Chapter two

Lena

Today is a masterpiece of awkwardness. And I am the main exhibit. I mean the exhibit that looks so weird on the wall but in a way you keep staring at it trying to figure out what the hell is this?

I wake up feeling like a spoiled burger someone left in the fridge a little too long. My hair…oh, my hair. Messy, not the sexy kind of messy.

I have tried to look like that but it was a total disaster.

This one has decided to do that magical thing where it looks greasy, frizzy, and tangled all at once…basically every horror story I’ve ever read about “morning hair.”

I tried squinting at myself in the mirror, hoping maybe this time I’ll see a version of me that doesn’t scream dumpster fire with auburn highlights. Surprise: no such luck.

Never actually had such luck since they gave birth to me.

Breakfast is toast, two bites of peanut butter, and a heavy side of existential dread.

Last night’s delivery replays in my head like a bad, slow-motion nightmare. The one that ended in full-blown disaster at the ridiculously loud, pool-lit, snooker-and-swag nightmare mansion.

I try to convince myself its fine. Really. Because, technically, I survived. Yeah…survived

Nobody threw a drink at me. Nobody…well, nobody laughed too hard. But I did get stared at. By someone. A very specific someone.

I shuffle to school, my backpack digging into my shoulder like a torture device, my shoulder feeling tight and slightly painful from deliveries and this God damn bag pack.

Ridgewood High is…well…Ridgewood High. Popularity is currency, and I am officially bankrupt.

And then, of course, Derek Hayes shows up.  Alert!  Everyone else’s noses seem magnetically drawn toward him, like he’s some local sun everyone orbits.

I know I shouldn’t care. Really. I’m invisible. That’s my thing. But my brain has other plans. It screams, “Notice him! Watch him flirt with a supermodel! DIE INSIDE, LENA!”

 Really fucked and messed…

There he is. Leaning against the brick wall, casually perfect. Abs you’ll never touch, charm you can’t get to even understand, and a football legacy you can’t seem to escape.

 He’s talking to some girl whose hair is shiny, long, and disturbingly perfect...I wish hair could see what its mates are doing.

The girl is laughing at something…probably a joke I didn’t hear, but clearly it’s hilarious, because she’s perfect.

And me? I’m standing two steps from a trash can, considering hiding behind it like a responsible adult. I stare at my shoelaces like they are the most annoying objects in the universe, hoping maybe nobody notices I exist.

I do not notice him.

I do not notice him.

I do not notice him.

I chanted this in my head for minutes but I actually did notice him.

God! What the hell is wrong with me?!

He turns. And I swear, if looks could slice through the air, I’d be in thick slices by now.

He sees me…or at least I think he does.

Maybe he’s scanning for last night’s cafeteria spill victim. Please universe, let it be someone else.

I clutch my notebook like it’s a magical shield that might stop his gaze from burning me alive. Big mistake.

Because of course, I bump into him. Not gently. Not “oops, my bad.” No. I collide with him like a refrigerator on wheels. My notebook goes flying. His hand…big, strong, ridiculously capable snatches it from the air.

“Whoa,” he says. Just…whoa. No “careful,” no “hi,” no “nice to meet you.” Just whoa. And somehow it’s equal parts amused and analyzing, like I’m some fascinating anomaly.

I grab it back, mumbling something that comes out as:

“Uh…oops…yeah…hi…not…sorry?”

Smooth, Lena. Real smooth.

He smirks. Of course he smirks.

 Bad boy quarterback smirk activated. The one that makes you rethink your entire life and question why your mother ever allowed you to leave the house. With your hair. Like this.

Not that I have an issue with my hair or maybe I do. I just don't know what to feel this morning.

I shove my notebook into my bag and attempt the tiptoeing of a ninja. Naturally, I trip over my own feet and emit a squeak that probably echoed across the hallway. Someone definitely heard it. Probably him.

Yeah…I am the clumsiest person alive when I am nervous or unsettled.

I glanced back. He’s still watching. Always watching. I hate him already.

I keep moving.

And then he does that thing. The thing where he leans closer to the perfect girl again, flashing the smile, tossing his hair. Seriously. Who told him that worked? I clench my fists, not to hit him, because I am rational but because my brain is screaming. Why is he like this? Why am I staring? Simultaneously.

I think about pretending to drop something again. Maybe a book this time. But I gave up immediately it crossed my mind.

I made it to class, slid into the corner like a naked ghost. Notebook open. Pen adjusted. Not writing anything per se just staring at the window, willing the football field beyond to be just scenery. Maybe, if I squint really hard, Derek Hayes will be a reflection and I won’t actually hyperventilate.

Then the gods decided to add insult to injury.

The teacher asks a question. I raise my hand. I will answer. I will shine today and probably get some sprinkle of respect and admiration…hmmm

I stood up. And that’s when my chair…betrays me.

A loud, unmistakable fart echoes across the room.

Silence. Full-on laughter.

“Oh my God…is that—?”

“Too much lunch,” someone whispers.

“Classic Lena,” another guy said.

I want to melt. Melt, disappear, and dissolve into my pencil case or anything. I wave my hands like a panicked magician.

“I-it’s the chair! Totally the chair! Not me!”

No one listens. Of course not.

And Derek Hayes…

He slams his hand on the desk. Once. Just once. Silence. Everyone freezes like the villain just walked in.

“Will you all reduce your noise?”

He looked at me. Not a glance. Not a flick. That look. The one that lingers too long, ignores chaos, dissects, maybe judges, maybe…amuses.

He packs his bag angrily, slowly and intentionally.

 The suspense stretches like elastic.

Then he stops. Right beside me. Close enough to smell his cologne without making it obvious. Fingers resting casually on the desk.

“Do you…cause a scene everywhere you go?”

Calm. Measured. Dangerous. I want to crawl under the desk and vanish forever.

“I-it was the chair!” I squeak.

“Sure,” he says. Quiet. Somehow sarcastic.

That Derek Hayes energy that makes disappearing seem like a really good idea.

Class doesn’t move. No one breathes. I realize, with horrifying clarity, that this one disaster just made him notice me even more.

I slump back in my chair, cheeks burning like I’ve been sunburned in the Sahara desert.

And Derek Hayes, star quarterback, heartbreaker extraordinaire, ignoring the fact that I just farted in front of the entire class…returns to his seat like he’s won some private victory…after what seemed like eternity.

I have no words.

I hate him. And…somehow, I don’t.