Awkward (10 page)

“Lots of kids aren’t into sports. I just happened to be one of them. My dad tried to play catch with me, but it wasn’t my thing. My hand–eye coordination has always been zilch. So my mom thought it would be good for me to try ballet.” “Okay,” Logan said slowly. “I don’t see where the Rollerblading fits in.” “Well, after the recital, my dad left.” I conveniently edited out the part about him sucking face with my instructor. “I didn’t say anything for a week. My mom was freaking out, trying to get me to verbalize my emotions. And then I said I’d rather be eaten by an elephant than ever do ballet again.” “An elephant?”

“I liked the visual. So I asked her to take me to a sports store, and I grabbed the only thing that didn’t include flying objects.” “The Rollerblades.”

“Yep. That’s how I got started.”

The whole time I told him this, I became more comfortable with the gliding movement of the skates.

“What about your dad?”

“What about him?” I looked up from the ice.

“Did he ever see you skate?”

“Nope. He started a new family. Occasionally we get holiday cards, two kids—both boys. Sounds like he’s happy.” “Sounds like he’s a moron.”

That caught me by surprise. “That too.” I laughed.

“I’m still going to call you Mack.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course you will.”

“But I don’t wish you were a boy.” His grin made my pulse kick up a notch.

“So, um, your parents seem cool.” I had to say something to break the flirty mood. Or was I just imagining it? Hard to know for sure.

He nodded. “Yeah, they are. It’d be nice to have a sibling though. Sometimes they push too hard.” “You mean they’ll do stuff like hire tutors for you?” I slapped a hand over my mouth in mock horror. “How awful!” He grinned. “You should see the freak they stuck me with. This one girl with a guy’s name was such a …” I whacked him on the arm before he could finish the sentence.

“Back to studying. Now, Sam Adams.” He opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “And don’t say beer!”

Y
es, we studied. I did an excellent job grilling him, then filling him in when he didn’t know an important fact. He actually seemed to be paying attention—a welcome change from his typically bored expression and doodling. It felt like an elementary school birthday party—everything seemed simple for a minute. No press, no staring eyes, and no pressure. I think Logan enjoyed himself too. He laughed at me when I slipped, but he still offered me a hand up. And when he grinned, grabbed my hand, and whipped me around a curve, it kind of felt like a date—the type where a boy wants to spend time with a girl who isn’t paid to be there. But of course it wasn’t. Because, no matter what the press did, I would still be geeky Mackenzie Wellesley.

It lasted only until we went to the food court—the whole wow-this-almost-feels-like-a-date thing. That’s when I screwed it up. We were superrelaxed, talking about our favorite movies, and standing in line for greasy Chinese food, when I said we should pull out our textbooks. I swear, that’s all I said, but he tensed up instantly and his jaw stiffened.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal. His parents were paying me to tutor, not to imagine I was on a date with their son. No way could I accept their money if I hadn’t earned it. Finances might be tight in my family, but I’d never stoop to accepting money I didn’t deserve. I’d become very financially savvy. My middle school graduation dress? Seventy-five cents from a garage sale. Beat that, Chelsea Halloway. Well, I guess she had, in a supergorgeous off-white strapless dress … but I bet it cost a fortune.

Anyway, I take money seriously. So after I stretched my fifty-buck loan to include some beef and broccoli, I pulled out my textbook. I also did a quick sweep of the area and didn’t see any press, so I figured we were clear.

“Okay,” I said. “We left off with the British advantages for war.” After much page turning, I found the spot. “You read them off while I eat.”

I tried to get back the good-natured friendliness because a very small table and a mound of kung pao chicken and rice was all that separated me from an irritated-looking Notable.

“Look, we can stop the clock,” Logan said easily. “Let’s just eat and go over it later.”

“Five more minutes,” I pressed. At the rink he really seemed to be getting it. If he was on the verge of a breakthrough, I wasn’t going to let Chinese food get in the way. “Here, ‘Britain had over three times the population of the colonies.’ ”

My voice trailed off as I watched Logan glare at the words with his mouth firmly shut. His gaze crawled slowly from the spot I’d pointed to last.

“C-Can you read?” I blurted the question without thinking.

The pure annoyance in his eyes made me instinctively jerk back in my chair.

“I can read,” he said defiantly. But he forcibly shut the textbook.

