UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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An image of Megan inviting Luke to the football game flickers in my head as I run at a soccer ball. Thwack! My foot connects with the ball, and it veers wildly toward the left, completely outside the goal. Sam watches it sail by from where he’s playing goalie.
“I can’t believe this is happening again. We always end up liking the same guy,” I say, as I line up to kick the next ball.
Four soccer balls span out in a row across the happy green grass in front of me.
“What are the odds?!”
Thwack! This time the ball pings against the goalpost and bounces away. I’m not giving Sam much to do besides talk to me. He’s pretty great at it, though, because he doesn’t freak out over feelings like most boys do (i.e., he doesn’t back away in fear like you’re carrying the Ebola virus). And he never tries to tell you solutions to your problems when all you want to do is vent. It probably comes from growing up with a single mom and two sisters.
Sam shakes his head at me from inside the goal. “This is Megan McQueen we’re talking about. Did you really expect anything less than drama? Oh, and you’re a really bad shot when you’re pissed off.”
“Thanks.” I glare at him and kick another ball.
This one goes right to him, and he catches it easily and tosses it away from the goal. Usually we’re pretty evenly matched, but he’s right: my mood totally affects my game.
He chuckles. “You know how I feel about the evil one.” Sam has never been able to get over Megan calling him Spamlet for all of fourth grade. And I’m not saying she’s all sunshine and unicorns, but she’s the closest girlfriend I’ve ever had and probably will ever have. She’s kind of like a finicky cat. Once she decides she likes you, you’re in. And if she doesn’t, watch out for her claws.
“I know. I know.” Thwack! “But she’s a really good friend. At least, she is when it doesn’t involve a boy. Plus, she’s the only girl I know who wants to get out of this miserable, little town as much as I do.”
“I want to get out of Pine Bluff.”
“I know. But still. It’s good to have a girl I can count on too.”
“But you don’t trust her to stay away from Luke?”
“Hell, no. He’s coming to the game tonight, and we’re both going to be there. Something is going to happen. But I agreed to back off, so I guess I have to.”
“Why can’t you both just go for him?”
“It’ll put her in crazy competitive mode. I don’t need any more guy drama. I don’t want a repeat of sophomore year.”
“True,” says Sam. “Anyway, if you really think it’s going to get that crazy with Megan, you could let her have him. You just met him. He’s probably not even worth all this trouble.”
“I know. But I haven’t liked a boy in so long.” I’m whining now, but I can’t help it. “I haven’t even kissed anyone since tenth grade. I’ve been keeping a low profile because I can’t deal with another Screaming Lemurs debacle. Do you know how hard it is to convince people you aren’t a slut?”
“Um, no. Not really.”
Thwack! The last ball veers left too.
“Let’s quit for today.” I head over to the sideline and pick up a mesh bag for the balls. “I still have to go home and get ready for tonight.”
“You really want to go watch Buck slap other guys on the ass?”
“Ew. No.” I shudder. “But do you really have better plans?”
There are only four things to do in Pine Bluff on a Friday night: catch a movie at the Cineplex, go to a party at someone’s house or field, hang out in the Walmart parking lot, or watch the high school football game. Sam dribbles over to me with the last ball, kicks it up to his knees, where he bounces it back and forth effortlessly, then pops it into the bag with his head.
He grins. Sam always got stuck playing goalie growing up because overweight kids can’t run fast. But when you play a position for that long, you can’t help but get good at it, so now he plays varsity.
On our way home, we take the shortcut, a dirt road lined with muscadines growing wild.
muscadine (noun)
A southeastern fruit that is kind of like a grape. Only fatter. And more tart. And with a really thick skin.
We pop them in our mouths fresh off the vine—because nobody uses pesticides out here—suck out the juice, and spit out the skin and seeds.
“I guess I’ll go to the game tonight,” says Sam. “There are a couple of ladies I need to impress.”
I roll my eyes.
“I need your advice,” he says after a minute.
“On what? The ladies?”
“Kind of.”
