Awkward (2 page)

“I think I can bear it.”

“Okay, then.” I felt like I was getting lamer by the second. “I’ll tutor Logan on Saturday, from noon till … three?” Chelsea nodded regally, so I backed away, nearly tripping as I made my hasty exit. “Great! I’ll write it down in my planner. See you guys then.”

That’s when I saw Patrick listening in. I could practically hear my system switching into overdrive. Logan might not do much for me, but I’ve been secretly in love with Patrick Bradford for years—ever since the day in middle school when he shyly asked to borrow twelve dollars to pay a library fine. I didn’t even care that he’d never paid me back—not when he looked at me with those melty chocolate eyes.

Seeing Patrick so close, I panicked. As I turned abruptly, my backpack smacked
hard
into a burley member of the high school football team. Alex Thompson was invested in the appearance of manliness—an appearance that was greatly diminished when a gawky girl of five feet seven and a half inches knocked him down. For the record, it was the weight from all my AP textbooks that propelled him off the cement steps that separated the Notables from the Invisibles. But I sincerely doubt he was thinking about his tough-guy reputation when I sent him flying and he landed with a sickening crunch.

I completely freaked out.

I scrambled, stumbled, and nearly fell on top of him. I didn’t see any blood, but he was pale and still. All I could think was,
Oh, my god! I have to DO something!
I didn’t realize the words were coming out of my mouth.

I threw a leg over, straddling him, and started doing timed chest compressions. I couldn’t remember if that was exclusively for heart attacks, but I kept hammering away. I alternated between shouting for the nurse and yelling, “Does
ANYONE
know if I’m doing this right?
AMI
KILLING
HIM
RIGHT
NOW? Can
SOMEONE
make sure I’M
NOT
KILLING
HIM
RIGHT
NOW?!”

I was fully hysterical when two strong hands grabbed my shoulders and forcibly removed me from Alex. The world had gone fuzzy around the edges, like a camera out of focus, and I had trouble breathing. I barely noticed when someone shoved my head between my knees, like some weak, quivering heroine from a sappy romance novel who might faint at any moment. Normally, this kind of assistance would irritate the hell out of me. I’m quite self-sufficient, thank-you-very-much. But this wasn’t exactly the most normal of situations.

Alex Thompson wasn’t moving. He didn’t appear to be breathing.
I killed him
, I thought numbly.
I killed him with my awkwardness!
My organs felt like they’d just been pulverized in a masher as I hoped for some small sign of life.

So I was shocked when he pulled himself up to a sitting position. I guess it’s rather difficult to move when approximately one hundred and forty pounds of female launches herself onto you and starts pounding your chest. I might not look like much, but I’m deceptively strong. Something Alex Thompson discovered the hard way … and did not exactly appreciate.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he exploded when he got his breath back. “Jesus, you’re insane!”

I was so relieved to hear him speak that his words bounced right off me.

“I am so sorry. I am so incredibly sorry. Really. Are you all right? I’m sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t see you until I knocked you over … in front of everyone. Which really was a poor choice of locations. Not that there is a
right
place to knock somebody over.” I shut up when it became painfully clear I wasn’t about to say anything smart. “Do you need any help? Or should I just go? I should probably leave, right?”

Alex just ignored me, stood, and turned to Logan, who must have been the mystery hands that had terminated my first attempt at
CPR
.

“How’d you get stuck with a spaz like that for a tutor, man?”

Which made me wish he hadn’t recovered, but before I could say anything my eyes connected with Jane’s. She was standing right by the lockers, a hand clutched over her mouth, and I knew exactly what she muttered, because it’s the same thing she says every time I make a fool of myself.

“Oh, Kenzie.”

Somehow Jane managed to marinate those two simple words in pity, disbelief, sympathy, and indulgence, like she couldn’t believe what I had just done and yet she had seen the whole thing coming.

Ouch.

I
didn’t stick around. Listening to Logan and Alex insult me wasn’t my idea of fun … so I fled the scene. The warning bell for class jangled as I replayed the last five minutes in my head. I had managed to babble, knock down (then straddle) a football player, poorly attempt
CPR
, then babble some more—an impressive amount of social damage … even for me.

