"KB, do you know where my shoes are?"
"Which ones?" Didn't Tiffany have any idea how many pairs of shoes she had?
"The green ones with the gold buckle. The short heel. You know!" Tiffany said loudly, shaking her arms up into the air.
"Four inches…yeah…short, alright." I muttered. "They're behind the couch. Where you threw them after complaining that breaking up with guys was too difficult. You know."
"Oh, yeah." Tiffany said thoughtfully, then grinned and darted into the living room. "Thanks, KB!"
I scowled at the nickname but shivered it off and sipped some orange juice. Unfortunately this was Monday morning, and Brooklyn went charging by me with her hair up in curlers. She rummaged through the refrigerator excitably before finding the leftovers from last night. Popping it open, she promptly began eating it with a plastic fork. She was the only one who would ever eat that…ugh, never mind. I wanted to vomit just thinking about watching her eat it.
"Can I borrow that sweater that ties at the side? You know, that's a smoky gray color." Brooklyn said around a mouthful of lasagna.
"Sure. You bought it." I said helpfully with a careless shrug.
"Because it looked good on you. Don't go complaining about what's-his-face-Hopewell if you don't want to dress decent! Catching my drift?" Brooklyn asked, cleaning the Tupperware and raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at me over her robed shoulder.
"That was a low blow." I hissed, glaring at her.
"I know." She grinned like being evil was something to be proud of. "When you've decided to get a makeover you know who to see?"
"Has hell frozen over? No? I guess no makeover!" I yelled after her, slamming my cup into the sink and washing it furiously. I squeezed a patch of soap the size of a saucer onto the sponge and lathered it up just to squeeze it all out again.
I hated it when Brooklyn went into one of those taunting, mocking moods. Just because she was beautiful, and had thick, rich, glossy black hair, and an athletic body at five, seven, and long, elegant fingers, and a slender, long neck like a giraffe—only not hairy—didn't mean she could go on saying that it was my fault I was boyfriend-less when she was so gorgeous and impossible to compete with. Yeah…so it's not like it's my fault that Brooklyn's so pretty and I'm so…not. She certainly doesn't need to shove it in my face.
Tucking the glass in the dishwasher, I turned to go back upstairs to my room. Tiffany came running by me again with her stupid green shoes on, and rummaged around in the front closet before pulling out a warm-looking, waist-accentuating coat to go over her fashionable V-neck empire-waist top. It was raining because this was…well…La Push. That was the hassle with good clothes—you had to worry about not ruining them. When you wear what I do—Chicago Cubs t-shirts, women's boot cut jeans (a good in between for skinny jeans and wide legs for my fat ass), worn converse, and old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses—water just doesn't matter. It made life easier.
"Can you guys be like, ready already!?" I asked loudly, stamping my feet agitatedly. Every Monday was like this—rushing around, looking for clothing—and it killed me. I was a simple person, not much sophistication, and their clutter was maddening. Usually the rushing continued until Thursday, gradually getting more and more organized. Friday was the calmest, as we were all tired from school and just wanted the weekend. However, Saturdays were equally bad, since Brooklyn and Tiffany always had dates and events that they needed to get ready for at six in the morning. God, just shoot me now.
"Coming, coming!" Tiffany said, her purse hanging off her shoulder. She didn't bring a backpack since she thought it was bulky and "unbecoming." Whatever.
"I'm ready." Brooklyn sighed as she came rushing downstairs, wearing dainty black sandal-heels and looking absolutely exquisite in the form-fitting sweater of mine. Damn it.
I grabbed a sweatshirt and draped it over my arm, my backpack in my hand. Outside, there was only one car, an old Honda Civic that used to be our mother's. It was in good condition, just an older model.
"The lucky girl with a permit can drive us today." Tiffany said, tossing me the keys.
"Great."
"It's like…a minute and thirty seconds to school. Don't even sweat it." Brooklyn said, getting into the passenger seat. Tiffany got into the back and using a compact mirror began applying mascara.
"Sure." I snorted. I was probably the only person in the world who could get into an accident just driving two blocks. Could that be considered a talent?
I was happy with my permit after a miserable, traumatizing, horrifying experience during a driving exam for my license. The test was up in Port Angeles and so my mother had to take a special trip to take me up there. Of course, she was overly excited about going, simply because it meant while I was suffering and sweating she could go shopping at department stores La Push didn't have. The test had ended with my proctor screaming bloody murder and throwing himself from the car afterwards. He claimed in huffing, uneven breaths that he would never give me a license so long as he lived and that I was a major health hazard. My mother thought it was hilarious when I relayed it back to her, but she was just in a good mood because she had found Prada shoes discounted down to only forty dollars. I hadn't paid that much for a pair of shoes since I could remember.
Sometimes the nerve of them just really got me.
