Awkward (19 page)

“That’s Hollywood for you. Hey, Dylan—no, she’s fine.” I pried off my shoes and giggled as they clattered to the floor. “She’s still drunk and puking, but she’s going to be fine. I’m going to have her crash here. Why don’t you tell your mom she had a surprise sleepover or something.” There was a long pause, then, “Okay. Yeah.” “Logan,” I hissed. “
Psst!
Logan!” He looked up and irritation shone through. “What?”

“Tell Dylan he’s the best. Dylan, you’re the best!” I called in the general direction of the cell phone.

“She says you’re the best,” he repeated, probably just to shut me up. “Okay. I’ll tell her. Yeah. Thanks, man.” “Well,” I said when he snapped it closed, “what’d he say?”

“That you should warn him the next time you want to destroy your liver. He’s a good kid.” “He’s the best.” I tucked the phone back in my clutch. “I—wow, dizzy.” I relaxed my head against his shoulder. “Can I sleep now?” Logan moved my arm so that it draped over his shoulder and held me firmly around the waist. You’d think since I was drunk, had just thrown up, and was crazy sleep deprived, I wouldn’t have felt anything at the touch. But I did. I just didn’t have the energy to puzzle out what exactly I was feeling.

Logan grabbed a salad bowl before he led me out of the kitchen.

“Where are we going?” I mumbled near the hollow of his neck. “I don’t want to move anymore. I just want to sleep.” “That’s why we’re going to bed.”

I think at that point I was so exhausted he could have said, “That’s why I intend to ravish you until morning,” and I wouldn’t have blinked.

Alcohol and me … not such a good combination.

L
ogan Beckett did not try to take advantage of me. He loaned me a pair of sweatpants and a shirt and left his bedroom until I finished changing. He even stepped out again when I noticed my sleeping shirt was on backward. Although maybe he shouldn’t have done that, since I took advantage of his absence. I crawled right into his bed and was nearly comatose when he knocked on the door to check on my progress.

“Come in,” I mumbled. “Oh, hi. You have a very nice bed. I like it.”

“So glad you approve. Now get out and I’ll show you the guest room.”

I clutched his pillow even tighter. “No way.”

He sighed and placed the salad bowl next to the bed. “Fine. If you feel queasy, use this.” He prowled around his room until he located a water bottle and placed it next to the bowl. “You should keep drinking. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“What?” I demanded. “Where are you going?”

“To the guest room.”

“But,” I slurred, “you can’t do that. You have to stay here and make sure I don’t die.”

“I really doubt that’s going to happen.”

“It feels like it could.” It did. I felt like I’d come down with something awful, like scurvy or malaria. I patted the bed next to me until he hesitantly sat down. “It’ll be like a sleepover with Corey.”

“Yeah. Only I’m not gay.”

“But see, it’s still fine since you don’t like me like that. And you’re not going to kiss me. You probably could. It might even be nice. But you won’t.” I pulled him so he was lying down on top of the covers. He landed close enough to make kissing possible. “Tell me a secret.”

“Do you ever shut up and sleep?”

“Nope. And I’m bossy. Tell me a secret.”

“Besides the dyslexia?”

I scoffed into my pillow. “I bet lots of people know about that.”

“You’d lose that bet. I don’t publicize my ‘learning difference. ’ ”

I nudged him with my shoulder. “Still doesn’t count. Tell me a secret.”

He laughed, and then he suddenly became serious. “I—” He paused. “I don’t understand you at all.”

“That doesn’t count either.”

“Okay. That day at Starbucks when you looked at Patrick like, I don’t know, like he’d just scored a hat trick …”

“A what?” I interrupted.

“Three goals in a game. Anyhow, I didn’t like it.”

“Because you wanted to wear the hat trick?”

Logan smiled, and I wanted to brush aside his bangs so that I could see if his eyes were more blue or gray. Of course to tell that, I’d also have to stop seeing double.

“Not quite.” There was humor in his voice when he leaned closer and whispered, “It’s not even a secret. You’re the only one who hasn’t figured it out.”

I must have passed out. The next time I opened my eyes I was alone and very confused. Waking up in a strange bed and wearing someone else’s clothes was not something I made a habit of doing. I sat up slowly. My head was pounding as I stared blearily around the room I’d been too exhausted to check out the night before.