Class was a welcome distraction from my image of Alex’s expression—shocked and pained—when he smacked the pavement. Although after his “spaz” comment, I was feeling decidedly less guilty. I kept wondering how Logan had responded. Maybe he said something like, “She’s useful, man.” Or maybe he blamed his parents for the situation—told everyone it was just to get them off his back.
Or maybe,
I thought bitterly,
he just shrugged
.

It was Logan who had asked me to be his tutor, the first week of this school year. He was already behind on the reading and had stood there with his rumpled, dark brown hair flopping into his gray-blue eyes, waiting for me to finish stuffing my backpack. Which confused the hell out of me since it’s not a normal occurrence for the hottest guy at school to wait
for me
.

“Um … can I help you?” I sounded like the reference librarian—like I ought to ask if he had any overdue books.

“Maybe,” he said. I scanned our surroundings warily, wondering if other Notables were watching. They tend to travel in packs.

“Okay. Right now? Because I have another class after this … and I’m guessing you do too. So … is it something that’ll take a while? Because if so, maybe now really isn’t the best time …”

“Can you tutor me?” he interrupted, much to my relief.

“Right now? Because American history can’t be that reduced. I mean, sure, it might not be as extensive as, say, European history, but …”

He looked at me as if I were a complete idiot, which was understandable given the circumstances.

“My parents are willing to pay you to tutor me … if you want the job.”

My mouth dropped open, not really the most attractive of expressions.

“Your parents will pay
me
to teach
you
the same subject that
I’m
taking?” I said incredulously.

“That’s right.” He gave me one of his sweeping dismissive glances. “Can you walk and stare at the same time?”

I stood up mutely and shouldered my backpack. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I must have been missing something. I suspected a trap. Seriously, what was the catch? Ordinary-looking girls like me (brown straight hair, brown eyes, brown stains on garage sale shirts) do not get invited to hang out with the Notables. Used and dismissed by them, sure, but not hired for a semipermanent job.

“So I just teach you history,” I clarified. “And get money for it?”

“Were you hoping for some other form of payment?” His casual manner didn’t mask his amusement. “Because if so …”

“Money’s good,” I interrupted, wishing that my Irish
Italian gene pool didn’t make it so obvious that I was blushing. “But why do you need a tutor? You seem reasonably intelligent.”

“And only really stupid jocks need tutors, right?” His amusement solidified back into disgust. I felt like slime.

“That’s not what I said,” I muttered, although the thought had crossed my mind. “Why do you want a tutor?”

Logan’s face became brittle. “I don’t want one. But it’ll make sense if you take the job. So, are you in?”

Okay, I know you might be wondering why I ever took him up on the offer. But a paying tutoring gig meant that I could stop babysitting. And, for all his flaws, at least Logan Beckett was potty trained.

“Above minimum wage?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“We work around my hockey schedule. Every other day and Saturdays.”

I couldn’t help staring again. “Seriously?”

He sighed, and his mouth settled in a grim line. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

I shook my head and felt even more self-conscious. I mean, Logan Beckett is a Notable. And a guy. I don’t exactly hang out with a lot of people who fall into either one of those demographics.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty, but I knew Corey and Jane would flip out if I turned down Logan freaking Beckett for tutoring. That kind of thing can rescue social lives at Smith High School.

That’d been about two months ago. Not a bad streak for a geek like me, all things considered. But I’d hoped I would last even longer before Notables were pointing me out. And things were about to get so much worse.

I
tried to catch up with Logan after the bell released us from AP US. Not to discuss what had happened with Alex, or to escort him down the hallway, but because of Mr. Helm’s stupid diagnostic test—the one that supposedly showed us how ready we’d be for the national exam if we took it tomorrow. If Logan had done well on it, I wouldn’t have to freak out about Chelsea crashing our next study session. If, on the other hand, he didn’t get the material, I needed to come up with a solution—fast.