I’m surprised, but I make myself keep walking at a normal pace.
“What’s up?”
He hesitates. “I need to know how to get girls to see the new me. I’ve lost all this weight, but it’s like no one’s noticed. And this girl I like, she was going on and on about Buck’s abs and how abs are the hottest thing in the universe, and I’m like, ‘I have abs too.’”
“Yeah, right.” I know it’s mean, but it slips out before I can help myself.
Sam lifts up his shirt. The Buddha belly I know has been replaced with a washboard.
“Ohmygosh. You do. I mean, I knew you lost weight, but when did that happen?”
I feel a fluttery feeling low in my tummy, even though it’s Sam. I write it off as temporary ab-induced insanity.
He shrugs. “Sometime this summer. I’ve been working out like crazy and eating things like tilapia and lentils. So, what should I do?”
“You should show her those abs,” I say. “Hey, we could paint you for tonight’s football game. It’s the perfect excuse to be shirtless.”
“Okay. Let’s do it. Can I come over in an hour and get your help with the paint? I’ll drive you to the game.”
“That would be great. Not having a car sucks so hard.”
We get to the corner where we have to go in opposite directions.
“Later, Sam.”
“Later, CJ.”
He’s the only one who still calls me CJ. Even my sisters call me Claire now. Sam refuses.
My little sister, Libby, is sitting in front of cartoons when I open the door.
“Hey, Libs, wanna help me order Chinese food?”
Friday is takeout night at the Jenkins house.
“I guess,” she says quietly even though she usually loves picking out food.
“What’s wrong?”
She turns off the TV but doesn’t look at me. “I got in another fight today.”
“You can’t keep doing this.” I rake my hands through my hair and try to remain calm. “What happened?”
“Mama said she would make cupcakes for the bake sale, but she was having a bad day. And this girl said everyone’s mom baked cupcakes except mine. And then she said, ‘You probably don’t even have a mom.’”
“Oh, no.” How can I stay mad after she tells me something like that? I pull her onto my lap. “Then what happened?”
“I poured a can of paint on her head,” Libby mumbles.
I try not to giggle. “I’m sorry she said that to you. But you can’t fight people every time you get angry. Try counting to ten or something.”
“Okay.” Libby hangs her head. “Can you sign my form for in-school suspension? I don’t want Daddy to get mad again.”
She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her backpack and gives me puppy-dog eyes.
“Sure.” I forge my mom’s signature on the form. “But next time you have a bake sale or something, tell me. Megan and I can make you the most awesome cupcakes ever.”
“I know. I just wish Mama could make them.”
I know exactly how she feels. I wish I could ask Mama for advice about the Luke thing. I know none of my friends talk to their parents about stuff like that, so if Mama were more involved in my life, I probably wouldn’t want to talk to her either, but I want it to be my decision. I want the option of giving her one-word answers while she racks her brain trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.
I rest my chin on top of Libby’s curly brown hair and squeeze her extra tight. “Me too, sweetie. Me too.”
I sit at my desk, nibbling on an egg roll. I’ll probably go out to dinner after the game, but I needed something to tide me over. Sam should be here any minute. Maybe he’s right. What do I really know about Luke anyway? I pull out a piece of notebook paper and make a list.
He’s hot.
He plays soccer.
He’s taller than me. (Which is rare when you’re a five-foot-ten athlete!)
He’s in AP English, so he’s probably smart.
He has dimples.
He’s REALLY HOT.
He’s the most interesting person I’ve met in as long as I can remember, and for a fleeting moment in front of his house I didn’t feel so alone living in our town with my messed-up family.
I look over the list one more time and then I shred it into tiny pieces, because there isn’t enough candy in the world to bribe Libby with if she found it.
While this is an impressive array of qualities to observe in a single specimen of boy, I’m going to back off and let Megan have him. Even though I saw him first. Even though it’s obvious we have way more in common. Even though I’m bored out of my cotton-picking mind. Because my best friend likes him a lot, and I’m not sure I like him enough.
