Salt and pepper. Cats and cardboard boxes. Prom king and queen—some things just go together as a matched set. But recently, some of the pairs that Smith High School has produced are rather . . . uneven. Only one half of the couple has the kind of popularity to cinch a nomination. So what happens to the dangler? Will they get a pity vote, or will Smith High School remain true to the premise that we may all be created equal—but not everyone is destined to wear the crown?
from “Power Couples or Pity Couples?”
by Lisa Anne Montgomery
Published by The Smithsonian
It’s amazing how quickly rumors can spread.
By the time Spencer released me so that I could walk the rest of the way to my psychology class alone, the damage was done. Everyone at Smith High School was whispering that Spencer King was hooking up with that “Isodore-chick.” They didn’t even bother getting my name right. Not that they had any incentive to fact-check the gossip. Why would they bother themselves over trivial details like the truth when they could snicker in my general direction?
I didn’t want to hear the whispers.
I knew that the stories most likely to spread were going to be the very worst of the bunch. Rumors that he was with me because I was seriously kinky in the bedroom. That I had agreed to do all of his schoolwork for him. Or maybe that one of his hockey buddies had dared him to get into my pants.
Whatever they came up with, they’d all believe that he was scraping the bottom of the barrel with me.
I wondered what they would say if I told everyone the truth; that the only thing I had offered was friendship.
Probably that they had known it all along. That of course he wouldn’t actually be interested in having sex with me. Spencer King had standards, after all.
High school was such a lovely place.
Still, I kept my head down and focused on my classes for the rest of the day. I only had to make it through the next three years and then all of this crap would be relegated to entertaining anecdotes that I’d tell when in the presence of my college friends. And all of them would say supportive stuff like, “Are you kidding me? You’re gorgeous, Izzie! Those kids must have been seriously twisted!”
And I would nod and then shrug and say something like, “Oh, high school, I’ve nearly blocked all of it out. You couldn’t pay me enough to relive those years!”
Then the conversation would move on to something else, and future Isobel would fall asleep thinking of the exciting plans she had for the next day instead of obsessing about the past.
I just had to give time a chance to make these years seem less terrible. Maybe someday I’d be able to get all nostalgic about my lunches with Melanie, Jane, and Mackenzie.
Maybe . . . but I doubted it.
I didn’t exactly have hours to kill dwelling on the emotional state of future Izzie when the entire school was trying to analyze my every move. If this was what it was like to be a Notable, they could keep their popularity. I certainly didn’t want it.
I nearly burst out laughing when I remembered the way Spencer had tried to dangle the promise of notoriety like a carrot only the day before. Nobody in their right mind would seek this kind of scrutiny. Although at least nobody was repeating the rumors to my face.
Or they hadn’t . . . yet.
It was only a matter of time before some girl in one of my classes tried to pump me for information under the guise of being “friendly.” Then she’d probably act all offended if I brushed her off. If one of my friends actually wanted to discuss it with me, I’d be fine with that.... But someone who had never said more to me than, “Heyyyy . . . can I borrow a pen?” didn’t deserve to know the details.
Not that I was in much of a position to share; I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Spencer had said he wanted to hang out after his hockey practice, but that could have been entirely for Steffani Larson’s behalf. Something to get the gossip mills whipped into a frenzy. It didn’t actually mean that he had any intention of spending time with me.
He just wanted everyone to think that we’d be meeting up for a prearranged booty call.
My stomach flopped. I didn’t want this. I hadn’t thought the plan through very far, but these whispers certainly hadn’t been part of it. Then again, I’d figured it would be enough of a stretch getting people to believe that he wanted to date me without adding in a sexual component.
What I hadn’t factored into my calculations was that with Spencer King, everyone took sex as a given.
And now that those rumors included me, I wondered whether Spencer’s reputation had actually been earned. Sure, he’d had sex with girls at our school. That was common knowledge. But I had never heard him brag about it, certainly not with any kind of seriousness. He acted like it was all some kind of joke. So maybe he had adopted humor as a coping strategy to handle the scrutiny that was unnerving me. If his fellow classmates were going to whisper no matter what, maybe he’d simply chosen to raise one cynical eyebrow and smirk until someone else stepped into the spotlight.
It was undoubtedly more effective than adjusting glasses and wiping sweaty palms against the denim of worn jeans.
The weirdest part of the whole day was speculating on whether or not I should expect to see him at my house later that day. Whether I should warn my parents that their little girl would be receiving a gentleman caller whose interest rested solely in harnessing her geek power for his own nefarious purposes. Especially when I still didn’t know if I even wanted his friendship.
Funny that I had absentmindedly accepted that befriending Spencer King would be great without considering the baggage included in the package deal. I had been too intrigued with the idea of setting myself apart. Too determined to leave Smith High School secure in the knowledge that I had done something memorable. That no matter what kind of glamorous life awaited Spencer, he’d always think of me fondly as a girl with integrity.
I wanted to leave an indelible mark that said, Isobel Peters was here.
But did that make me any different from anyone else at this fracking school?
