Awkward (25 page)

I laughed and looked back at the mic. “Not at the moment.”

“Then I don’t think you need to worry about it. You seem plenty interesting to me. You’re going to be great.”

“Ellen, we’re starting in five, four, three, two …” one of the cameramen announced loudly.

“Hi, so we’re back with Mackenzie Wellesley and ReadySet. You ready, Mackenzie?”

I smiled. “I think so.”

And for the first time in the past two weeks, I felt sure. I had practiced on the bus with these guys for hours. If I had sucked, they would have let me know. So I took my position in the group before I gave Tim my nod.

The band burst into life, and I was in the heart of it. It was even better than it had been at the Rose Garden in Portland. For one thing, this time I knew exactly what Tim wanted—he’d drilled me on it long enough in the bus. I still felt the churning of adrenaline and panic, but I tamped it down. Some part of me kept saying,
This is your first and last major performance, Mackenzie! Make it good!

I rocked out to the music. I kept my eyes on Corey in the audience and belted the song out like I was in my bedroom back home. The nice thing about singing is that when you do it, you’re not expected to dance. So Tim and I hit the vocals with everything we had, and Corey would probably say I sang with “attitude” into the mic. It was like my own Sasha Fierce had jumped out and taken over. Except, I felt right somehow. More than that, I felt brave.

The whole thing was finished almost as quickly as it had begun. I was shooed offstage before Ellen conducted an interview with a real A-list star (I think it was Robert Pattinson promoting his latest movie). Not that I cared, because the second we were backstage I was engulfed in a huge group hug. Tim kept crowing, “Did you hear that! We were fricking awesome!”

Only he didn’t say “fricking,” and I didn’t make any comments on his language.

“That,” I said when I could finally speak, “was amazing!”

Tim whipped out his cell phone. “I’m going to see if we can get an earlier time slot at that recording studio. I want to drop this single fast.” He flashed me his most charming smile. “You were dead-on. Damn, Mackenzie. You were freaking perfect. You can’t go back to Oregon now. We need you for vocals.”

Tim didn’t say “freaking,” either, but I was more distracted by the way Chris and Dominic were nodding their heads in agreement like synchronized bobbleheads.

I gave myself one moment to fantasize about how my life could be as a member of ReadySet. Spending my life on the road and in recording studios, going to events like the Grammys, and chatting at parties with people like Robert Pattinson about Ellen and other mutual friends. It sounded pretty damn cool. Except …

“I have to go back home, just like I had to come here. I had to prove to myself that I could face the press. But now”—I shrugged—“I’m ready to say good-bye to the music industry and fade from the public eye.”

Tim’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me! I thought that was just to build up the story! You can’t
stop.
You had so much fun onstage!”

I pictured Jane and Melanie eating lunch together with the other new freshman girls in my absence. “I’ll have fun at home too. I’ll record the song, and if any of you are ever near Portland, you can always crash at my place. I’m seriously going to miss you guys.” I wrapped my arms around Chris and then Dominic. “But as much as I hate it, I’m not finished with high school.”

Tim couldn’t accept that easily. He spent the rest of the day trying to convince me to change my mind or, in his words, “to stop being such an idiot.” I didn’t take offense. It actually felt good to be wanted as we laid down my vocals in the studio. . . even though the process seemed to take forever. We had to order in pizza because the time crunch was so intense, what with our flight back to Portland the next morning. We even had cots brought into the studio so that we could nap while technicians tinkered with equipment. Apparently that’s how rock stars pull all-nighters. By the time my part of the track was finished, all of us were so exhausted we only had the energy to exchange sleepy good-byes. Tim made me promise to keep in touch even if I persisted in “ignoring the opportunity of a lifetime.” And while I didn’t think I was making a mistake, even in my sleep-deprived state, I knew I was going to miss them.

Dominic, Chris, and I went to hail a cab so that Tim and Corey could have some privacy with their good-bye. Judging by the gleam in Corey’s eyes they’d definitely moved beyond handholding. Well, that and the fact that he spent the entire ride to the airport as well as the flight back to Portland discussing the likelihood of a long-distance relationship working out. I listened as he tried to convince himself it would be a snap. Then I had to make supportive cooing noises as he showed me all the text messages he and Tim had sent each other.