Absolutely ridiculous. That’s how I look in this dress. I pull it over my head and add it to the ever-growing pile of silver, magenta, and lavender on my floor.
I grab another dress, a knee-length blue one Sarah swore would “make my eyes pop.” It’s no use. I look like a phony. Like when I was little and I stomped around the house in my mama’s high heels. It’s not that the dresses don’t fit me. They’re my size and everything. Maybe it’s because I don’t have boobs yet. I look from my ponytail to my unpainted toenails in disgust. How am I ever going to find something to wear to the Winter Wonderland Dance?
There is nothing like standing in front of a floor-length mirror and trying on dresses to make you scrutinize everything you like or don’t like about yourself. I’m tall—way taller than most of the boys in seventh grade—so dances are pretty stressful for me, or would be if I actually slow-danced with boys. I have long, dark brown hair with natural auburn highlights that my sister Sarah says she would kill for and a tiny sprinkling of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I love my freckles. They’re the cute, tiny, tan-colored kind. Cinnamon-sprinkle freckles. The freckles combined with my round blue eyes give me a wholesome, all-American look, like I should be in soap commercials or something.
But don’t get me wrong: I’m no knockout. I have all the curves of a celery stick. That means no boobs. None. My feet are too big, and my eyebrows are like two woolly bear caterpillars, but I’m scared to do anything about it lest I end up like Amanda Bell, who showed up to school with half an eyebrow after an unfortunate experiment with her mom’s waxing kit.
But the worst thing about my looks, the thing that just kills me, is that I look like a boy. I’m serious. I have entirely too many muscles for a girl. It’s probably why all these dresses look awful on me. I’m just about to take off the stupid blue dress in defeat when the doorbell rings.
“Hey, girls. Megan, it’s so good to see you,” I hear my mother say.
Why is Megan McQueen at my house? Did she finally decide it’s time to hang out? It’s been a few weeks. I run downstairs. It isn’t just Megan. Amberly and Britney are with her too. The entire Crown Society crew, minus Chessa. They’re decked out in their dresses already with matching crown necklace charms that signify their supposed superiority over the rest of us.
“CJ, look who’s here!” Lord, she’s fawning all over Megan like she’s the queen of England instead of the queen of seventh grade. “Can I get y’all a glass of sweet tea? Or maybe some lemonade?”
“That is so sweet of you, Miss Lily, but we really need to ask CJ about something,” says Megan.
“Okay, I’ll let you girls talk.” She flashes one last smile over her shoulder before she manages to pull herself away from the abundance of tween-age popularity in our doorway.
“What’s up?” I ask.
I narrow my eyes. The three of them are smiling at me like they’re going to eat me or something.
“Can we go up to your room?” asks Megan.
“Sure.” I turn, puzzled, and lead them upstairs.
They take in the kiwi-colored walls and sports paraphernalia with something between curiosity and disdain. Amberly and Britney sit on the star-patterned quilt my mom made and look at Megan like they’re waiting for something. She prances over and stands in front of my desk like she’s about to give a presentation at school.
“As we all know, Chessa moved away last month. It’s been tough, but we’ve been looking for a replacement. And today we finally decided.” She clasps her hands in front of her and smiles. “CJ, we want you to be a member of the Crown Society.”
“What?” I fall out of my chair, I’m laughing so hard. “You’re kidding. This is a joke, right?”
Britney crosses her arms over her chest. “I told you we should have picked Amanda Bell.”
“Why do you have to have a fourth person anyway?” I ask. “Why can’t it be just the three of you?”
“Because four is the magical number of girlfriendship,” says Megan, like I was supposed to have learned this in Friendship 101.
Amberly nods fervently. “It’s the trifecta.”
I refrain from pointing out what trifecta means.
“It’s like Sex and the City,” explains Megan.
My mama would skin me alive if she caught me watching Sex and the City, so I’ve never seen it, but I nod like I get it anyway. Megan still hasn’t asked me if I want to be one of them. She just assumes I do. Any girl in seventh grade would roll around naked in broken glass for the chance I’ve been given.