It was clean. There were no huge piles of dirty clothes lying around like in Dylan’s room. And there were no sexy pinup posters of Megan Fox on the door either. Instead, one wall had a huge map of the world with red and yellow pins sticking out of it like porcupine quills. Posters of intense waves, caught midcurl, lined the walls. There was a dartboard with a lot of holes around it where someone had seriously missed the mark. He had a small fish tank on his desk where an angelfish happily bobbed around. At least, it seemed pretty happy to me. Of course my head was swimming more than the fish.

I stood up to get a closer look at the drawings tacked above his desk. My feet sang with pain, and I nearly crumpled. I let out a low whimper and held my head in my hands. Oh yeah, I was regretting those high-heel shoes. Stupid patriarchal culture with stupid ideas of beauty—stupid me for going along with it.

The reminder of my heels triggered a series of memories. Walking into the party with Melanie and Dylan. Hanging out with Spencer. Officially killing the one chance I had at a high school boyfriend with Patrick. Watching Logan and Chelsea kiss in the gazebo.

I felt queasy and blamed it on my hangover. How could I have been so stupid? Who says, “Sorry, you’re mistaken,” when a guy puts everything on the line? No wonder Patrick had been such a jerk afterward. If he had actually been in love with me I would have crushed him like a clunker in a used car lot without any warning.

But my mental slideshow wasn’t finished. I rubbed my head and muttered, “salt, shot, lime” in disgust. I vaguely remembered dancing with Kevin and … Amy? I must have been seriously plastered.

Classy.

My first party, and I need my little brother to help clean me up. A little fact Dylan would probably remind me of for the rest of my life—particularly when looking for a favor.

I forced myself to stand up and walk over to the fish as the night became seriously jumbled. Something about Chelsea … and a car ride with Logan. Had I thrown up? I was pretty sure I had. But the big question was
where?
Did I puke in the car?! I rubbed my eyes and kept walking toward the desk. There was a strip of corkboard on the wall, and all the pictures looked like Logan artwork to me. I leaned closer to get a good look. It was a whole series of drawings that looked like a detailed comic strip. In the very first one a dorky-looking girl (me?) stood on a lunch table and declared, “It’s time for a revolution! I have the right to be seen!”

Which was kind of nice, actually,

Only in the next panel, Chelsea was shooting me a disgusted look and thinking, “I see you. Ever hear of makeup?”

Not so cool.

I looked down at the sweatpants and plain shirt that bagged around me and started to panic. How
exactly
had I come to be wearing this particular outfit? I thought I had put it on myself. I rubbed my eyes again and fervently wished that was the way things had gone down.

“So … you’ve met Dog.”

The startled pounding of my heart matched pace with the thudding in my head. I whirled around to face Logan, who was leaning against the doorjamb, as if girls woke up in his bedroom all the time.

“Wh-what?” I stuttered.

“My fish.”

“You have a fish named dog.” I massaged my forehead. “Am I still drunk?”

He laughed. “Dog is Hebrew for fish. And since I’m allergic”—he shrugged—“it’s the closest to having a dog as I’m ever going to get.”

I nodded and then wished I hadn’t. My head felt like it would split open any second.

“How are you feeling?” Logan grinned as I eyed him in obvious discomfort.

“Just dandy.”

“Let’s get you breakfast and some Advil,” he said, pushing me toward the kitchen.

My stomach twisted at the thought of food. “Maybe two Advil and hold the food?”

“Wasn’t it a week ago that you declared in this very room that you knew your limits?”

“Logan,” I groaned. “Do me a favor? Shut up.”

A chuckle from behind us had me spinning around. His parents had quietly entered the kitchen and heard every word.

“I—I’m sorry,” I apologized quickly. For what, I’m not exactly sure. Maybe for telling their son to shut up, for standing hungover in their kitchen, for throwing up in their bathroom, or for spending the night in their son’s bedroom—maybe for all of the above.

“Oh, we tell him to shut up all the time,” said Logan’s mom. She turned to me. “Are you feeling all right, Mackenzie?”

“Oh, sure. I’ll be fine.” My head wanted to crack wide open.

Logan’s father poured out a huge glass of orange juice and handed it to me.

“Why don’t you sit down and we’ll fix you the Beckett family hangover cure.” He winked. “It’s doctor approved.”

