by Mary Strand
“And risk being thrown against a wall? No way.”
“Mary—”
Just then, Liz appeared at the top of the stairs, in too-tight jeans and a low-cut yellow top and boobs she hadn’t owned ten minutes ago.
I glanced around, and everyone looked as stunned as I did. Even Liz, the one wearing those clothes, looked stunned. Was she channeling Lydia now? Alex acted like he’d just taken a punch to the gut, and even Charlie stopped staring at Jane for the first time in his life.
Cat slipped in the front door just then, looking guilty as usual. She stopped just behind Alex and stared at Liz, too, then starting giggling. But no one said anything until Mom started blathering in that fast, stream-of-consciousness way she has. She’s back on the bipolar meds she takes every spring and fall, but you wouldn’t know it. Her sentences are like one loooooong screech.
“I thought you left Woodbury permanently, Charlie.” Mom sliced an icy glare at Charlie, then Alex. Mom might’ve named us after the Bennet sisters in The Book, but she’d definitely gotten over that fixation in law school. Unfortunately, the five of us still seemed doomed to follow The Book, but Mom thought anything could be argued. Even fate.
I eyed Liz again, and a sinking feeling hit the pit of my stomach. Liz, the most confident girl I knew, had pimped herself up and looked so nervous she was practically sweating through her skimpy yellow top. Why? Even after what happened to Jane and then Lydia, she was desperate to get a guy to like her? A rich jerk like Alex?
She wanted to be cursed by The Book?
I glanced at Charlie, shaking my head at the stupidity of it all, only to catch him staring at Liz’s boobs.
Liz tried to make some lame chitchat, even though Charlie kept staring at her and Alex didn’t look at her—which I figured was the opposite of her plan, if she had one—until Cat giggled again.
“Liz, why are you all dressed up like that? Are you going out?”
Right. Like she’d ever set foot out of the house in that outfit. The only girl I actually knew who tricked herself up like that was Lydia, and look how that ended.
Next thing I knew, though, Jane claimed they were going out. She grabbed Liz’s hand, and they shot out the door, totally blowing off Cat when she begged to go with them. Cat is such an idiot. I’d kill to go anywhere at this point, but no way would I beg Liz or Jane to take me. After seventeen painful years around those two, I already knew the answer.
Not in this lifetime.
I decided right that moment that I was sick of it. Sick of Jane and Liz acting like they’re perfect. Sick of the way Mom treats Lydia like the Queen of Sheba even after she gets busted for pole dancing and God knows what else and sent to reform school. Sick of Cat giggling. Most of all, sick of being Mary Bennet. That Mary Bennet. The Mary Bennet in The Book was probably sick of it, too.
I wished I could write my own story and give it a happily-ever-after ending, but maybe without the usual prince in it. I mean, even a prince of a guy like Charlie dumped Jane.
My new story for myself started percolating in my mind even as Mom turned toward me and started shaking her finger. Ignoring her, I shot upstairs to my room. MB, not Mary Bennet, could be cool and chic and—
Okay, I’m not too sure what else. But the fictional MB actually had potential.
Unlike, say, me.
Chapter 2
“[A female] cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, Volume III, Chapter Five
I managed to duck and run the next day every time I saw Mr. Paymar, which seemed to be a lot more than usual.
First period, he hovered outside my English class for what felt like an eternity but was probably ten minutes. I stared the entire time at the same page of our assigned book, Hermann Hesse’s Demian, but didn’t read a single word or pay any attention to Mr. Skamser’s lecture. If he was lecturing. I had no idea.
I finally heard Mr. Skamser clear his throat, loudly, and say “Mary? Mary Bennet?” at the same time that a couple of kids nudged me and a few more kids snickered. Clueless, I felt my face flush as I looked up at Mr. Skamser.
He perched on the front edge of his desk, as usual, knees and arms crossed, his gangly-thin body contorted weirdly. It looked painful. “Mary, I asked what you thought about the book so far. Apparently, you’re so engrossed in it that you don’t have time for our class discussion. Or are you already making plans for the weekend?”
