by Marni Bates
“Uh, hey. I didn’t expect you to show.”
Scott merely nodded and took a massive bite out of his slice of pizza. That’s when he noticed the tickets in Kenzie’s hands.
“Are we going to a concert, Grammar Girl?”
“I—uh, wasn’t really invited.”
It hurt to admit. I probably would have sounded less pathetic if I had made something up. I can’t make it. Too much homework. I have my great-aunt Millicent’s memorial service to attend—I would skip it, but the two of us were really close.
Why yes, I will be adopting three of Millie’s fifteen cats. How did you guess?
Any of that would have been less humiliating than answering his inevitable question.
He studied me too intently for my great-aunt Millicent story to work. “Why weren’t you invited?”
“I, uh—because I, well,” I stuttered.
Because my friends didn’t consider that I might want to go.
I couldn’t say that. Even if it was the truth.
“I didn’t think you’d want to go, Jane.” Corey’s brow was furrowed in concern. “You always do your homework once you get off work on Fridays.”
I doubted it was possible to make me sound any more painfully predictable.
“Oh, sure. I mean, you’re right. That’s what I do. It’s fine.”
I couldn’t seem to escape that word. I half expected someone to create a video montage of me just saying it over and over again.
Fine, fine, fine. Me? Oh, I’m just fine.
But I didn’t want Corey to feel bad about the situation. After all, he hadn’t been intentionally rude . . . he just didn’t see the point in inviting me to something that I wouldn’t want to attend.
Although it did make me wonder what other opportunities I had missed.
“Good thing we’re free this weekend, isn’t it?” Scott took another bite of pizza as the table descended into awkwardness.
“I can call Tim and look into getting another backstage pass. No promises, but I can try.”
Scott grinned. “Why don’t you make it two passes? I’ll be attending as Jane’s plus one.”
“No, you won’t,” Logan growled, unable to hold himself back any longer. “You aren’t going anywhere with her.”
“Really? Why don’t we ask Jane? I have a feeling she’s going to side with me this time.”
I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. Corey probably wanted me to back out of the concert, Logan wanted me to blow off Scott, Scott wanted to use it for his photography—or to further annoy Logan—and Kenzie . . . I hadn’t the slightest clue what my best friend thought of the whole situation. This time, I definitely couldn’t please everyone.
“Er . . . I—” My friends looked at me expectantly, and I felt my resolve begin to crumble.
It’s fine. Really. Enjoy the show!
I probably would have said it if Lisa Anne’s threats hadn’t still been ringing in my head. Scott didn’t have to say a word—I knew this was my best shot to deliver the kind of story she wanted . . . and that meant Scott had to tag along. “Two tickets would be great.”
“Okay, I’ll get on that.” Corey pulled out his cell phone and started texting Tim. “I know the guys have been working on their Wii skills in the hopes of having another face-off with you, Jane.”
The only time I had met the rock stars of ReadySet, I had crushed them with my superior gaming skills. The guys weren’t exactly known for being gracious losers, which might explain why the two straight members of the band displayed no interest in dating me afterward.
I grinned. “Yeah . . . they still don’t stand a chance.”
“Are you that good?”
Coming from anyone else, I would have dismissed it as a normal follow-up question without an ulterior motive. But Scott was always working an angle . . . unless I’d been wrong about him from the very beginning.
Because that was likely.
Still, I didn’t see the harm in answering. “I’m great when it comes to anything with a controller.”
His grin was full of challenge. “I bet I could beat you.”
A lot of guys think that their childhoods spent playing Super Mario Bros. can compete with my gaming abilities. They also tend to pout when I prove them wrong.
Kenzie smiled at Scott indulgently. “Jane annihilates everybody when it comes to Wii Tennis. Don’t take it personally.”
“I take it the two of you have frequent battles.”
That particular statement sure seemed laden with subtext to me, but Kenzie didn’t appear to notice anything suspicious about it.