Logan moved a lot faster than me, probably because he wasn’t gawky, or clumsy, and he didn’t lug around textbooks. Actually, he rarely showed up with a backpack, preferring to carry a spiral notebook with a pen tucked inside. Occasionally the pen would be misplaced and he would have to ask someone nearby for a loaner—which was probably the subject of many a nerdy girl’s diary entry. There’d probably be a whole page of:
OMG! My hand touched his! They touched!

Lame.

Anyhow, he was already moving down the packed hallway when I stepped out of the classroom, forcing me to yell, “Hey!” to get his attention. Maybe I should have been more specific because a dozen kids turned to look at me and none of them were Logan.

“Um … Logan!” I tried again. He stiffened at the sound of my voice, like he’d been moving extrafast in an attempt to avoid me. Which just made me feel terrific. Not.

“Hey,” I said lamely when I reached him. “So, um, how’d you do on the diagnostic test?” I could feel the eyes of other students send my blood pressure up. “I thought it was pretty rough. The multiple-choice section in particular wasn’t easy. I guess it’s a good thing the real exam isn’t for a while and …”

Yeah, I know. I babble. I’m working on it.

Logan didn’t interrupt me though. He seemed to find it vaguely entertaining—like I was some walking science experiment that struggled to control motor functions. I cut myself off instead.

“So … um, how was your test?” I repeated awkwardly.

He shrugged and started walking down the hall again.

“Wait, does that mean it went well? Is a shrug good?” I didn’t think so, but it rarely hurts to ask.

“It was a diagnostic test. I’m diagnosed.”

“Sure, but I need to see the diagnosis.”

Logan nodded in the direction of the now-empty classroom. “Mr. Helm told us not to feel pressured to share our results.” His voice was mockingly solemn.

“Right. No pressure to share with classmates. Except I’m your tutor. Which makes it my job to know how you’re doing. So if I could just see the test?”

I didn’t mean to make the last part sound like a question, but telling Logan Beckett what to do didn’t come naturally to me. Something else I had to work on.

Logan held his test out of reach. I’m tall for a girl, but he still had a good few inches and a lot of muscle on me. There was no way I’d see it unless he handed it over or I kicked him really hard in the shin. I figured I should save that particular move for something more important than a diagnostic test.

“Or what?” he asked childishly. Great, it was like preschool all over again.

“Or I tell your parents?”

Damn.

Logan grinned at the note of indecision in my voice. “Right. You can hardly speak at school but you’re going to tell my parents everything.”

“Okay, so I probably wouldn’t do that.” I decided to try out a slippery slope fallacy on him. “But if you don’t show me, I won’t know what you need help on, which means that I wouldn’t be a good tutor. Which means the AP test will be harder for you. And the consequences of
that
...”

“Okay,” Logan said, probably just to get me to shut up. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Great, we had graduated to elementary school.

“Why don’t you just show me your test?”

Logan just shook his head, making his bangs fall attractively over his eyes.

“Nope. Why don’t you want to show me? Not able to ace it?” His eyes danced at the idea.

There was no point in stalling. I opened my backpack, pulled out the test, and held it tightly in front of me. “All right, on the count of three.”

Logan ignored me and effortlessly swapped the tests. Logan had scored 29 percent. I had clocked in at 98 percent. I’m not sure which one of us felt more uncomfortable with the results.

“Ninety-eight percent.” Logan didn’t sound surprised, just impressed and half-amused. “How the hell did you do that?”

I examined the tops of my black Converse shoes. “Um … I studied?” God, could I sound like a bigger dork? “A lot. I studied a lot. History has always been my best subject, so …” I turned my attention to the test in my hands. “I think we should have an extra study session, maybe try a new studying technique or …”

He handed my test back and nodded in agreement.

“How about Sunday?” There was no trace of a smile on his face now.

I usually tried to keep my Sundays clear, so I wasn’t exactly psyched about spending it discussing the Colonists … again.

“Great!” I told him. Stupid, stupid, Mackenzie. “Sounds totally … um … great. So study sessions on Saturday and Sunday. A history-packed weekend.”