I sank onto one of the counter stools and tried not to be jealous of Logan for having two completely awesome parents. The teamwork between the pair was obvious. They moved around the kitchen, chopping up peppers and grating cheese without ever getting in each other’s way. I wondered if my parents had ever had that together—if my dad had laughed and told my mom to stop being such a backseat cooker. Probably best not to think about it.

I sipped the orange juice, thanked Logan for the Advil, and tossed it back while the omelet sizzled and a slice of bread was popped into the toaster.

“Do you need help with anything?” I asked.

“No, I think we’ve got it. Why don’t you tell us about the party last night?”

“Uh, well, I guess it was a good one.” I used my orange juice as an excuse to stall and formulate my thoughts. “I don’t really have anything to compare it to.” I rubbed my forehead in self-disgust. “I can’t believe this happened, and I’m really sorry for imposing. Getting drunk at parties—that’s so not me.”

“Well,” Logan’s father said, “do you go to parties?”

“No,” Logan answered for me.

I glared at him and then sighed. “I really don’t.”

“Then I guess the experience was due to happen.”

I stared at him. “But it shouldn’t have! I was supposed to understand why it’s such a coming-of-age cliché and wake up in my own bed. Not
this
.” I gestured expansively.

Mrs. Beckett laughed. “Sounds like you got a little more than you bargained for.” She handed me the toast. “Well, I’m glad you had people looking out for you.” She turned to her son. “You made her drink water, right?”

He gave her a look that he’d probably perfected after a lifetime of answering the obvious. “Of course.”

“Well, then. Eat this and you’ll be feeling as good as new.”

“Thanks.” I encompassed all of them with my smile. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem.” Mr. Beckett retrieved the salt and pepper shakers. “Logan, why don’t you get the paper.” It wasn’t a question. All of us knew what the order meant: they wanted to say something … in private.

No sooner was Logan out of the room than Mrs. Beckett said, “You know, Mackenzie, we’ve been meaning to talk to you for a few days.”

I nodded, because what else could I do?

“We know that your life has gotten a little … complicated recently. When we saw that YouTube clip, well”—her smile widened—“we thought it was pretty funny. Obviously, we’re happy to teach you
CPR
so that …” Mr. Beckett nudged her, and she got back on topic, “but we never expected things to get so crazy for you.”

“Neither did I,” I told them honestly.

“We want you to know, we understand if tutoring is too much for you right now. Taking care of yourself needs to be your first priority.”

I tried to process everything she was saying. “So … does that mean I’m fired?”

My heart plummeted at the thought, and I bit into my bread so they wouldn’t see just how badly I wanted to keep my job. I hadn’t even gotten the chance to try out any of my new ideas on Logan. We hadn’t watched history movies or made fun of the ridiculous powdered wigs or … anything. And it was disturbing how much I’d actually been looking forward to hanging out with Logan.

“No, of course not.” Logan’s dad smiled at me. “But we understand if it’s too much for you right now. We know that Logan isn’t exactly the easiest person to teach.”

“Because of his dyslexia, you mean.” I don’t know why I said it. Maybe because it seemed stupid to pretend it didn’t exist.

“That can make things harder.” Mrs. Beckett smiled. “But I was actually thinking more about his work ethic. He tends to procrastinate. That’s why we were so surprised when he suggested getting a tutor—not that he was originally so keen on the idea.”

I thought back to the brisk way that Logan hired me. “Yeah, I’d say he was less than keen. I might even say he was hostile.”

“Well, I’m glad he told you about the dyslexia. It’s not something he likes to talk about.”

I nodded and tried to soak up all this new information. There was just so much coming out, and I hadn’t even had a chance to absorb what had happened last night. Part of me wasn’t sure I deserved the Dr. Becketts being this nice to me—not after I came back from a party only to hurl in their bathroom.

It was all so weird.

And before I could say anything, Logan had returned holding the newspaper and looking annoyed. The source of his irritation became instantly clear when he smacked the paper down in front of me. The headline said it all:
strong>Wellesley Gets Wild!

Just in case anyone was wondering what
kind
of wildness, there was a big picture of me in my dress, lime in hand, laughing up at Kevin. I hadn’t noticed anyone taking photos at the party, but at that point I had been three shots deep and didn’t notice much.