Thursday, 7:43 A.M.
“I had to pull an old letter from our archives,” Carlos said as I sank into my anchor chair with less than a minute to air. Avoiding my eyes, he handed me a baby-blue sheet of paper.
“No letters this week?”
One of the camera guys snorted behind his tripod.
My pulse tripled. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Carlos said, too quickly. “We got letters. They were just—we couldn’t use them.”
“Prank letters,” clarified Camera Guy Two.
“Just… pranking the station.” Still, Carlos refused to make eye contact. “They were stupid.”
“What kind of loser has nothing better to do than prank-write the station?” My laugh was overly loud, and Carlos flinched ever so slightly. The rest of the studio was silent, but not in the usual way. Even Camera Guys One through Four seemed nervous, like they were prepared to cut to black if I started lisping up a storm.
“Okay, guys. Have a good show.” You’ve got this, Simon, I pep-talked myself. I pushed away from the desk and swiveled around once in my chair. But instead of injecting my hair with volume, it just made me nauseous. Under the desk, I pinched the cuff bracelet on my left wrist. It comforted me, almost as if Zander were there rooting me on.
“Thirty seconds to air.” Carlos droned like he was announcing his own death. Depending on how the show went, he might have been announcing mine. “Aren’t you going to read through the letter?” It sounded more like a command than a question.
I shook my head vigorously. “We need some energy around here,” I insisted. “I’m ad-libbing this one.” I flipped the paper over so I wouldn’t be tempted.
“Super,” Carlos dead-panned, leaning back in his director’s chair. “Does anybody know where Abra is?”
“Laryngitis,” Camera Three piped up. “Kacey’ll have to go long today.” He said it like I wasn’t sitting directly in front of him.
“Roses.” Carlos thunked his head against the wall in slow, agonizing rhythm.
“CAR. LOS.” I stiffened, suddenly feeling more defensive than nervous. I couldn’t force him to look at me, but he couldn’t stop me from staring him down. No way was I going to let myself be embarrassed by a shrimp in ironed jeans and a starched button-down. “Who won the M-my in every possible category this year except ‘Best Rookie Broadcaster’?”
Carlos crossed his legs. “You,” he huffed.
“Because—” I prompted.
“You’re not a rookie.”
“Exactly.” Someone turned up the lights, and I lifted my face slightly, letting them warm me, energize me. “So maybe you could trust me a little.”
Carlos opened his mouth to object. But I wasn’t finished.
“And maybe, instead of being such a downer, you could do your job and direct my show. Unless you’re more interested in finding a new extracurricular? Maybe Math Club historian?” I tightened my ponytail and straightened my glasses. “I hear they have an awesome ‘Dress Like Your Favorite Mathematician’ costume party every Halloween.”
“And she’s baaaack.” Camera Guy Two’s eyes widened.
“You know it.” I beamed. “Now let’s do a SHOW, people!”
Carlos straightened up and yanked his wireless headset into place. “Fine.” He sniffed. “HERE WE GO! In five, four—”
Trembling with anticipation, I flipped over my script and stared deep into the camera lens in front of me. But something moving around near the doors in the back caught my eye.
“Three, two—”
Paige. She’d just sneaked in and was standing next to the doors in the back. She flashed me a thumbs-up sign and a giant grin.
One. Carlos signaled me with his index finger and I flashed the Simon Smile, braces and all.
“Morning, Marquette. And welcome to this week’s edition of Simon Says.” I swear I heard orchestra music swelling somewhere in the background. The kind they play in feel-good movies when the heroine (me) has overcome every tragic obstacle imaginable to kick some serious butt while her nerdy sidekick (Paige) cheers her on from the wings. “I’m your host, Kacey Ssssimon, and from all of us here at Channel M, apologies for last week’s hiatus. You have my word that it won’t happen again.”