More snickers, and I felt my face go from light pink to deep crimson. Mr. Skamser obviously didn’t know what every kid in the class knew: I never had plans for the weekend. Unless you count practicing piano.
Which I don’t.
The bell rang, and I grabbed my books and joined the crush of kids heading toward the door. I figured Mr. Paymar might still be hovering in the hall, ready to pounce the minute I left class, so I jockeyed myself into position right behind two huge football players, as close as I could get without actually touching them, and slid out the door. I had no idea if Mr. Paymar was there or not, because I couldn’t see anything.
I’d made it. Free!
But only for about two seconds, when someone grabbed my sleeve. Busted!
I struggled to keep walking, pretending I didn’t feel the hand on the long sleeve of my too-warm, navy-blue thermal shirt. I did not want to spend the next hour in the principal’s office. Unfortunately, Mr. Paymar was the only person in this school who ever wanted to speak to me.
I groaned as whoever it was kept tugging on my stupid sleeve. Just as I turned, expecting to look up into Mr. Paymar’s toady face, someone shoved me from behind. I tripped, falling straight into the huge ass of one of the football players I’d been hiding behind. Okay, so his ass wasn’t really so huge, but I only registered that for a moment before my face hit the floor with a splat.
My second day back at school, only one period into it, and already I was getting my usual welcome. Taunts and snickers and now a flat-out assault.
“Mary?” As I lay there in the middle of the hallway floor, too embarrassed to get up and halfway hoping the crowd would just crush me to death and end this misery, a hand grabbed my upper arm, trying to pull me up.
Like I needed more torture.
Moaning, I didn’t roll over and didn’t get up. I just stayed in pancake mode, face down.
Hundreds of feet shuffled past, thankfully none of them kicking me, and a few dozen clustered around me. Cafeteria yesterday and hallway floor today. I was really turning into Miss Popularity.
“Mary? Are you okay? Let me help you up.”
It wasn’t Mr. Paymar’s or Mr. Skamser’s or any other teacher’s voice. It also wasn’t the voice of one of my friends, since I didn’t have any friends. I mean, even Cat avoids me, and all of her friends are total idiots who giggle almost as much as she does.
It was a guy’s voice. Not only didn’t I have any friends who were guys, I didn’t even have any acquaintances. Why bother? The Mary Bennet of The Book didn’t speak to guys, didn’t dance with guys, and we all know she was never going to hook up with a guy, let alone marry one. Even if I created a new fiction for myself, like I’d pondered yesterday for a couple of hopeful but pointless minutes, I figured I’d just aim for cool and chic.
I didn’t plan on changing the guy part of the Mary Bennet scenario. I mean, look at what happened to Lydia. If I was ever stupid enough to take a chance on a guy, I might land in a strip bar and flush up against a cold metal pole.
Not happening.
This particular guy was still talking, though, in a low voice the rest of the crowd probably couldn’t hear, as he kept tugging at my arm and trying to get me up. He must’ve seen through my half-assed plan to pretend I was passed out cold on the hallway floor until second period started.
The warning bell rang. Most of the jerks who were hovering and saying rude things—like I couldn’t hear them?—took off running. I didn’t hear Mr. Paymar or any other teachers r
ushing to save me. Just my designated personal savior, who either didn’t hear the bell or was blind or stupid, which explained why he was trying to help me. Unless—
Maybe he was the guy who’d pushed me. Waiting here in person, with his cheerleader girlfriend at his side, to laugh and push me again when I tried to get up.
The only problem with that theory, of course, was that he was wearing black sneakers like skateboarder dudes wear. Not exactly what jocks wear. Not the kind of shoes that cheerleaders come within fifty feet of.
The hallway was clear now, just Skateboarder Dude and me, and he didn’t seem to have any plans to leave anytime soon. I turned my head to one side and cautiously looked up at him.
It was the shaggy-haired guy from the cafeteria yesterday.
What? Too weird!
“Uh, hi. You’re Mary, right?”
He didn’t sound like a stalker. But, then, what did I know about stalkers?