“But, why would you pick me?”
Megan shrugs. “You’re nice and funny, and you have a good body. Being popular should be no problem for you.”
“Plus you’ve started dressing way cuter this year. We’ve noticed,” adds Amberly.
“But there must be dozens of other girls . . .”
Megan cuts me off with a brisk shake of her head. “Yearbook,” she says, like a doctor asking for a scalpel.
I find it on my shelf, and they explain how they systematically whittled down the list of girls to me and one or two others.
Megan closes the yearbook with a snap. “So, you see. There was no one else we could have chosen.”
“Well,” begins Britney.
“There was no one,” says Megan.
I’m still not convinced, though. “But I’m a tomboy.”
“So you play soccer. Soccer is fine. We can work with soccer. As long as it’s not softball.” Megan shudders.
“Plus, we’ll make you over, just like in Clueless.” Amberly’s eyes light up at the thought.
“What do you say?” asks Megan.
I can’t picture myself spending time with these girls, let alone being one of them, but the image of Megan hiding out on her patio pops into my head. I really do want to get to know her better. And if they could make me look as confident in dresses as they do, that wouldn’t suck either. Before I can stop myself, I say, “I’m in.”
“Awesome!” says Megan. “You’re coming to my house to get ready for the dance with us.”
With that, they kidnap me. Well, they drag me across the street to Megan’s house while my mom waves good-bye with tears of joy shining on her cheeks. We gallop up the stairs to Megan’s room, and because all the houses in our neighborhood have almost the same layout, her room is in exactly the same place as mine, with the same window seat and everything. That’s where the similarities end. Her walls are painted bubble-gum pink, and there are butterflies on her curtains. A huge poster of a boy-band lead singer smiles down at us from above her bed, and I cringe. I’m not the kind of girl who tapes boys to my wall.
“Let’s get started.”
Megan pushes me down by my shoulders onto the seat in front of her vanity. Amberly grabs a stack of Teen Vogues to use as a reference. While it’s clear Megan is the unofficial leader of the Crown Society, Amberly is the unofficial leader of this makeover. Even Megan defers to her vast knowledge of all things gloss and glitter. I can’t really see what they’re doing to me because Megan is flat-ironing my already-straight hair, Amberly is doing my eye shadow, and Britney is painting my nails. I just try to keep up with their commands. Tilt your head forward. Close your eyes. Relax your fingers.
Partway through, it occurs to me this could be a sick joke. Maybe they’re making me look ridiculous. But when Amberly finally shows me my reflection in the mirror, I gasp. It’s hard for me to point out all the things they did, all the little pieces that make me look the way I do now. I no longer look like a boy in a dress. I’m beautiful.
Amberly sighs. “It’s some of my best work,” she pronounces before we leave for the dance.
Except for the eighth-grade dance, which is like a mini prom, you don’t have to have a date to go to our school dances (all of which are held in the gym). Girls and guys show up in clusters, dance in clusters, and leave in clusters. The exceptions are the people currently going out. The couples are interspersed between the clusters, wrapped up in each other’s arms, gazing into each other’s eyes like they wish the Winter Wonderland Dance would just go on forever, even though you know they’ll be broken up by next month.
The coolest girl cluster by far is the Crownies, and that’s where I am now, even though it’s hard to believe. I shouldn’t be wearing makeup and standing with these girls. I should be hanging out with Sam and making fun of the crappy decorations. I hope he’s not worried. I didn’t have a chance to text him or anything. I search the crowd for Sam and find so many eyes peering back at me.
“Everyone’s staring,” I say. I fiddle with the hem of my knee-length blue dress. The one that looked awful on me at my house, but now, after their makeover, seems to fit just right. “They’ll never believe I belong.”
“They’ll believe whatever I tell them,” says Megan.
“Tool alert,” says Amberly. “Steven Lippert is walking this way.”