For a girl who was supposed to have all the answers, I was sure coming up empty far too often. Or maybe I’d just been asking myself the wrong questions for a whole lot longer than I wanted to admit. Normally, I would’ve asked Melanie for advice, but I reached the school parking lot just in time to see her head toward Mackenzie’s house. Apparently she hadn’t cut things off with Dylan, which left me with a limited number of options. I could help Jane and Scott plot world domination from the headquarters of The Smithsonian or try to message Sam while she sat in detention for her most recent act of civil disobedience. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to discuss Spencer with anyone, let alone two girls who had their thumbs pressed firmly against the pulse of Smith High School. There was no way they would let the rumors that Spencer and I had a clothing-optional arrangement die out on their own. And the last thing I needed was for a reporter and a rabble-rouser to get indignant on my behalf.
So I walked home and waited.
Of course, I told myself that I wasn’t some pathetic girl who put her life on hold in case some boy decided to make a move. I legitimately wanted to spend my time rewatching the second season of Battlestar Galactica, and if I happened to think that Captain Lee Adama looked like an older, darker haired version of Spencer King . . . that was purely an intellectual observation. It didn’t mean anything. Neither did the fact that I pressed pause when a shirtless Adama tried to kick a reporter out of the pilot’s changing room.
That was just . . . research. For something.
I didn’t know the details, but I had no doubt that someday it would come in handy.
I pulled out my notebook and started slogging through my math homework while Starbuck defended the galactic fleet on my mom’s old laptop. It was soothing, actually. I had seen the show enough times for it to have the familiarity of an old friend, even though the suspenseful moments still sucked me in.
“Don’t do it, Apollo!” I muttered, before I double-checked my last answer in the back of the textbook. “You don’t want to go in there. Trust me, you don’t . . . go! RUN!”
I was so riveted to the action onscreen that I ignored what might’ve been a light rap on my door. My dad was in his office downstairs, probably dealing with an endless amount of paperwork, but both my parents knew better than to knock quietly. It takes a whole lot more than that to break my concentration, with or without Battlestar Galactica. That’s why they usually sent me a text when they wanted us to spend “quality time” together.
Or they would pound on my door until I responded.
My parents were great, but I didn’t get why they had to make a big production out of cooking dinner as a family since it was part of the daily routine. My dad and I always took over the kitchen, while my mom set the table and avoided anything that was even remotely dangerous. We had banned her from helping when she accidentally created an oil fireball and then tried to douse it with water.
But even though my body instinctively tensed as it tried to warn my brain that I was no longer alone in the room, I didn’t so much as glance over at the doorframe.
“RUN!”
“I had no idea you were a sports fan, Izzie.”
I toppled out of my chair. I twisted to see who was intruding on my personal space and then my shoes tangled together as I tried to lurch to my feet. The next thing I knew, I was looking at the world from an entirely different perspective. Mostly because my face was smooshed against the carpeting.
“I’m . . . uh . . . not sports. Sci-fi. Hi.”
Spencer’s laugh reminded me of his walk—easy and relaxed.
“You want a hand?” he offered, as if belatedly remembering that it was probably his fault I had tripped in the first place.
“I want you to go back in time and call first,” I groused as I debated taking the proffered help. His presence, in my bedroom, was a jolt to my system, but I couldn’t see how I could refuse without looking rattled.
But the feel of his warm, calloused grip tugging me to my feet made me feel a whole lot more off balance than when I’d landed on the floor.
“I didn’t have your number. So, let me guess . . . you decided to try out Mackenzie’s personal brand of yoga?”
I grinned back. It was impossible not to smile as I remembered Mackenzie’s expression when she’d gone down for the count the day before. It also made me feel a whole lot less ridiculous for taking a tumble in my own bedroom. That kind of thing just . . . happens.
But not everyone was able to brush it off as easily as Spencer King.
“You’re really good at that.”
“I’m really good at a number of things. Want to be more specific?”
I rolled my eyes. “Putting people at ease . . . usually by acting like a jerk.”
“I’m never a jerk. And if this is how you look when you’re relaxed”—Spencer’s laughter rang out in my room—“then you seriously need to loosen up. You’re practically bracing yourself for a body check.”
I gaped at him. “For a what?”
“Hockey term. Sorry.” His smile widened, and there was another flash of pure mischief in his eyes. “You’re kind of cute when you’re embarrassed.”
I froze. Maybe if I were some other girl—the type of girl who showed up to his Notable parties—I’d have known how to respond to a statement that was half-compliment, half . . . something else entirely, without inwardly panicking. I would have been able to say something flirty back.
You’re not bad looking yourself, hotshot.
That wasn’t something that would ever come out of my mouth. Not in this lifetime.
So instead of flirting, I . . . snorted. “Save the lines, Romeo. I never agreed to be more than your friend. Comprende, amigo?”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes were lit with something that looked suspiciously like excitement. My words of advice to Melanie came echoing back to me.
As long as you distract him with a bet or a dare—some kind of feat to prove his manliness—he’ll probably forget you even exist.
My genius plan didn’t work so well if the competitive boy in question thought that I was the challenge.
Especially when a small part of me—the stupid, optimistic part that went a little mushy when I noticed a couple who had probably been together for half a century—wasn’t entirely sure it might not be fun to be caught.
Even if it only ended in heartbreak later.