I felt stupid just lying there, so I rolled to one side and then to a sitting position. He was still crouching, his mouth twisted like his knees must be killing him, and he grabbed my hand to lift us both to our feet. His hands weren’t cold and clammy, like I expected guys’ hands to be, or rough and gnarly, or filthy. I guess they were nice hands.
For a guy.
I yanked my own hand free the moment I lurched to my feet, then tucked it behind my back, just in case he thought about grabbing it again. At the moment, though, he was staring at my books and notebooks and pens, which were scattered all over the floor around me. My English notebook lay open, and a big dirty footprint covered today’s notes.
I froze as he bent down and arranged everything in a neat pile, then scooped it all up. Finally snapping out of my coma, I reached out a hand. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that. But, uh, thanks.”
He shrugged. “I don’t think she meant to knock you down like that.”
I raised my eyebrows. “She?”
Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, he glanced down the hall in each direction, then back at me. “Chrissie. The girl who was bugging you yesterday.”
Someone did actually shove me? All my conspiracy theories were actually right? I groaned, feeling even more embarrassed and more than a little pissed.
“I mean, maybe it was an accident. I think she was trying to grab the guy in front of you.”
It made sense. A cheerleader grabbing a football player. It was such a stereotype you’d think it’d be a joke, but it wasn’t. Especially when it knocked me on the floor.
The shaggy-haired guy kept staring at me, almost like he knew me. Even though the only time I’d noticed him before was in the cafeteria yesterday, and he hadn’t actually spoken to me.
“So you’re Mary Bennet, right?”
I sighed, ready for the inevitable jokes about Lydia. “I’d rather be called MB.”
He frowned. “Emby?”
So he was just a guy, after all. “No, MB. My initials.”
He slowly nodded, then looked up and down the hall again, probably praying no one would catch him talking to the loser named Mary Bennet. Or MB. Or Emby.
“I’m Josh. Josh Lawton. I sit right behind you in English class.”
“You do?” My mouth gaped as I felt a fast burn zoom up my face. Even after I’d seen him in the cafeteria yesterday, I still hadn’t noticed him sitting right behind me in class? Maybe I really was a loser!
He shrugged. “I guess I’m pretty quiet.”
I didn’t know what to say. If he was quiet, I was basically dead.
Speaking of quiet, the halls had been quiet for way too long now. Just then, the final bell for second period rang. I was already in trouble with Mr. Paymar, but Josh didn’t need to get sucked into that.
I bit my lip. This was probably the longest conversation I’d actually had with a guy in my life—and maybe the longest conversation I’d ever had in school with someone other than Mr. Paymar or one of the teachers—and part of me didn’t want it to end. Even though Josh was, well, a guy.
But we were so busted.
I pointed up at a clock halfway down the hall. “We’re late for class. I’ve gotta go. Like, now.”
He looked up at the clock and flinched, then shifted his own books to a different hand and headed in the opposite direction from the gym, where I had to go. He glanced back one more time. “See you at lunch?”
Stunned, I stared at him. “Maybe?”
This had to be a joke. Me, in an actual conversation with a guy, and facing the possibility of lunch with someone other than Mr. Paymar, who suddenly appeared at the far end of the hall. Crap! Just like that, my sucky life came roaring back.
No joke.
Sixth—and thankfully last—period, I slunk into Physics class, head down, and took my seat on the far side of the room, one row away from the window, wishing I could somehow make it through a single day without Mr. Paymar trying to snuff out my pitiful existence.
Someone poked me in the arm. “I didn’t see you in the cafeteria.”
Josh. Sitting right next to me, in the row by the window. Maybe he was stalking me!
I fiddled nervously with my glasses. “Are you in all my classes?”
“Half? English, AP Calculus, and Physics. I have Spanish during second period, and I know you’re not in there.”
A slow trickle of sweat rolled down the middle of my back, between my hunched shoulder blades, but it could’ve been a combination of the warm afternoon and my long-sleeved shirt.
Or it could be Josh.
“No, I have Spanish fifth period.” I wasn’t going to tell him my whole schedule, as if he cared, let alone admit I had Gym class second period. I mean, stinky gym clothes? Utter humiliation in every sport? And fending off the snotty cheerleaders who get their kicks stealing towels from the unsuspecting girls who actually take a shower? No wonder I’d put off so many of my required Gym classes until senior year, but now I was stuck with them.
