Awkward (9 page)

REPORTER
TWO: Mackenzie, do you regret your attempt at CPR?

REPORTER
THREE: Mackenzie, how does it feel to be famous?

ME: I—ACK!

Tripping over my own feet, I tumbled into Logan who, prompted by the new chant of “Kiss her!” grinned and obliged.

Wait, what?

Where had that come from? I needed more sleep—that was the only explanation for it. The only one I’d consider. Freud would have a field day, but the first part of my imagined script was dead-on. The press moved in, and I found myself under siege with questions hurled like grenades. I grabbed Logan’s arm to steady myself when a cameraman jostled into me hard.

“Let’s run for it,” I hollered, to be heard over the questions. Without waiting for a response I bolted toward the parking lot and pulled him behind me.

I completely impressed myself with my imitation of a badass if-you-don’t-move-you-will-be-crushed policewoman. I used my speed to propel me through the crowd.

Still, the questions were so much worse than I’d imagined.

“Mackenzie! Who’s your friend?”

“Are the two of you dating?”

“What do you think of
Twilight
?” This time I didn’t respond. I just ran as fast as I could, grateful that I was wearing my black Converse. Logan’s longer legs pushed him ahead and left me struggling to keep up. Which burned my ego, since I’m no slouch when it comes to running the presidential fitness mile.

It’s a good thing we grabbed hands or we’d have been separated. A cheesy romance lover might think it was romantic, but there’s nothing “romantic” about getting smacked in the face by a stranger’s elbow.

Still, we made it to his car without any major injuries. Logan didn’t waste any time getting the hell out of there. He drove carefully, just to make sure no photographers became speed bumps, but he drove fast. I used my arms to obstruct my face while Logan swerved and barreled down streets to lose the entourage tailing us.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” I demanded. “Because my knowledge of car chases is limited to
The Bourne Identity
. Let’s think this through before we make a mistake.” Logan shook his head. “I know exactly where we’re going.” “Okay.” I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. “And where would that be?” “It’s a surprise.” He turned sharply, and I got a newfound appreciation for my seat belt.

“Not a big fan of surprises. I’ve had enough of those to last me a lifetime.” I gestured at the paparazzi tailing us to make my point.

“I think you could use a few more.” He cut smoothly onto the freeway. “You can pick the music.” “Gee, thanks.” I dug into my backpack, plugged my iPod into Logan’s speaker adaptor, flipped to a playlist, and let the music flow.

“Wilco?” he asked, and I nodded in surprise. Maybe he was more rock and less jock than I’d originally assumed.

“Good stuff.”

I was about to ask about his music taste when I realized we’d left Forest Grove behind us. Far behind us, actually. We were headed into the city.

“Portland?” I gaped at him. “You want us to lose them in
Portland?
” “Do you have a better idea?”

“I—I guess, well … I—no,” I stuttered.

“Then there you go, Mack.”

I was too distracted by the situation to object to the nickname.

“But … the gas money. We should’ve just—”

Logan cut me off. “My idea, my money.”

Which was a huge relief, because I couldn’t afford the gas, especially when I still owed him for that cup of coffee. But it also completely sucked. I didn’t
ever
want to be the type of girl who does stupid stuff like mooch off of guys. I had no idea what to do about Logan Beckett’s habit of shelling out money.
I’ll just have to keep a running tab,
I decided.
And pay him back as soon as possible
.

“Almost there.” He pulled into a parking garage.

“You’re kidding, right? A mall!
You
are taking
me
to the
mall!
Do you have any idea how weird this is?” “Yeah.” That was all I got. Just “yeah.” I hate boys and their stupid monosyllabic answers sometimes. “Run!” I took his advice, and the two of us raced into the Lloyd Center with the paparazzi right on our heels. That’s when I started seeing the genius in his plan. Outside we would have been sitting ducks, but inside it was easier to blend and disappear. I was surprised the idea had not occurred to me.

“Come on.” I followed Logan until I saw the store and put on the brakes.

“No,” I said flatly. “No way.”

“Look,” Logan said quietly. “It’s either this”—he gestured to Victoria’s Secret’s unbearably pink sign—“or that.” I looked behind me and saw the press scanning the area.

“Fine.” I ducked inside with him. “But I resent this.”