“Hell no. I can’t compete there. Jane’s better off just playing against herself.”
Scott nodded, his attention fully focused on Kenzie. “So do you play any sports?”
“Not unless you count Rollerblading.”
“Interesting.”
I didn’t know what to make of their exchange, but at least Logan had restrained himself from shooting Scott more death-ray glares. Not that he was suddenly all smiles and double rainbows . . . but he did appear to be silently reevaluating Scott. I wondered what he thought of him now. Then again, Logan didn’t exactly have a good track record when it came to assessing the character of others.
I mean, the guy had dated Chelsea Halloway for a year.... That had to count as a mistake.
He had also initially dismissed Kenzie as little more than a socially inept history geek.
Okay, so maybe he hadn’t been entirely off the mark that time.
Still, it was weird sitting there while Scott and Kenzie chatted away like old friends. I had expected Kenzie to show a little more solidarity with me after the whole “she doesn’t have what it takes to be a reporter” thing. Then again, Kenzie probably thought she was being helpful, given the whole Logan/Scott parking lot debacle.
Mackenzie Wellesley, my very own ambassador of goodwill.
Although I soon discovered that I preferred her verbal conversation with Scott to the nonverbal one she launched the moment the guys were suitably distracted comparing college sports teams.
She jerked her head slightly in Scott’s direction, then raised an eyebrow.
I’ve been asking her opinion about the accuracy of my guydar for years while she rolls her eyes. Now she suspected there was something lurking under the surface with Scott?
Any suspicions I might have had on that front had ended when he’d approached Lisa Anne behind my back—again.
Yeah, nothing romantic was ever going to happen between the two of us.
I told her as much with a subtle shake of my head. At this point, Scott could even say, Jane, darling! I’m so deeply sorry I said you couldn’t hack it as a reporter. At the time, I was overwhelmed with the strength of my ardor for you . . . and I would politely inform him where he could shove his stinking apology.
Okay, I might not have the guts to say it to his face, but I would still think it really loudly.
The whole thing was a non-issue since Scott would never apologize, even if I confronted him about what I had overheard. The guy would probably just dismiss me with a shrug before snagging my free backstage concert ticket.
Then again, once I nailed my concert story, none of that would matter.
Grammar Girl would cease to exist.
Just as long as I survived observing the play audition. Not something I relished even before my journalism incentive had been removed. For a happily-ever-after addict like me, Romeo and Juliet sort of . . . sucks. I mean, it’s about a thirteen-year-old girl who freaks out and kills herself when she thinks her boyfriend is dead. Not exactly my idea of a good time. And I tend to call that behavior creepy, not romantic.
So watching a group of competitive, high-strung theater kids auditioning for a play I genuinely hate sounded about as appealing as attending a country club luncheon with Lisa Anne.
Not that I had a choice.
That’s what I kept reminding myself when I hesitantly slipped into the theater after s
chool . . . only to find it full of devoted performers doing tongue-twister warm-ups with the kind of fanatic fervor usually reserved for religious zealots. Ms. Helsenberg appeared entirely focused on handing out audition pieces, and I nearly seized the opportunity to bail. Unfortunately, my attempt to avoid a stampede of eager audition-ers had only propelled me deeper into the madness, leaving little room for a stealthy retreat.
My exit strategies were rapidly shrinking to include only spraining an ankle, faking a terminal illness, or hollering “Macbeth!” until the superstitious among the drama department demanded my removal from the building.
“Mac—” The intense beady-eyed stare from the girl next to me had me quickly rethinking my plan. “—kenzie is one of my best friends. You haven’t seen her around by any chance, have you?”
She barely spared me a head shake before hurrying over to the stage.
Compared to drama club, my time in detention had been downright social.
A flash caught my attention, and I turned to find Scott chatting up two girls who were happily mugging for his camera. The guy could probably declare himself the foremost expert on Dungeons & Dragons and still have girls flocking to him . . . but the camera didn’t hurt. It probably allowed him to use tons of lame compliments without sounding like a total creeper.