I really hoped I’d never been this annoying with my guy issues.

The whole thing was sickeningly cute. Especially since the closer we got to landing in Portland, the more nervous I became. What the hell had I been thinking telling that much about my personal life on
Ellen
? I’d just
had
to start babbling, only this time what came out was way worse than a random historical fact. “I love you boy” was going to want me to drop dead. He probably wasn’t the only one either. I briefly considered starting a list of people who had reason to hate my guts.

Patrick. Alex. Chelsea. Logan.

I slowly realized that I had mentioned Logan on national television—worse, I had admitted to having a crush on him. I really hoped that whole making-out-with-Chelsea thing wasn’t supposed to be a secret, because it was definitely going to come out now. Spencer would probably hate me too—if he didn’t already.

It looked like I had a whole lot of groveling to do.

So I was lost in my thoughts when Corey’s parents picked us up at the airport. Thankfully they were the only welcoming committee. Apparently, my very public interview had done what my hiding hadn’t—made me a nonissue. Tim had told me last night that since I had made it clear the two of us weren’t dating, I was officially a C-list star. At least one thing was going my way. I didn’t have to say anything in the car, because Corey was speaking so quickly that I couldn’t get a word in edgewise—which let me continue stewing over my life in peace.

My financial situation was different now. I hadn’t even begun to process the coolness of laying down a track when Tim’s agent handed me paperwork for the royalties on the song I was now being featured in. That’s right: royalties.

I probably should have seen it coming, but to be honest I was really doing the whole recording thing as a favor. After all the work we put into perfecting the song on the bus, there was no way I could back out of recording it. But it honestly never occurred to me that I’d be getting paid. Even if, according to Tim, it was a pittance of what I could make if I stayed on.

That royalties thing had changed everything. Sure, it was just one song, but as soon as that album dropped (and you know it’s going to go platinum. This is
ReadySet
we’re talking about!) I was going to receive checks in the mail. The whole thing was crazy, especially knowing that millions of people would snag it from iTunes. Even if I only got a nickel from every download … that was a lot of nickels.

And yeah, I wasn’t going to suddenly buy my mom a nicer house, but paying for college without a mountain of student loans didn’t seem quite so impossible. Not to mention I now had an awesome topic for an application essay.

All it took was humiliating myself on the Internet to make all my dreams come true.

Well, most of them.

Maybe some of those dreams, like having Patrick interested in me and getting my dad’s attention, had been awful … but at least my family was still intact.

But some of my dreams, like expanding my social group beyond Corey and Jane, had worked shockingly well.

I’d been brave too. After years of hiding in the wings, I’d conquered the center stage. I’d even out-Notabled the Notables, and I still thought I was pretty much the same person. If I could handle all of that, I could probably even take on Chelsea Halloway … although I would still prefer not to.

Now I just had to see whether I could work my way through an apology with someone who might very possibly want me dead.

I
only made a couple stops between my home and the hockey rink. Corey’s parents dropped me off and I lugged my stuff up to my room, called my mom so she wouldn’t worry, and showered off the sweaty nastiness that came from being squeezed in a tiny plane between Corey and an obese armrest hog.

There was no way I could make it for any part of the school day. Okay,
technically
I could’ve gone to school to pick up more assignments, but that could wait for one more day. So keeping a close eye on the clock, I slipped into a casual outfit of jeans, flats, and a loose plaid shirt over a plain tee and a jacket. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed for attention—normal regular clothes that felt like me.

Once I was dressed, I grabbed my roomy messenger tote, an old pair of Dylan’s hockey skates, and my iPod. I had to move fast in case I lost my nerve. I spent the whole plane ride going through “what-if” scenarios, but there was only one way to find out. So I put on my happiest, most chipper music and I tried to enjoy the walk. The weather was surprisingly nice for December in Forest Grove. There were still heavy clouds—Oregon weather practically requires it to be overcast—but there were icy patches of blue peeking out here and there. And there were twinkle lights hanging on the buildings and trees that would light up the puny downtown beautifully when night fell. The chill air felt good against my skin, making me appreciate the warmth of the bank even more when I walked in to make my first withdrawal after years of deposits.

