Unwritten
Page 7
Not like me.
I wonder for a moment what it would be like to have that kind of self-possession. To do or say anything I wanted and not worry about the whispers and teasing that seem to follow me around, no matter what I do.
Blake turns to look at me. “So why are you hiding out here and not off with the rest of the girls?”
“I’m not hiding,” I say quickly, pushing my glasses up my nose.
He raises an eyebrow.
I pause. He’s just a stranger, but there’s something about him that makes me open my mouth and admit, “I don’t have any friends.”
I cringe, hearing the words come out. Being friendless seems like the biggest crime of all when you’re a teenage girl. Better to be bitchy, or slutty, or a nerd—as long as you have someone in your corner. But alone? What’s more pathetic than that?
Blake just shrugs. “So fuck ’em.”
I gape. “Aren’t you supposed to give me a pep talk? Tell me to join a club or something.”
He laughs. “Nah, that won’t help. From what I’ve seen, teenage girls are vicious. Turn your back for a second, and boom, they strike.”
I giggle despite myself.
He smiles. “See? You just need to make it through the next couple of years. Then I promise, this won’t mean a thing.”
I look at him hopefully. “Really?”
He nods. “You want to know a secret?” He leans in closer. My heartbeat quickens. “I was a loser in high school.”
“No way!” I protest. “You were probably like, prom king.”
Blake pauses.
“See, you were!” I laugh.
“Well, homecoming prince,” he corrects me, grinning. “But that was later. Freshman year, I was just another skinny kid getting stuffed in lockers and picked last for teams.”
I can’t believe it. “So what changed?”
He shrugs. “I hit a growth spurt, started working out with my big brother, and figured out how to fake the popular thing.”
“Gee, that’s going to help me,” I sigh. “If I get any taller, they’ll start calling me Godzilla instead of giraffe.”
Blake winces. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
I slump lower. This is what my life has come to: pity, from the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.
“It’ll be OK,” he says quietly. “You can get through this. It’s only high school.”
“It’s only high school,” I repeat, trying to believe it.
“Stop hiding, stop apologizing, tell them to go fuck themselves.” Blake gives me a supportive grin. “I believe in you.”
I shake my head, smiling. “You don’t even know me.” Like I could tell anyone to go fuck themselves. I can’t even say the word out loud.
“I have great instincts.” Blake winks.
His cellphone buzzes, he glances down. “That’s my cue.”
I feel a strange pang of disappointment. Blake unfolds his limbs and gets up. “Thanks for the hide-out, Zoey.” he smiles.
“Um, you too.” I blink up at him. He towers over me for a moment, the sun hitting just right behind his head, a shimmering halo of gold.
His lips curve in a sympathetic smile. “It just takes one friend to make everything OK.” He says, “One day, you’ll look back on this moment right now, and wonder how you ever let them hurt you so much.” Then he’s turning and walking away, around the corner and out of sight.
Out of my life forever.
At least, that’s what I thought.
3.
Now
I set my alarm for five a.m. and spend an hour in the bathroom to look as if I just rolled out of bed. I’ve decided to act like yesterday at the beach never happened: I’m trying to overcome six years of bad first impressions with Blake, one more false start isn’t going to hurt. My problem is whenever he looks at me, he still sees that gawky teenager I was the first day we met. Making him see me as the sophisticated, sexy woman I am now is going to take more than one good hair day.
But it doesn’t hurt to try.
Since I’m going to be running around all day on-set, I dress deceptively casual: jeans, boots, a light sweater and blazer. But these jeans are magic, hugging what curves I do have, and my jacket is crisp and professional. I finish it off with some mascara and lip stain, grab my leather satchel, and head for the stairs, trying to be quiet and not wake the other guests at Mrs. Olsen’s B&B.
I’m halfway to the front door when a voice pipes up behind me. “No breakfast, sweetie?”
I turn. Mrs. Olsen herself is in the kitchen doorway, an apron tied around her waist. A petite, spry woman in her early seventies, her grey hair is pulled back with a patterned floral scarf, and although it’s early, she already has an armful of jangling bracelets on each arm.
“I’ll just grab some coffee on my way, thanks,” I tell her.
She tuts at me in a grandmotherly way. “You need something. It’s the most important meal of the day. Here, take a muffin.”
Before I can object, she disappears back into the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a basket of fresh-baked muffins and scones.
“Thank you, but this is too much. I can’t eat all of these!” I try to give the basket back, but Mrs. Olsen insists.
“Then share them around.” She steers me to the door with a pat. “They eat in Hollywood, don’t they? You could use a few extra pounds, dear. Men like something to hold on to at night.” She sends me out the door with a wink.