Do you mind if I take your photo? You’re so photogenic. Have you ever considered modeling?
Gag.
Then again, I knew firsthand how effective that stupid modeling line was at making a girl feel special. Or maybe it was the delivery. I had almost believed that Scott meant it when he handed me the makeshift ice pack.
Apparently, the drama girls were every bit as susceptible to his flattery, since they continued posing for him and the camera—it was impossible to tell which one intrigued them more. It was only when one of the girls shifted so that her boobs were even more prominently displayed against the tightness of her shirt that recognition kicked in.
Fake.
Chelsea Halloway’s regular wingwoman.
I tried my best not to panic when I spotted Chelsea casually flirting with the hottest of the theater boys. The Notable queen probably didn’t even know my name. And as long as I sat in the darkest part of the auditorium, I might be able to keep it that way.
She might not identify me as Kenzie’s geeky best friend.
That was the only way I would be leaving the theater unscathed. Otherwise, I had no doubt she would happily use her Notable powers to destroy my social life. Not that it would take that much effort.
“Jane!” Ms. Helsenberg placed a welcoming hand on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you made it. I was worried you wouldn’t show.”
“Uh, wouldn’t miss it,” I lied. “So where do you want me to sit?”
“Don’t be silly. Now I just need you to fill out these forms before you run through a scene. A little singing and you’ll be done. Simple.”
“Sing?” My heart started pounding even harder. “I can’t sing. Really. Even my parents don’t think I could hit a note—any note—even if my life depended on it. And . . . wait, is this a musical production of Romeo and Juliet?”
“There are a few musical numbers, but nothing too elaborate,” Ms. Helsenberg said calmly. “You can sing anything. A few bars of ‘Happy Birthday’ and it’s over.”
“I can’t do it.”
“That’s simply the nerves talking.” She cut off my protest by leaning in and whispering, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Go be great, Jane!”
Then she waded into the crowd, convinced that her Shakespeare quote solved everything.
I glanced down at the forms she had handed me. Maybe Ms. Helsenberg would realize her mistake if I spelled it out for her. I inflated my work schedule and then scrawled TONE-DEAF in big block letters under the heading of Music/Dance Experience. Hopefully, that would be enough to make Ms. Helsenberg reconsider auditioning me.
And if that didn’t work, maybe Scott could pretend we had urgent journalism business.
Ms. Helsenberg could hardly blame me for being called away by one of her colleagues. The tricky part would be convincing Scott to flee the theater with me, especially since Fake and her Not-able friend (the Smith High School equivalent of a B-lister) were still pouting prettily for his camera. He was looking rather pleased with himself, and that was before Chelsea sauntered toward them. Scott’s grin widened farther when she murmured something in his ear.
I tried objectively to consider them as a couple.
Physically, they complemented each other well. His unruly dark brown hair contrasted nicely with her long, sleek waves of blond, and they both moved with natural self-assurance. Definitely a power couple. Scott’s interest in photography also made their hookup inevitable. The guy was already snapping enough photos of Chelsea’s perfect ballerina body to fill up an entire memory card exclusively with her.
Not that I cared. I didn’t want Scott’s attention, photographic or otherwise. As far as I was concerned, the guy alternated between annoying and insulting whether or not he had a camera glued to his face. If Chelsea Halloway wanted to play his manipulative little games, I wasn’t going to stand in her way.
Good riddance.
Scott glanced over at me, smirked, and then said something to the girls that had peals of feminine laughter filling the theater. There was no doubt in my mind that I was the punch line when he raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge.
A challenge that wouldn’t go unanswered.