Steven makes terrible puns and tries to flirt with me in English class, and right now he’s headed straight for us. He picks me out of the group like the weakest animal, his eyes going from my shoes to my headband and back again. Ew.
“What’s up, CJ?”
Megan steps between us. “Claire’s busy right now. She’s going to go dance with us.”
I’m so used to being called CJ it takes me a second to realize she’s talking about me. Steven mouths the word Claire and slinks away with a backward glance at my legs.
We work our way to the center of the dance floor, right underneath the gargantuan papier-mâché snowflake. Before I was one of them, I thought they all danced the same way: cooler than everyone else. But now I realize they each dance differently. Britney alternates her little dance moves with a glare that is either self-conscious or angry. Hip shake. Glare. Shimmy. Glare. Amberly dances with so much hip action I’m worried a teacher will come over. Megan looks beyond cool. She flings her long blond hair around, and throws her hands in the air, and laughs with her head thrown back as she sings along to the music. I just stand there like a moron.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” asks Amberly.
“I don’t dance.”
Britney snickers. “You can’t dance?”
Megan doesn’t laugh.
“B, can you find a boy and make him get us some punch?” she says sweetly.
When Britney exits, she turns back to me. “Dancing is an important life skill. Amberly and I can teach you.”
“Yeah!” Amberly nods like a bobblehead. Oh, Lord.
“What about Britney?” I ask, stalling.
A smile forms on Megan’s lips. “Do you really want to dance like Britney?”
“No.” I look down at my overly large feet. “I’ve never really tried to dance,” I mumble.
“Wait, wait, wait. You’ve never practiced in front of your mirror?” asks Megan.
“No.”
“You don’t try to copy the girls in the music videos?” asks Amberly.
“No.”
Megan acts like I just told her I have a third eye growing out of the back of my kneecap. “We are totally having a sleepover. Tonight. At my house.”
Britney is back with the punch. Well, she’s back, and Sam and Glenn are trailing behind her with punch.
“Thanks, boys.” Amberly winks at them.
“I can’t believe that’s you,” Sam whispers to me. “No one recognized you at first. All the guys were trying to figure out who the new girl was.”
I grin in spite of myself. “You will not believe what happened. I’ll call you later,” I whisper back.
Glenn hands me a cup of punch. “You look different. I mean, pretty. You look really pretty.”
I’m shocked. Glenn Baker, who has up until now treated me pretty much like I’m a boy (despite the fact that we kissed in sixth grade), is red-faced and tongue-tied around me. And he thinks I’m really pretty.
“You’re right,” I say to Megan in disbelief after they leave to rejoin their boy cluster. “Everyone does believe I’m one of you.”
“Well, you’re not in yet,” says Britney.
“But you said . . .”
She shakes her head. “Do you see a necklace around your neck? You have to be initiated first.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Whatever we tell you to do.”
I am about to say “screw this,” and Megan can tell. She pulls me aside.
“Look, we all had to do a dare to get in. It’s not that bad. Just do it and get it over with. Please. I really want you to be a Crownie.” Megan has the biggest, bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. It’s impossible to say no to them, and she knows it, which is why she’s got them trained on me right now. She lowers her voice. “I know I acted like we only picked you because there was no one else, but that isn’t true.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nope. Two weeks ago I saw you fighting with your mom in your driveway. She was trying to make you take dance lessons and you said you wouldn’t do it.” She hesitates. “I would give anything to be able to stand up to my parents like that. That’s when I decided I wanted you to be my best friend.”
The girl I saw on the patio is back. This is the Megan I want to be friends with. The real one.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” We rejoin the other girls. “So, I just have to do a dare?”
Britney opens her mouth, but Megan cuts her off.
“Yes. Just one dare. Give us a second to decide what it is.”
The three of them form a huddle, and I stand there in my dress feeling stupid and trying to imagine what sort of public humiliation they’re concocting. They’re giggling when they turn back to me.
“You have to kiss a boy,” says Amberly.