I buckled up immediately and instructed Brooklyn and Tiffany to do the same but Tiffany ignored me. Shrugging, I put the car in reverse and pressed the pedal. We flew back and Tiffany shrieked, her mascara jerking and leaving a long black mark on her forehead. She let forth an uncouth string of curses that would've made our mom weep and rubbed at it furiously, smearing it. I had to laugh. I just had to.
"Oh shut it, KB. It's your fault. You can't drive if you have demon hounds on your butt." Tiffany grunted, pulling out a wipe from her purse and scrubbed off her forehead. It left a discolored smear where her foundation used to be, and with a cry of outrage she pulled out some powder foundation from her purse. She grumbled something incoherently and began brushing it on again. Rolling my eyes, I pressed the pedal slower and rolled down the driveway.
I began to turn out when Tiffany cleared her throat.
"Yeah?"
"School's in the other direction."
"Right, right." I nodded, blushing and quickly turning the wheel the other way.
The rest of the drive was relatively flawless. I almost hit the front bumper of the car I was pulling into the parking space across from but slammed on the brake quick enough. The old tires squealed and squeaked, and a group of boys off to the side with their beefed up, renovated Camaro's and Mustang's laughed. Well at least someone was laughing, because I certainly wasn't.
I grabbed my sweatshirt and backpack and got out, immediately throwing the keys to Brooklyn and stalking toward the small, one-story high school.
"Do I look okay?" I heard Tiffany ask. With a laugh at her Brooklyn proceeded to help her fix up. God forbid some boy should see them looking natural.
"Hey there, Kim." Lenora, my best friend, greeted me. She had obviously been waiting for me on the front steps and came up to greet me halfway.
"Hi."
"Good weekend?"
"What the hell do you think?" I grumbled.
"Right." Lenora laughed. She had stayed over once and after seeing Brooklyn and Tiffany on Saturday's mornings she had never stayed over again, nor did she come over before noon on Saturday's and Sunday's. "I went to Port Angeles this weekend and saw Drag Me to Hell. Fuck it was scary!"
"Really?" I wondered, perking up. I had an affinity for horror movies—it was like we were born to be together.
"Yeah. Everyone really liked it, too. I looked up reviews on it on Rotten Tomatoes and it had an approval rating in the nineties."
"Wow." I said honestly. Rotten Tomatoes was super critical on reviews. "So it was good? It's worth paying eight bucks?"
"Yeah! When you get to see everything in high-def and on the big-screen it is way scary! Plus it's so dark in the theater. You should go see it. But knowing you, you probably won't even think it's scary."
"Probably." I said.
"Isn't that sweater Brooklyn's wearing the one she bought for you for Christmas last year?"
"Yes."
"She's wearing it why?"
"Because it was 'cute' but I wouldn't 'wear' it. Sorry that I've got a fat ass and thunder thighs."
"What the hell does a top have to do with your ass?"
"It all works against you in the end, Lenny." I snorted matter-of-factly.
"Right." Lenora chuckled disbelievingly. "Believe me, you don't have thunder thighs. Have you seen Margie? She gains ten pounds like, every weekend. God, it's scary. You don't have a thing to worry about."
"She that bad? Does she have something?" I felt bad for getting involved in gossip, but it was Monday—what else is there to do?
"Alcohol and cigarettes are the most likely. I've read reports that girls smoke to lose weight but they become dependent on it and they gain weight. Or it could be alcohol. Her dad went into rehab when she was younger and he could've gone back."
"That's horrible." I said sincerely. I never liked to hear about dysfunctional home lives. It made me feel too fortunate that my family was close and kind to one another—and talked, for that matter.
"Yeah." Lenora nodded with a sigh. "Man, it's kind of sad the only gossip we have is pregnancy or drugs and alcohol."
"Small town." I shrugged truthfully.
"Ugh…we need something freaking fascinating."
"Not a serial rapists, please."
"Well, duh." Lenora rolled her eyes. "I was thinking more like car thefts, house fires, and robberies. Safe and interesting."
"Real safe. Next thing you know you're house is being broken into and you're raped. Then it turns into serial rapist."
"Oh God, Kim. You're so pessimistic it's disgusting. Weird, too." Lenora grinned. "Hey, did you ever see that Mimic copy I gave to you?"
"No. It's about bugs!" I squealed, shuddering. "No way in hell am I watching that."
"Geez, you're the only girl who can watch babies being impaled and disemboweled but won't watch a bug movie."
"It's scary."
"You're horror movie infatuation is scary, more like. But I guess that's why we like you, Kim."
"Thanks. I think." I twisted my face into a thoughtful grimace that Lenora chuckled at.
"So, how goes the secret love with Mr. Hopewell?" Lenora grinned at we neared our first period together.
