rubbed my eyes again and fervently wished that was the way things had gone down.
“So ... you’ve met Dog.”
The startled pounding of my heart matched pace with the thudding in my head. I whirled around to face Logan, who was leaning against the doorjamb, as if girls woke up in his bedroom all the time.
“Wh-what?” I stuttered.
“My fish.”
“You have a fish named dog.” I massaged my forehead. “Am I still drunk?”
He laughed. “Dog is Hebrew for fish. And since I’m allergic”—he shrugged—“it’s the closest to having a dog as I’m ever going to get.”
I nodded and then wished I hadn’t. My head felt like it would split open any second.
“How are you feeling?” Logan grinned as I eyed him in obvious discomfort.
“Just dandy.”
“Let’s get you breakfast and some Advil,” he said, pushing me toward the kitchen.
My stomach twisted at the thought of food. “Maybe two Advil and hold the food?”
“Wasn’t it a week ago that you declared in this very room that you knew your limits?”
“Logan,” I groaned. “Do me a favor? Shut up.”
A chuckle from behind us had me spinning around. His parents had quiet
ly entered the kitchen and heard every word.
“I—I’m sorry,” I apologized quickly. For what, I’m not exactly sure. Maybe for telling their son to shut up, for standing hungover in their kitchen, for throwing up in their bathroom, or for spending the night in their son’s bedroom—maybe for all of the above.
“Oh, we tell him to shut up all the time,” said Logan’s mom. She turned to me. “Are you feeling all right, Mackenzie?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll be fine.” My head wanted to crack wide open.
Logan’s father poured out a huge glass of orange juice and handed it to me.
“Why don’t you sit down and we’ll fix you the Beckett family hangover cure.” He winked. “It’s doctor approved.”
I sank onto one of the counter stools and tried not to be jealous of Logan for having two completely awesome parents. The teamwork between the pair was obvious. They moved around the kitchen, chopping up peppers and grating cheese without ever getting in each other’s way. I wondered if my parents had ever had that together—if my dad had laughed and told my mom to stop being such a backseat cooker. Probably best not to think about it.
I sipped the orange juice, thanked Logan for the Advil, and tossed it back while the omelet sizzled and a slice of bread was popped into the toaster.
“Do you need help with anything?” I asked.
“No, I think we’ve got it. Why don’t you tell us about the party last night?”
“Uh, well, I guess it was a good one.” I used my orange juice as an excuse to stall and formulate my thoughts. “I don’t really have anything to compare it to.” I rubbed my forehead in self-disgust. “I can’t believe this happened, and I’m really sorry for imposing. Getting drunk at parties—that’s so not me.”
“Well,” Logan’s father said, “do you go to parties?”
“No,” Logan answered for me.
I glared at him and then sighed. “I really don’t.”
“Then I guess the experience was due to happen.”