It was weird having money in my pocket. I didn’t even think to bring a wallet since I had never needed one before. I quickened my pace, ducked into a Blockbuster, and tried not to overthink my situation.
Just go with your instincts,
I told myself,
like a jungle cat or something.

Shaking my head at the inane metaphor, I paused only to tuck my overthought-so-it-doesn’t-really-count-as-an-impulse-buy purchase into my bag next to the skates. As I approached the rink I told myself I was doing the right thing. This was much better than an impersonal text message saying “Let’s talk” or an awkward phone message of me going, “Uh, hey, Logan. It’s me, Mackenzie. Um … so, this is awkward. Can we, um, get together and talk?”

Meeting up with him at the hockey rink wasn’t
stalking,
I told myself. It wasn’t my fault I had his schedule memorized. If he hadn’t wanted me to know where he’d be, then he never should have hired me in the first place. It wasn’t like now that I was no longer his tutor, his schedule flew right out of my head.

It’d be better for this particular confrontation
not
to take place at school. I stepped into the chill of the hockey rink, as cold radiated from the ice. I zipped up my jacket and felt a rush of adrenaline spike through my system.

Down girl,
I told myself.
You handled being on
Ellen
. You can handle this.

I settled down into the booth, only instead of pulling out textbooks so I could pretend to be working while I secretly watched the guys, I took out the skates and began lacing up.

I waited nervously for the practice to be over. I stood up when the coach blew his whistle and made my approach while everyone was paying attention to his words of advice or whatever it was he was saying.

I was standing right by the entrance to the ice when the guys started leaving. Most of them looked at me curiously but kept going right past me and into the locker room. I could hear the little voice in my head screaming,
MAYDAY! MAYDAY!
ABORT
MISSION! ABORT!!!

Did I listen? No-o-o.

“Uh, hey, Patrick,” I said, as he started to move past me. “How’s it going?”

Stupid. Stupid.

He gave me a look that had about as much heat as the ice he’d just left. “Fine.”

“Good.”

He nodded and left, leaving me oddly pleased that we’d managed one short, polite conversation.

Maybe he didn’t completely hate me. That was something.

Spencer tossed a friendly smile my way when he noticed me standing there. He was locked in conversation with Logan and the coach, and as I watched he elbowed Logan and jerked his head ever so slightly in my direction.

I watched Logan as his eyes scanned the area Spencer had indicated before they settled on me. There was a long pause and I couldn’t move. Logan was fifteen feet away listening to the coach and looking right through me. Spencer muttered something that I couldn’t catch, but Logan’s disinterested shrug needed no translation.

I fought the urge to flee by reminding myself that I couldn’t run away every time I felt uncomfortable, embarrassed, or hurt. Plus I really couldn’t make a quick or graceful getaway in hockey skates. At best I could waddle back to the booth and try to exchange the skates for sneakers before Logan could reach me—but then I’d only look like a coward. So I stiffened my back and, clutching my messenger bag for good luck, I stepped onto thin ice—metaphorically and literally.

The coach, a pudgy balding man in a Windbreaker, laid a thick hand on Logan’s shoulder and said something about watching the defensive line before skating away. I moved slowly onto the ice toward the boys. It felt like a horrible dream where every time you’re about to cross the finish line it jumps back another twenty feet. Cautiously I adjusted to having ice under me and was able to glide over to them.

“Uh, hey,” I said, and turned to Spencer first because looking at him was easier than seeing the complete disinterest radiating off of Logan. “Sorry about … you know, getting trashed at your party. Not my finest moment.”

He laughed. “Next time we’ll have you stick to Coke.”

Which made me feel a flutter of hope because he’d just said, “Next time.” As in, I could come back even though I had thoroughly humiliated myself the first time. Maybe I wasn’t completely in the doghouse after all. I looked at Logan to see what he made of this whole “next time” thing, but he just seemed bored.