These days, only a handful of my friends knew. At least, that’s what I thought.
Chris was smarter than everyone assumed. He put in the time when it came to History—and me. Three weeks. That’s how long it took before he kissed me. Two more weeks before he called me his girlfriend.
One more week before he asked if I’d let him copy off me during our midterm.
Seeing him at school and pretending I was fine when he cornered me with his half-assed apologies was hard enough. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Kennedy. But school isn’t as easy for me as it is for you. A scholarship is my only chance to get out of here. I thought you understood that.”
I understood perfectly, which was the reason I didn’t want to run into him tonight.
“I’m not going.”
Elle sighed. “He won’t be there. The team has an away game.”
“Fine. But if any of his loser friends are there, I’m leaving.”
She headed for the bathroom with her bag and a smug smile. “I’ll start getting ready.”
I picked at the half inch of black charcoal under my nails. They would require serious scrubbing unless I wanted to look like a mechanic. The giant Band-Aid on my arm already made me look like a burn victim. At least the theater would be dark.
The front door slammed downstairs, and Mom appeared in the hallway a moment later. “Staying home tonight?”
“I wish.” I tilted my head toward the bathroom. “Elle’s making me go to the movies with her.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Mom tried to sound casual, but I knew what she was worried about. She had baked brownies and listened to me cry about Chris for weeks.
“He’s not going to be there.”
She smiled. “Sounds dangerous. You run the risk of having a good time.” Then her expression changed, and she was all business. “Do you have cash?”
“Thirty bucks.”
“Is your cell charged?”
I pointed to my nightstand, where my phone was plugged in. “Yep.”
“Will anyone be drinking?”
“Mom, we’re going to a movie, not a party.”
“If for some reason there is drinking—”
I cut her off, reciting the rest by heart. “I’ll call you and you’ll pick me up, no questions asked, no consequences.”
She tugged on the strap of my overalls. “Is this what you’re wearing? It’s a good look.”
“Grunge is coming back. I’m ahead of the curve.”
Mom walked over to the easel and inhaled sharply. “It’s beautiful.” She put her arm around me and leaned her head against mine. “You’re so talented, and I can barely draw a straight line. You certainly didn’t get it from me.”
We ignored the other possible source.
She looked at the black dust coating my hands. “Earth-shattering talent aside, maybe you should take a shower.”
“I agree.” Elle emerged from the bathroom, ready enough for both of us in skinny jeans and a tank top strategically falling off one shoulder. Whoever she planned to flirt with tonight would definitely notice her, along with all the other guys in the theater. Even in a tangled ponytail and barely any makeup, Elle was hard to miss.
Another difference between us.
I wandered into the bathroom, my expectations for myself considerably lower. Getting rid of the charcoal under my nails would be a win.
Mom and Elle were whispering when I came back out.
“What’s the big secret?”
“Nothing.” Mom raised a shopping bag in the air, dangling it by the handle. “I just picked up something for you. I thought you might need them. Evidence of my psychic powers.”
I recognized the logo printed on the side. “Are those what I think they are?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know….”
I pulled out the box and tossed the lid on the floor. Resting in the folds of tissue paper was a pair of black boots with leather straps that buckled up the sides. I’d seen them a few weeks ago when we were shopping. They were perfect—different, but not too different.
“I thought they’d look great with your uniform,” she said, referring to the black jeans and faded T-shirts I wore every day.
“They’ll look amazing with anything.” I pulled on the boots and checked myself out in the mirror.
Elle nodded her approval. “Definitely cool.”
“They’ll probably look better without the bathrobe.” Mom waved a black tube in the air. “And maybe with a little mascara?”
I hated mascara. It was like fingerprints at the scene of a crime. If you cried, it was impossible to get rid of the black smudges under your eyes, which was almost as embarrassing as crying in front of everyone in the first place.
“It’s only a movie, and it gets all over my face whenever I put it on.” Or hours later, something I learned the hard way.
“There’s a trick.” Mom stood in front of me, brandishing the wand. “Look up.”
I gave in, hoping it might make me look more like Elle and less like the girl-next-door.