I wonder for a moment what it would be like to have that kind of self-possession. To do or say anything I wanted and not worry about the whispers and teasing that seem to follow me around, no matter what I do.
Blake turns to look at me. “So why are you hiding out here and not off with the rest of the girls?”
“I’m not hiding,” I say quickly, pushing my glasses up my nose.
He raises an eyebrow.
I pause. He’s just a stranger, but there’s something about him that makes me open my mouth and admit, “I don’t have any friends.”
I cringe, hearing the words come out. Being friendless seems like the biggest crime of all when you’re a teenage girl. Better to be bitchy, or slutty, or a nerd—as long as you have someone in your corner. But alone? What’s more pathetic than that?
Blake just shrugs. “So fuck ’em.”
I gape. “Aren’t you supposed to give me a pep talk? Tell me to join a club or something.”
He laughs. “Nah, that won’t help. From what I’ve seen, teenage girls are vicious. Turn your back for a second, and boom, they strike.”
I giggle despite myself.
He smiles. “See? You just need to make it through the next couple of years. Then I promise, this won’t mean a thing.”
I look at him hopefully. “Really?”
He nods. “You want to know a secret?” He leans in closer. My heartbeat quickens. “I was a loser in high school.”
“No way!” I protest. “You were probably like, prom king.”
Blake pauses.
“See, you were!” I laugh.
“Well, homecoming prince,” he corrects me, grinning. “But that was later. Freshman year, I was just another skinny kid getting stuffed in lockers and picked last for teams.”
I can’t believe it. “So what changed?”
He shrugs. “I hit a growth spurt, started working out with my big brother, and figured out how to fake the popular thing.”
“Gee, that’s going to help me,” I sigh. “If I get any taller, they’ll start calling me Godzilla instead of giraffe.”
Blake winces. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
I slump lower. This is what my life has come to: pity, from the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.
“It’ll be OK,” he says quietly. “You can get through this. It’s only high school.”
“It’s only high school,” I repeat, trying to believe it.
“Stop hiding, stop apologizing, tell them to go fuck themselves.” Blake gives me a supportive grin. “I believe in you.”
I shake my head, smiling. “You don’t even know me.” Like I could tell anyone to go fuck themselves. I can’t even say the word out loud.
“I have great instincts.” Blake winks.
His cellphone buzzes, he glances down. “That’s my cue.”
I feel a strange pang of disappointment. Blake unfolds his limbs and gets up. “Thanks for the hide-out, Zoey.” he smiles.
“Um, you too.” I blink up at him. He towers over me for a moment, the sun hitting just right behind his head, a shimmering halo of gold.
His lips curve in a sympathetic smile. “It just takes one friend to make everything OK.” He says, “One day, you’ll look back on this moment right now, and wonder how you ever let them hurt you so much.” Then he’s turning and walking away, around the corner and out of sight.
Out of my life forever.
At least, that’s what I thought.
3.
Now
I set my alarm for five a.m. and spend an hour in the bathroom to look as if I just rolled out of bed. I’ve decided to act like yesterday at the beach never happened: I’m trying to overcome six years of bad first impressions with Blake, one more false start isn’t going to hurt. My problem is whenever he looks at me, he still sees that gawky teenager I was the first day we met. Making him see me as the sophisticated, sexy woman I am now is going to take more than one good hair day.
But it doesn’t hurt to try.
Since I’m going to be running around all day on-set, I dress deceptively casual: jeans, boots, a light sweater and blazer. But these jeans are magic, hugging what curves I do have, and my jacket is crisp and professional. I finish it off with some mascara and lip stain, grab my leather satchel, and head for the stairs, trying to be quiet and not wake the other guests at Mrs. Olsen’s B&B.
I’m halfway to the front door when a voice pipes up behind me. “No breakfast, sweetie?”
I turn. Mrs. Olsen herself is in the kitchen doorway, an apron tied around her waist. A petite, spry woman in her early seventies, her grey hair is pulled back with a patterned floral scarf, and although it’s early, she already has an armful of jangling bracelets on each arm.
“I’ll just grab some coffee on my way, thanks,” I tell her.
She tuts at me in a grandmotherly way. “You need something. It’s the most important meal of the day. Here, take a muffin.”
Before I can object, she disappears back into the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a basket of fresh-baked muffins and scones.
“Thank you, but this is too much. I can’t eat all of these!” I try to give the basket back, but Mrs. Olsen insists.
“Then share them around.” She steers me to the door with a pat. “They eat in Hollywood, don’t they? You could use a few extra pounds, dear. Men like something to hold on to at night.” She sends me out the door with a wink.