I glanced down at my script. The words were clear and crisp, even if the paper was trembling in my hands. “Today’s letter comes to us from Picked On in P.E. Picked on writes: ‘Dear Kacey, ever since I started middle school here, I’m having a really awful time. Kids aren’t that friendly here, especially if you’re new or different—’ ”
My throat caught on the word different, and the words swam together on the page in front of me, as if I’d taken off my glasses. Frantically, I scanned the page for my place.
“Um, ‘especially if you’re new or different. And I’m really having a sucky time in P.E. I’m always the last one picked for kickball, and last week somebody stole my gym shoes and shorts, so I had to run the cross-country mile in my socks and my brother’s SpongeBob swim trunks. Someone even posted a picture on Facebook.’ ”
I swallowed a laugh. It’s not funny. Think about YouTube. Think about YouTube.
“ ‘I want to transfer schools again, but my mom won’t let me. What can I do to fit in better?’ ”
The second I stopped reading, the studio seemed to flood with silence. Paige hovered expectantly in the back, probably waiting for me to give the poor loser a virtual hug and tell him everything was going to be fine. That he’d be Homecoming King before the semester was out. But I couldn’t do that, could I? Lie to the kid, just for the sake of making him feel better?
I gripped the script so tightly, I could hear the paper crinkle. No. I was a journalist. A good one. And I couldn’t sacrifice my principles just because Paige thought they were mean.
My eyes snapped back to the camera. “Dear Picked On,” I started slowly. “First of all, don’t feel bad about the bathing suit. My little sister has SpongeBob pajamas, and they’re super cute on her.” I paused and shook my head slowly at the camera. “Of course, she’s six. And you’re in sixth.”
Carlos clapped his hand over his mouth.
“See the diff—”
I was halfway through an eye roll at the camera when Paige ducked into my line of sight, shaking her head so violently, it looked like it might spin off. I could practically hear her words from the night before: Ever since my presidential bid in fifth, you’ve been so mean I’ve actually avoided being seen around you.
The same feeling I’d felt the night before seized my stomach and kneaded it like silly putty. But this time, I couldn’t blame it on the mu shu.
“Um…” I glanced at the countdown clock, the red digits ticking away second after second of dead air. I could always give Paige’s way a shot, right? Go back to my way if her way bombed?
Please. One more slip on the social ladder, and I’d be a goner.
Then again, Paige had been dead on with her strategy so far….
You’ve been so mean I’ve actually avoided being seen around you.
I bit my lip. And the proverbial bullet.
“Dear Picked On,” I said in my most serious broadcaster voice. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”
I could hear Carlos’s palms rubbing together in excitement.
“You’re talking to a girl who has spent almost two weeks at Marquette with giant tortoiseshell glasses and an accent that’s rivaled only by Daffy Duck’s. And you think you’ve got it bad?”
Cameras One through Four started laughing. When I narrowed my eyes at them for kicks, the laughter turned to coughing fits.
“Count your lucky stars, Picked On. At least you only made it to Facebook. As far as I know, my YouTube spoof has been translated into fourteen different languages.”
Paige’s giggles rose over the camera guys’ coughing fits.
“I set off metal detectors with nothing but my mouth, still can’t handle solid foods, and weigh an extra four pounds with my glasses on,” I continued. “So, Picked On—” I stopped to savor the familiar feeling of victory. “So,” I said again, softer this time. “I know what you’re going through. And the best advice I can give you is this: Hang in there. It might suck for a while, but eventually, you’ll find friends who like you for you. And in the meantime, join the yearbook staff so you can make some friends and delete that pic. Oh, and ditch the SpongeBob shorts. This has been Kacey Simon. Until next time, Marquette.” I gazed into camera two until the lights above me dimmed.
“Aaaand, we’re out!” Carlos announced. He slid out of his chair and walked briskly across the set to my desk. “That, Kacey Simon, was pretty genius.”
“What’d I tell you?” I grabbed my messenger bag.
“Nice work.” Camera Guys Three and Four high-fived me as I shimmied between their cameras.