“Okay.” I stabbed a piece of broccoli. “But …”

“But what?” Clearly he wasn’t going to be up-front with an explanation.

“You tell me.” I forced myself to meet his eyes and was relieved to see that he looked more frustrated than anything else. “You’re obviously not telling me something that as your tutor I should know.”

I said that last part in a rush before I lost my nerve. Then I watched in surprise as Logan slouched back in his chair.

“I’m dyslexic.” He said it calmly but with an obvious trace of bitterness. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Oh.” Well, that made sense.

“Yeah. Oh.” He laughed. “I fit perfectly into that dumb jock cliché of yours now, don’t I?”

“Because you’ve got dyslexia or because you stare at Chelsea Halloway’s boobs?”

Oh, God. Did I really just say that?

He stared at me and then started laughing for real.

“Um, what I
meant
to say,” I corrected myself, “is that dyslexia doesn’t make you stupid. In fact, people with dyslexia often have above-average physical coordination, artistic talent, and empathy.” I nodded toward his doodle-filled notebook. “Judging the whole hockey thing and your drawings, you’re at least two out of three.”

Logan stared at me in disbelief. “You know all that off the top of your head?”

“Sure,” I replied evenly. “Near photographic memory. Steven Spielberg, John Lennon, Walt Disney, Steve Jobs—all dyslexic. Not to mention …”

“I get the picture,” Logan interrupted.

“Right. Well, then, you see it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Yeah?” There was just a hint of a question in the one-word response.

“Yeah.” I met his eyes head-on, determined not to screw this up. “But we’re going to need a whole new plan of attack.” I opened my notebook, uncapped my pen, and started scribbling down notes. “Let’s ditch the textbook and check out some more auditory or visual learning techniques.” I unthinkingly began to tap the pen against my lower lip. “There’s a miniseries on John Adams that might help. We can always raid the library’s history movies.” I paused, struck by what those videos would effectively do: replace me. “I can help you pick them out, if you want,” I offered. “You can call me after each one and we’ll discuss it.”

“Or you could watch them with me.”

“I can’t let your parents pay me to watch movies,” I blurted out.

“Mack, it’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, it is. You’re just used to tossing money around. Not everyone has that luxury, and I like your parents too much to fleece them.”

“Fine. We’ll renegotiate the pay when we watch the movies. Problem solved.”

He made it sound so reasonable, like there wasn’t a huge, gaping social chasm between us that made it weird for me to see movies at his house.

“Um, I guess that could work,” I said awkwardly. What else could I say? “Logan, the other Notables, Chelsea in particular, will make life uncomfortable if they think we’re hanging out. You’ll get jokes about ‘slumming it’ and I’ll get snide comments in the girls’ locker room. Just warning you.”

How stupid would that sound? It was
high school,
not the Hindu caste system, where the Untouchables have to avoid “polluting” the upper classes. Okay … maybe the two weren’t that different, but all of this stress over the Notable
Invisible divide was just stupid. We were two teenagers in the same AP history class. End of story.

Logan didn’t seem to notice my hesitancy and took a big bite of kung pao chicken. Ravenous, I attacked my own dish as I jotted down study ideas.

“We should pull some kids’ books at the library.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “I really do know how to read.”

“Kids’ books generally do a better job highlighting material, so I like to use them for review.”

He grinned. “You’ve got a photographic memory but you read kids’ books before AP tests.”

“
Nearly
photographic memory, and it’s good to review the basics. You still work on your hockey stance, right? Same principle.”

“You’re one strange girl.”

I stared at him uncertainly with a forkful of broccoli raised to my lips. “How so?”

“You list off people with dyslexia, read kids books, and practically inhale Chinese food.”

I shrugged. “None of that’s so strange. I thought you meant my balance issues and my tendency to babble around your friends.”

“Now that you mention it … why is that?”

“Why is what?”

“Why are you so nervous around people? When you actually relax, you’re not nearly as, hmm …”

“Awkward?” I supplied.

“Intimidating.”

My mouth fell open. “Me? Intimidating. Yeah, right. And Chelsea Halloway secretly volunteers her time at a homeless shelter.”

Logan laughed, then sobered. “Seriously, you can be intimidating.”

“Really?” It was the most outrageous thing I’d heard since I had found out that I had become famous.