He laughed but checked himself quickly.

“Don’t you think this is a tad, um … conspicuous?” Logan ignored me, reached into a hot pink drawer, and pulled out a dark purple bra.

“Act natural,” he muttered, and handed me the bra. Then, looking like he did this every day, he pulled me into one of the dressing room stalls. He settled himself on the minisofa looking pleased while I stared in shock.

I was in Victoria’s Secret, with Logan Beckett, holding a purple bra, and being chased by the press.

My life had officially become stranger than a Tim Burton movie.

“They won’t think to look in here,” Logan informed me as I sank to the floor.

I nodded and stared at my feet. “So do you come here often?” He laughed again, and I was struck by the niceness of the moment. It was weird, but I was actually having fun. Not something I had expected to happen.

“Oh yeah. I take all my dates here. Cozy, isn’t it?”

“Nice … ambiance,” I said, looking pointedly at the bra and hot pink couch.

“Pink is the new blue,” he replied. “Or so I’ve been told… .” I pulled my boring, straight brown hair out of my ponytail and let it fall around my face. “Oh, my god!” I channeled my inner Notable. “I heard that too! That’s total whatchimacallit!” “Completely,” he said, playing along.

“So you think it’s safe to leave yet?”

Logan shrugged. “Probably, but we should have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yeah, those reporters know what we look like. We’ll need a disguise.” He was having way too much fun with this.

I stared at him in disbelief. “Of course. Stupid me, I packed my superhero suit in my other backpack with my bundle of cash.” Logan pulled out his wallet, but I didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“You’re kidding me, right? You
cannot
keep spending money on me like some kind of sugar daddy.” Yes. I said the phrase “sugar daddy” to Logan Beckett.

Kill me now.

Logan’s mouth twitched into a grin. “I was thinking of a loan.” “A loan?” I repeated.

“Yeah. My parents pay you ten bucks an hour, right?” I nodded as he handed me a fifty-dollar bill. “Well, now you owe me five hours of your time.” I sighed. “Five and a half hours, actually. I still owe you for Starbucks from a few days ago.” He smiled. “You remembered.”

“Of course. So five and half hours …” I did some mental calculations. “If we start studying soon, I should be out of debt by the end of this week.” I nodded approvingly. “I can live with that.” “You know we could chalk up the coffee as a tutoring expense.” “A tutoring expense?” I repeated skeptically.

“Yeah, caffeine is a study agent that was once used as a form of currency.” “You remembered.” I was shocked that anything I said stuck with him. Maybe I wasn’t the worst tutor after all.

“Of course,” he repeated, mimicking me to perfection. I laughed.

“Five and a half hours and we’re square.” I couldn’t owe Logan money. “I pay my own way.” Just fingering the fifty-dollar bill was making me nervous. Or maybe it was the casual way he handed it over. Both sort of freaked me out.

“This probably isn’t necessary.” I tried to hand it back. “Really. I can just …” Logan ran his hand through his hair in frustration, something I had only seen him do while staring blankly at a history textbook.

“Look, just take it so we can leave. If we stay in here too long the store people will wonder what we’re up to.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Okay,” I said quickly. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s meet up at the ice skating rink in forty-five minutes.” We stepped out of the dressing room as he added in a louder voice, “I don’t think that bra is really you. Black is more your speed, Mack.” I glared but only saw his back as he left me alone in Victoria’s Secret with a bra in one hand and a fifty-dollar bill in the other. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder … well, I guess they did.

O
kay, so I took Corey’s advice. The press were searching for the Mackenzie they had seen earlier—the one with no makeup and no fashion sense. I had to look trendy, which isn’t easy for a girl on a tight budget. I bought a clingy, deep purple shirt that made my jeans look way less “baggy and sexless,” as Corey had put it earlier. In fact, I looked sexy in an I-could-do-martial-arts-and-then-go-on-a-date kind of way. A thin coat of mascara, eye shadow, and lip gloss from testers on display and I was a whole different girl. It’s crazy what a little makeup can do when someone’s desperate for a disguise.

Having gunk on my face felt strange but made it easier to leave the safety of the store. I decided to think of it as feminine war paint or a Halloween mask. I did my best to stroll casually to the rink and pretend I was a Notable. Really. I imagined that instead of Mackenzie Wellesley, Queen of Awkward, I was Chelsea Halloway, Queen of Smith High School. Would Chelsea ever slump or scuttle over to the mall ice skating area? No. So neither did I.