“Thanks, guys. See you next week.” I felt like I could have flown out the door to homeroom.
In the back of the studio, Paige was waiting for me.
She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “I knew you could do it!”
I hugged her back, and we stumbled through the double doors still linked together.
“And I was thinking? Maybe you could work it out with your producer so that we could televise the next presidential debate? You could even moderate!”
“Sign me up, Pres—”
“Uh, hey.” Standing just outside the studio doors, with his hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets, was Quinn Wilder.
I stopped, and so did Paige.
Excitement buzzed through me, followed by confusion, and then a general ate-too-much-Halloween-candy-and-now-I-think-I-might-puke kind of sensation. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just stared at him, hoping I was shooting him a dirty look. And that my lenses magnified it.
He was wearing perfectly faded jeans, sneakers, and a ripped Hard Rock Cafe Chicago T-shirt under a pumpkin-colored hoodie. It was my favorite hoodie, the one he’d been wearing at Sugar Daddy when he’d ordered the exact same cupcake as me.
“Hey.” I inhaled. Not because I wanted to see if he still smelled minty fresh, or if the smell of butterscotch still lingered on his sweatshirt, but because I had to breathe. I didn’t really have a choice.
He did, coincidentally, smell minty fresh. With a hint of butterscotch.
“What… what are you doing here?” Suddenly, my power outfit seemed all wrong. The high neck on my sweater was making my neck itch, and my boots were pinching my toes.
“I, uh—” Quinn glanced at me, then at Paige.
“I should get to homeroom.” Paige said hurriedly, untangling herself from my arm. She caught my eye for a split second, questioning if I wanted her to stay. I double-blinked no.
“So.” Quinn’s voice was husky, like he belonged in some sort of rugged cologne ad. It was almost enough to make me forgive him. “I guess she, uh… she’s probably kind of mad at me.”
“Huh?” My head jerked up, and our eyes met. Or my eyes landed on the spot where his should have been. But he was overdue a hair toss, so all I could see were his soft, sandy-colored bangs.
“I mean, I just wanted to…” Now Quinn was the one staring at his feet. “I’m really sorry I didn’t say anything at lunch the other day. Those guys were being really lame.”
“Yeah. They were.” You were. I tried to sound mad, but the part in Quinn’s hair was adorably off-center. I wondered what kind of shampoo he used to make it fall like that.
“And uh… it really wasn’t cool. So… sorry.” Quinn coughed, then hair-tossed. In the brief second that his eyes were visible, they burned with irresistible remorse.
“ ’Kay.” I could feel my cheeks starting to get hot. “So, uh… we should get to homeroom.” But for some reason, my feet wouldn’t move.
“Yeah.” Quinn took a step closer. “And, um, one more thing. I, uh, think your glasses are cool. They make your eyes look pretty.” The lighting in the hall washed over his chiseled features. It was like he was a perfect boy statue, posed in the middle of the Louvre, or something. All I could do was stare like an idiotic, fanny pack–wearing tourist.
Say something witty….
“Well, don’t get too used to them.” I tried a hair toss of my own. My ponytail whipped me in the cheek. “Ow. They’re coming off in two days.”
“Bummer.” Quinn grinned, tilting his head slightly to the right. And then he leaned in closer. So close, his warm breath was tickling my nose.
I froze. Was he going to kiss me? In the middle of SILVERSTEIN? But I hadn’t had the chance to Google making out with braces yet! My throat went completely dry, and my pits were suddenly drenched with sweat.
Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! The homeroom bell sliced through our movie moment, leaving me with my head tilted slightly and a tiny trail of drool threatening to trickle down my lip. In under a second, we both snapped upright.
“So… uh, see you later?” Quinn said into his hoodie.
I mumbled something about getting to homeroom and bolted, feeling dizzy and sweaty and completely crazed, like it was all a dream. Only it wasn’t. It was my life. And Quinn Wilder seemed to want back in. Seemed to like me. Me. Braces, glasses, and all.