“Yeah. Especially in class.” Logan deepened his voice in a dead-on impersonation of Mr. Helm. “Ah, yes, Mackenzie, would you like to explain the Stamp Tax to the rest of the class?”

I blushed. “Okay,
maybe
in class I can be a bit intense. But that doesn’t make me intimidating!”

“Oh, yeah?” Logan was really warming to the subject. “What about when you yelled at the substitute teacher?”

“I did not!” I protested. “And even if I had, the guy deserved it. He was flat-out
wrong,
but he stood there and said one of us had gone to college and one of us hadn’t. As if that changed anything.” I paused. “You weren’t in that class. How’d you hear about it?”

“Spencer mentioned it,” he told me with a smug half smile. “He said you were pretty hard on the guy.”

“He was a jerk with
misinformation
.” I shook my head in disgust.

“And you don’t think you’re intimidating.”

“Yeah, well it’s not like I’m a Notable!”

“What?” he asked, and I felt like an idiot. Because rule number one about secret nicknames—they have to remain a secret.

“You, Notable.” I gestured with my fork. “Me, Invisible.” I ate another piece of broccoli. “Or at least I was. Now Dr. Phil wants to talk to me.”

Logan nearly choked on his Coke. “Dr. Phil called you?”

“Something like that. I’m a little fuzzy on the details. Dylan texted me something about going on
Dr. Phil
or
The View
.” I put down my fork. My appetite vanished at the thought of appearing on national television.

“But you don’t want to do it?” Logan asked.

“Of course not!” I stared at him. “I’m already enough of a freak without officially becoming America’s Most Awkward.”

“You’re not a freak,” Logan told me. His appetite remained unaffected, and I watched enviously as he speared his last piece of chicken. “Strange, but not a freak.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said sarcastically, but I couldn’t help feeling flattered. Logan Beckett didn’t think I was a freak.

I
should have known that the media wouldn’t leave me alone. I was so glad there were no photographers around Logan’s car that I climbed in without a second thought. It was hard for me to concentrate on the paparazzi when I was with Logan—not because of his looks but because I never knew what to expect. He kept making dry, sarcastic comments that might have irritated me if they hadn’t been so damn funny.

It felt good to hang out with him, which is why I didn’t notice the trouble until Logan was idling outside the Hamilton house—while thirty feet away my home was under siege. My lawn was coated with reporters the way my mom slathered peanut butter on my PB and J sandwiches.

My jaw fell open. “Oh, my … keep driving!” I ordered Logan as I slid down to the floor. “Just … go!” I didn’t have to tell him again. Logan didn’t peel out, leaving a layer of rubber or anything obvious. He just drove past my house and didn’t stop until we reached the basketball court where I usually Rollerblade.

“Interesting.” His bangs flopped into his eyes. “So that’s your house.” I hauled myself back onto the seat. “Listen, I can explain.”

“And I’m sure your explanation will be stupid.”

“Oh yeah?” I retorted, sticking my chin up defiantly. “And why’s that?” “Because there is no good reason to lie about where you live.” “No good reason to lie about dyslexia either.”

He swiveled to glare at me. “That’s not the same thing at all.” “Sure it is,” I argued. “We both don’t want anyone’s pity. Of course, I also wanted to avoid a hockey team panty raid, but other than that … same situation.” His lips twitched, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh at me. Oh, he was still annoyed, but his sense of humor hadn’t ditched him.

“Panty raid?”

I shrugged. “I watch cable.”

“And way too many lame high school movies.”

“Look, I should have pointed out my house earlier. But people do stupid things. So if we could just go back and you could drop me off, that’d be great.” Logan started the engine. “You want me to just drop you off and drive away.” “Um, yeah.”

“When your house is crawling with reporters.”

“I can handle it,” I told him exasperatedly. I was starting to get really sick of feeling weak. Okay, yes, ordinarily I’m a wimp, but I was handling the situation. I hadn’t let the reporters, or Alex Thompson, or Chelsea Halloway, or
anyone
keep me from living my life, which meant that I had to be a hell of a lot stronger than everyone thought. “I’ll be just fine on my own.” “Of course.” Logan nodded his head curtly. “You don’t need any help. My bad.” I knew I was being insulted, but I didn’t know how to object. So I just looked at him and said, “You should really just drop me off. I don’t want the press snapping pictures of us and speculating about my love life.” He nodded as the car turned onto my street.