“And you have to say, ‘I feel like a snowflake because I’ve fallen for you,’” says Megan.
I start to feel nauseous. “Who do I have to kiss?”
“We’re still working on that part,” says Megan.
“What about Eric Masters?” asks Amberly.
Britney gives her an Are you crazy? look. “Pass. You know he was Megan’s boyfriend in sixth grade.”
“Oh, right, I forgot. Sorry.”
“What about Michael Shaw?” asks Britney.
“Pass. He has coat-hanger shoulders. It needs to be somebody really good,” says Megan. “What about Buck?”
“Pass,” I say, and everyone stares at me. “He kissed me in, like, second grade. I want someone new.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though I’d rather gnaw off my own arm than kiss Buck again.
The girls look impressed.
“I knew we picked the right girl,” says Megan. “Hey, who’s that guy over there?”
She points toward the snack table, which is really just a lunch table with a glittery paper tablecloth.
“Amanda Bell’s cousin,” replies Amberly. “He’s totally yummy. That is such a good call.”
Amanda wears a smug smile while her friends vie for the attention of her oh-so-cute cousin.
“If you kiss him, her friends are going to be so pissed,” says Megan. She smiles. “He’s perfect.”
I watch him for a few seconds longer.
“Done.”
I take off across the gym floor in long, sure strides that make it pretty obvious to anyone watching me where I’m going. Ordinarily I would be terrified of rejection, but I don’t feel like me tonight. I feel like Megan McQueen’s new friend. Buoyed by that feeling, I walk straight up to Amanda’s cousin, parting the sea of adoring girls who surround him.
“Hi. I’m Claire.”
If he thinks it’s weird for a girl to walk up and introduce herself, he doesn’t show it.
“I’m Evan.”
Amanda and her friends shoot daggers at me with their stares. Evan’s buttoned-up-all-the-way-to-the-top shirt and slicked-over hair make me think he might be a goody-goody at his school, but at our school he is fresh meat. He’s even cuter up close. He has dark brown hair like Amanda’s, but thankfully no snaggleteeth. Now that I’m close enough to count his inch-long eyelashes, I am suddenly shy.
“I feel like a snowflake tonight.” I can barely bring myself to say the words. “Because I’ve fallen for you.”
It takes him a minute to process this.
“Wow. That’s a pretty bad one.”
He laughs, and I join in.
“I know. But I kind of had to say it.”
I jerk my chin toward the girls. He sees them watching us and gives me a friendly nod to show he understands.
“I kind of have to do this too.”
I wrap one hand behind his neck and give him a quick peck-on-the-lips, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kiss. Actually, I barely remember the kiss at all. What happened after was more important. I remember the half-shocked, half-happy look on his face when I pulled away. I remember the incredulous gasps from Amanda and her friends. But most of all I remember what happened when I waltzed back over to the Crownies.
“That was amazing! So totally hot!” yells Amberly.
“Did you see their faces?” laughs Britney. She squeezes my shoulder. Now that I’ve done the dare, all the negativity I was getting from her before has vanished.
“It was pretty amazing.” Megan gives me a hug. “You’re officially one of us now!”
We spend the rest of the night in Megan’s basement eating turkey-Brie–raspberry jam croissants (Megan made them herself—including the raspberry jam—from scratch!) and rehashing the dance. Whose outfits were cute and whose needed help, Steven Lippert’s attempt to do the worm, and, of course, the Kiss are the major topics. Then we dance around in our pj’s and sing “I Will Survive” into our hairbrushes. (Well, they dance. I mostly hover on the sideline and try not to trip over myself while I mimic them.)
After Britney and Amberly fall asleep, Megan drags her sleeping bag over to mine and tells me how jealous she is of how her college professor parents treat her genius older brother. So I tell her about how my mom focuses all her attention on my perfect big sister. We talk until it’s light outside about the places we want to go and things we want to do and the glamorous lives we’ll have when we’re old enough to leave Pine Bluff. And I finally realize what I was missing in all those years without girlfriends.