"Oh, God, stop. Brooklyn already beat me up over that. She said I couldn't complain I'm never noticed if I don't start looking better. When have I ever complained about being noticed?" I snorted.
"Actually, never. Brooklyn is hoping that by twisting your words you'll suddenly be eager and willing to be a guinea pig for her harsh and cruel ways of the female."
"Has to be. It's not going to work. It's too much work to look nice."
"Really." Lenora snorted, even though she had no room to talk. Lenora grew up in a really shitty home. Not abusive or alcoholic or anything. Her parents were really close and they were a great family to each other, but her father was paralyzed from the waist down and couldn't work. His disability was only so much and her mother worked two jobs to make ends meet. Their house was kind of…falling apart. Lenora kept the house spotless and glimmering clean, but the fact of the matter was I was worried the place would collapse on her. But Lenora never went shopping or anything. She wore her mom's old clothes, which was usually eighties style clothing with loose paisley-print and floral dresses. She twisted the style and usually wore bright leggings and a wide belt around the waist and cheap flats. Lenora's style was unique, pretty, old-fashioned, and elegant. She was worried because it wasn't the "in" style, but she looked stunning anyway in my opinion. "Well I like you the way you are! And damn it all if nobody else has the guts to realize how intelligent, personable, sarcastic, and horror-movie-licious you are."
"Thanks!" I laughed happily, my day brightened by Lenora's honest remark. She would never lie to me. I didn't have low self-esteem per se, as much as I didn't care. It's La Push. Who the hell am I trying to impress anyway?
"Oh! Here he comes!" Lenora giggled behind her hand, seating herself directly in front of me.
That's right. He was exactly who I was worried about. Of course, he already knew I was frumpy and pathetic, which really was my own fault along with my naturally defective features, so aside from him there wasn't anyone to impress.
He was, of course, Jared Hopewell. In our small school of a hundred-ish he was probably the most fascinating of the boring, gossiping student body. I had known of him since kindergarten—along with every other kid in my sophomore classes—where he had been one of the crowd. He was an irritating, loud-mouthed little brat, who eventually morphed into a gorgeous, tall, fit, pleasant, caring, intelligent man. Around middle school everyone kind of started noticing him—what with puberty and all—and he became the designated "hottie of the school", or, in another dimension, the "football team captain" of those shitty teen movies from ages ago, except there wasn't a football team here. Girls flocked to him like moths to a light, and he was friends with any and every guy. He was athletic and strong, with a physique of a Greek god, except with the flawless sienna-colored skin of the Quileute's and a strong, masculine jaw line with handsome, mature, pronounced cheek bones. Because of that, I didn't feel so awful and pathetic for being so hopelessly fascinated with him. Any girl was. Lenora wasn't some kind of drooling maniac who flipped through Cosmo magazines looking for man meat. She was respectable and honest, and even she couldn't deny that Jared was a fine piece of ass in our little, uninteresting world.
When he entered the classroom virtually everyone in the room greeted him. Boys high-fived him and girls waved and fluttered their eyelashes prettily or hugged his arm. With a politeness and grace that was astounding for a guy of his size he would brush by them, effectively ending their closeness, and move on. Even the teacher greeted him, Mr. Bunt, known for his hard ass grading system and ruthless embarrassment of other students during class. Jared Hopewell was honest to God a stunning patch of sunlight in everyone's day here in sunless La Push. Which was exactly why I was sitting here, inwardly drooling all over myself and feeling even farther away from him than I did last Friday, though this was the exact routine of every single school day. He was everyone's in a weird ass, creepy way, and since I was on the unofficial "low end of the food chain" that meant he was less mine than everyone else. Everyone else got a piece of the wonderment that was Jared Hopewell except for me.
Fuck.
The hunk of man meat moved down the aisle, then, making his way to his seat. His best friend, Paul Lansing, followed close behind, grinning and high-fiving everybody else. Girls were equally infatuated with him, as I knew all too well. I had heard it too many times in the girls' restroom. While they did their makeup all they could talk about what how hot, smoking, fine Paul was, and how he was way more attainable than Jared, and proceed to enter this spiel about what they did last night in explicit detail. It was really sick. What was even sicker was that Jared probably knew what his friend did, and probably knew exactly what the girl's thought. This was a small town. You knew every side of every story.
Finally, Jared reached his seat. Directly to my left. Fucking terrible, if you ask me. Which no one ever did, but inside, I knew this was terrible. So close, yet so far, as they say. Which was exactly how I was feeling at this moment, as I saw his smiling, flawless, energetic face so close to me. His attention was directed to something a girl to his left was saying.
I loved how he was so polite and generous—the girl was Rebecca Yona, a sweet, kind girl who had been diagnosed with dyslexia when she was younger. He gave her his complete attention, listening to everything she said, and proceeded to explain to her last Friday's lesson and assignment. Rebecca wasn't dumb by any stretch, yet she was the only girl I knew who could outright talk to him and not stutter around. All the other girls blushed, fumbled, and mumbled. Rebecca was clear yet quiet in her questions, sometimes confused, and all Jared did was wait patiently and nod or question her kindly.