Even Logan had trouble recognizing me. His big disguise was a soft-looking gray cardigan, which was probably supposed to make him look preppy except it totally failed. He still looked like a rumpled Notable, what with his nicely fitting jeans and tousled dark brown hair. The sweater just made his gray eyes look smokier.

“Well,” he said when he saw me. “You look … different.” “And you look the same.”

“Yeah, well, I blend.”

I tried not to snort. Sure, he didn’t raise attention—except for every teenage girl’s hormonal, hot guy radar within a forty-foot radius.

“So let’s get our skates.”

The Portland Lloyd Center has a small crowded rink, which I’ve always thought was part of its charm. Couples and families skate endless circles together while little kids topple over everywhere.

“All right.”

Fifteen minutes later I was laced up and wondering what I’d gotten myself into. If I didn’t tutor him soon I’d feel guilty about the loan. I’d never done history on ice before.

“Are you sure this is a good plan?” I asked skeptically. “Why don’t we just sit somewhere and discuss the American Revolution?” “Scared?” His voice held a challenge.

I marched deliberately to the ice (as much as I could march in ice skates) and swiveled jerkily to face him. “You coming or not? We have studying to do.” Logan was on the ice in a matter of seconds. I thought he looked comfortable in the school hallways, but on ice it was like his whole body became an extension of the skates. He cut in front of me and turned in one fluid gesture so that we were face to face.

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Who was the second president of the United States?” I asked, looking over his shoulder to make sure he wouldn’t accidentally crush a toddler.

“John Adams. Relax, I know what I’m doing.” “The third president?”

“Thomas Jefferson.”

I wobbled on my skates. “Good.”

“Are you done with the easy stuff?”

Now, that caught me by surprise.

“I thought you preferred the easy stuff.”

He paused to consider. “I think I’m up for a challenge.” “Okay, I’ll give you a name, date, or event. You tell me everything you know about it.” I sensed him nod since my main focus was on finding my equilibrium. My Rollerblading prowess didn’t cross over, although I’d been careful to get hockey skates. Logan had raised an eyebrow when I rented them, but all I had to say was “no toe pick” and he understood. Figure skating toe picks and I don’t get along.

“Samuel Adams.”

“Beer,” he replied promptly.

“What?” My head jerked up too quickly and I lost my balance. The stupid skates sent me hurtling toward the ground, which was exactly what I deserved for thinking that I could tutor and skate at the same time. The Greeks had a word for that type of pride: hubris. And it usually came before a very long and painful fall.

“Oof!” I crashed into something solid but not cold enough to be the rink. When I realized I was gripping Logan’s new sweater for all I was worth I quickly apologized. “Sorry. It takes me a while to adjust to these things. I’d be fine on Rollerblades but ice skates …” “It’s a different type of motion,” he said, but his eyes seemed wary.

“Yeah.” I loosened my grip on his sweater and straightened.

“So you Rollerblade.” He tilted his head and looked me over. “How long have you done that?” “Twelve years and …” I did some quick math. “Five months.” Logan looked half-amused. “That’s precise.” “It was memorable.” I wasn’t smiling.

“What happened?”

“Well, my dad left. Twelve years and five months ago. Right after my …” I clamped my mouth shut.

“Your what?”

I looked at him with my most intense you-don’t-want-to-mess-with-me face. “This goes nowhere.” “Fine.”

“And no laughing.”

“Done.”

“Myballetrecital” I mumbled, hoping it would be too slurred for him to catch.

“You did ballet!” He choked. “Seriously?”

“We said no laughing! And it was just for a few months. My mom thought it might help my dad, well … accept that I’m a girl.” Logan raised his eyebrows at that. “He had trouble understanding the concept?” I smiled, but it felt a tad forced. “He was convinced I’d be a boy. He didn’t look at the sonogram because he was sure I’d be a boy named Mack. They had to extend my name to Mackenzie. I guess I’m just lucky that it works.” “Yeah, if they’d picked out Todd, that’d have been rough.” I laughed. “Yeah. Anyhow, I had a blue room and all these baseballs and stuff.” “Which you never used?”