“And I think we both have ‘A’ lunch, but you weren’t in the cafeteria today.”
Josh was intrepid; I had to give him that.
“Nope. I wasn’t.”
He just looked at me, waiting for me to fill in the blanks, but I didn’t feel like mentioning my forced date with Mr. Paymar during lunch period. Not that everyone wouldn’t know by now anyway; Mr. Paymar made Cheerleader Chrissie join us. After she spun her side of the story into gold, she flipped her long blond hair in my face and took off. Meanwhile, I was stuck sitting there with my stale bologna sandwich and a Twinkie while Mr. Paymar drilled me a lecture. Even when I told him about Chrissie pushing me down in the hall, he just shook his head and smiled sadly, like he was dealing with a closet wack job.
And we’re not talking about Chrissie.
Two hours later, I was still pissed and itching to rip out someone’s long blond hair by its bleached roots, and I didn’t need anyone bugging me about my gig in the principal’s office. I tried turning away from Josh, but he leaned closer to my desk, basically in my face. Maybe he’d already heard the story from Chrissie and wanted another laugh.
Mr. Gilbertson strolled into the room just then, a couple of minutes after the bell. He’s tall and rumpled and, despite a weird fetish for the jeans-and-plaid-sportcoat look, is most kids’ definition of cool. For a teacher. Without a word to the class, he turned and started writing on the board. The sound of books slamming and pens scratching and fingertips tapping on laptops filled the room.
I opened my textbook and started to read, mainly because I could feel Josh still staring at me, and I didn’t know what to say. Even under the best circumstances, I didn’t know what to say to a guy. I also didn’t have a clue why he wanted to talk to me. Like, I’m Mary Bennet. End of story.
Except someone forgot to tell Josh.
Another tap on the arm. “Mary? He’s writing our assignment on the board.”
“MB. I like to be called MB.”
“MB?”
I rolled my eyes, wishing someone wou
ld remember.
“Yeah, I meant to say MB. He’s writing our assignment—”
“On the board. Yeah. Thanks.” Head down, I kept reading the textbook. I don’t know why I wasn’t copying down the assignment, especially since it was more complicated than the usual X number of pages by tomorrow. I just didn’t feel like it. I glanced at the board and—
Oh. My. God.
It was a team assignment. “Design a roller coaster.” On paper. A real, honest-to-God roller coaster, not a toy like the kind you made with Legos when you were ten, except we weren’t required to build it—thank God for small favors—but “just” design it. Well, unless we wanted extra credit, which did mean we had to build the stupid thing.
Mr. Gilbertson is obviously wacked.
Does he really think high school kids can do this? Do we look like engineering majors? I touched my wire-rim glasses and glanced down at my usual clothing choice: overalls. Okay, maybe I did look like an engineering major, in a stereotypical sort of way, but still. I didn’t have the time or the brains for this, and senior year—when most kids were still taking SATs and ACTs or visiting colleges or filling out college apps—wasn’t exactly loaded with free time.
Well, except for me. I’d already aced my ACTs last spring. And thanks to having four expensive sisters, not to mention Dad’s mid-life crisis in a low-paying yoga studio, I already knew I’d be attending the University of Minnesota next fall. Jane and Liz were both parked at the U of M for the duration, and unless someone suddenly died and left me a million dollars, I didn’t have any other options. So no college visits and no running around begging for references and no plans to spend much time on college apps. U of M, here I come.
But college choices, or lack thereof, didn’t matter. Money, or lack thereof, didn’t matter. Right this moment, what really sucked? I didn’t have the one thing I needed for the idiotic assignment glaring at me from the board: a friend.
I kept staring at Mr. Gilbertson’s wild scrawl, trying to turn the squiggles into more hopeful words. Like, say, solo project. Project to do alone. But no. It said TEAM PROJECT, with two-person teams. I had to do it with a buddy, or even an acquaintance; basically, someone who actually spoke to me.