Could there be a man anymore perfect?
I sighed heavily.
"Jesus Christ, Kim. Why don't you take a pencil and just push it through your rib cage. Because that's what you look like right now, girl." Lenora snorted, rolling her eyes.
"Sorry." I mumbled hurriedly and shifted my eyes to hers.
"Hey, don't apologize to me. I know he's gorgeous and I know he's sweet. He's like God's gift to women."
"How can you be so…not even interested?"
"I don't know. Not my type, I guess. He needs more…fierceness…" Lenora bared her teeth like a wolf and bit at me. I laughed and shook my head.
"Weirdo."
"Well if it isn't Lenora Hayden."
"If it isn't the living, breathing hybrid child. His mother was a bitch and his father was the son of one." Lenora snarled, turning her sharp, stunning eyes to rest on Paul Lansing.
"How did the weekend go? Find any new stray animals to have sex with?"
"Just that raccoon you fucked Friday night and threw out in the morning."
"How the hell do you know about that?" Paul wondered, raising a dark eyebrow. Sunday I had heard a raccoon had gotten into his house. His parents called pest control and had them come get it in the morning. There were rumors that he had kept it in his room so it wasn't running all over. It's not like anyone really knew, so it was probably untrue. "Are you stalking me or something?"
"I don't need to stalk you, darling. You make everything known loud and clear."
"Really. Well here's something loud and clear: your ma fucked a white guy from California and tried to play her pregnancy off as your dad's."
Lenora's jaw tensed and ticked and she was leaning towards him, her face animalistic.
"Here's one. You fucked Jordan Lamborne's ma."
"You don't know that." Paul snarled, leaning close to her too, his teeth bared and his dark eyes even darker with rage.
"I heard her crying in the bathroom."
"Lying bitch."
"Looks like you're the lying bitch around here now, Polly."
"Hey! Both of you quit it! I don't want to hear one more cuss word, insult, or remark, for that matter." Mr. Bunt said loudly, finally breaking up the crackling, intense air in the room. "You act like you've hated each other in another life…"
"Stupid bitch…" Paul huffed under his breath as he collapsed into his seat. The only way his towering frame even fit in the desk was large amount of space between the front of his desk and the one ahead. Even with his legs bent and two feet of space in front of him he looked cramped and caged in the cheap seating.
"Mother fucker…literally…" Lenora snorted under her breath.
"Detention, both of you!" Mr. Bunt promptly yelled.
They both gritted their teeth and endured it, though I was sure they had some rather…exceptional insults flitting around in their heads. Phew, I'm glad that was over.
Lenora and Paul had hated each other since as long as I could remember. Like everyone in our class, we had all gone to school together since kindergarten. Paul and Jared had been best friends from the very beginning, but it wasn't until middle school that Lenora and I became close. Nonetheless she was a fiery person, always defensive and loud-mouthed, making sure her point was known. Oh, what a coincidence, Paul Lansing was the exact same way. So naturally, the two butted heads like rams fighting for territory. As children it was a manageable relationship. As we got older, and the words became more colorful and the events that Lenora taunted him about became more common, the butting of heads became gruesome. At the end of middle school their fighting had been raunchy and almost to the point of physical altercations. Today they had mastered it—with complete calmness they threw insults, flashed looks, and kept their hands to themselves. It wasn't any less tense or cruel, but the idea of suing for assault and battery was no longer possible.
To my left, Jared, rolling his eyes at the audacity of his friend, shoved him in the shoulder once. He was the only one with enough brawn to actually move the kid. Paul grumbled something, but Jared replied quickly and instantly Paul was chuckling and laughing again. Lenora was slumped over the desk of her seat, looking pissed and electrified. I gently tapped her shoulder.
"Are you okay?" I whispered.
"Fine." She grumbled.
"Lenora…" I said patiently. She huffed and turned to look at me, her eyes still sparkling. I wasn't as good at distracting Lenora as Jared was about distracting Paul. "He's a dirt bag."
"Well obviously." She chuckled.
"Don't tell me you take it seriously."
"Nah, I don't. It grates on my nerves, though."
"Clearly." I grinned. "Man, you guys get intense. Funny how we were just talking about fierce men and he butts in. In another life you guys would probably be a really good couple."
Obviously, this was not the thing to say. Lenora's eyes drooped down, and then flickered to her right where Paul was chatting with a group of guys nearby. Her lips tightened and her head recoiled. Instantly, I knew the problem.
Lenora liked—well maybe like was too strong a word. Lenora was interested in Paul Lansing.
Whoa…this was a really strange Monday.