Straightening my shoulders, I walked over to them without hesitation, although I berated myself for stupidity the entire way. Chelsea Halloway couldn’t do any permanent damage to my social life as I had virtually nothing to lose. In fact, any calculated deviousness on her part might serve as the very catalyst that Kenzie and I needed to talk. Logan’s perfect ex-girlfriend was one subject that Kenzie didn’t feel comfortable chatting about with her boyfriend.
“Um, hi,” I said brilliantly when I finally stood within the half circle of Scott’s admirers. “Are all of you auditioning?”
Chelsea looked past me as if I had already bored her to the point of immediate departure. “Yes.”
“Oh. That’s great. Always good to audition.”
Inwardly, I winced. Speaking like a stilted robot was not part of my plan to play it cool.
“Have a lot of experience auditioning, do you?” Chelsea asked snidely. “I never would have guessed.”
Ouch.
She was right, though: I’d never been to a single audition. Mainly because Elle insisted that if I even watched her try out, I would somehow jinx her or do something superembar-rassing in front of all her friends. Steering clear wasn’t exactly a hardship. Not when the alternative was to receive nonstop death glares culminating in sororicide. Or even worse, being referred to exclusively as Elle’s little sister. Theoretically, I could have auditioned after she graduated, but I knew there would be no escaping comparisons from her younger cast mates.
I might not be all that crazy about Scott’s nickname for me, but I’d still pick Grammar Girl over Elle’s little sister.
Yet strangely, my favorite part was always standing in the lobby after her performance, waiting for her to change out of her costume so I could give her the bouquet of flowers our parents had purchased. That’s when she would give me a hug, and for a brief moment my older, more talented sister liked me.
That one moment meant more to me than any amount of time spent center stage.
But it also meant that I was now completely out of my comfort zone. I couldn’t do tongue twisters or musical scales or high kicks . . . and Chelsea knew it just from looking at me. She’s the queen for a reason. No one can crush the self-esteem of Invisibles with a single sentence quite like Chelsea Halloway.
Then again, after the debacle in the cafeteria, I wasn’t exactly Invisible.
And I had the black-and-blue bruising to prove it.
So I put on my best poker face a
nd reminded myself that Alex Thompson’s fists might break my bones, but Chelsea’s words could never hurt me . . . too much, before I said airily, “I’ve never auditioned personally. I let my sister take the limelight. Perhaps you know her? Elle Smith?”
Maybe Ms. Helsenberg was right about my acting potential, since this performance had captured the full attention of three popular girls, leaving Scott all but forgotten.
That tends to happen whenever a former reigning Notable comes up in conversation. A momentary hushed reverence fills the room before all the current Notables try to use the opportunity to cement their standing.
Oh, I remember her! I was her understudy for The Nutcracker back when I was only in middle school.
That kind of thing.
Although now the fifty million reasons why I kept that bit of familial trivia to myself came flooding back. It wasn’t just because Elle had threatened to destroy my life if I spread it around—it was the look. The one that made it clear that Mackenzie Wellesley’s boring best friend had no business being a Legacy. She should be disqualified—potentially disowned—on the grounds of extreme geekdom.
It hurt every bit as much as I suspected.
That was why, even though I knew my sister’s reputation had the power to change mine . . . I hadn’t ever intended to use it. Back when Kenzie and Corey were equally Invisible, I didn’t see the point. Sure, if I didn’t oversell my hand, my Notable connection could have been enough to position me within the inner sanctum, or at least within the Not-able crowd.
But then people would always be comparing me to Elle.
Not exactly the way I ever wanted to get people to notice me. Although now that Kenzie had accidentally out-Notabled the Notables, my position as a second-string teammate relegated to the sidelines felt inevitable. At least being dismissed by strangers couldn’t possibly hurt worse than being ignored by my friends.
So I had nothing to lose.
“Elle is your sister?” There was no disguising Fake’s surprise, which probably meant she wouldn’t stay on top for long. A true Notable must remain elusive, which means they can’t go around broadcasting their disbelief for everyone to see. I learned that one from observing Elle.