Awkwardly Ever After (12 page)

And just like that, I was the geeky half of Smith High School's most unlikely couple.

I
t's amazing how quickly rumors can spread.

By the time Spencer released me so that I could walk the rest of the way to my psychology class alone, the damage was done. Everyone at Smith High School was whispering that Spencer King was hooking up with that “Isodore-chick.” They didn't even bother getting my name right. Not that they had any incentive to fact-check the gossip. Why would they bother themselves over trivial details like the truth when they could snicker in my general direction?

I didn't want to hear the whispers.

I knew that the stories most likely to spread were going to be the very worst of the bunch. Rumors that he was with me because I was seriously kinky in the bedroom. That I had agreed to do all of his schoolwork for him. Or maybe that one of his hockey buddies had dared him to get into my pants.

Whatever they came up with, they'd all believe that he was scraping the bottom of the barrel with me.

I wondered what they would say if I told everyone the truth; that the only thing I had offered was friendship.

Probably that they had known it all along. That
of course
he wouldn't actually be interested in having sex with me. Spencer King had standards, after all.

High school was such a lovely place.

Still, I kept my head down and focused on my classes for the rest of the day. I only had to make it through the next three years and then all of this crap would be relegated to entertaining anecdotes that I'd tell when in the presence of my college friends. And all of them would say supportive stuff like, “Are you
kidding
me? You're gorgeous, Izzie! Those kids must have been seriously twisted!”

And I would nod and then shrug and say something like, “Oh, high school, I've nearly blocked all of it out. You couldn't pay me enough to relive those years!”

Then the conversation would move on to something else, and future Isobel would fall asleep thinking of the exciting plans she had for the next day instead of obsessing about the past.

I just had to give time a chance to make these years seem less terrible. Maybe someday I'd be able to get all nostalgic about my lunches with Melanie, Jane, and Mackenzie.

Maybe . . . but I doubted it.

I didn't exactly have hours to kill dwelling on the emotional state of future Izzie when the entire school was trying to analyze my every move. If this was what it was like to be a Notable, they could keep their popularity. I certainly didn't want it.

I nearly burst out laughing when I remembered the way Spencer had tried to dangle the promise of notoriety like a carrot only the day before. Nobody in their right mind would
seek
this kind of scrutiny. Although at least nobody was repeating the rumors to my face.

Or they hadn't . . . yet.

It was only a matter of time before some girl in one of my classes tried to pump me for information under the guise of being “friendly.” Then she'd probably act all offended if I brushed her off. If one of my friends actually wanted to discuss it with me, I'd be fine with that.... But someone who had never said more to me than, “Heyyyy . . . can I borrow a pen?” didn't deserve to know the details.

Not that I was in much of a position to share; I didn't have a clue what was going on. Spencer had said he wanted to hang out after his hockey practice, but that could have been entirely for Steffani Larson's behalf. Something to get the gossip mills whipped into a frenzy. It didn't actually mean that he had any intention of spending time with me.

He just wanted everyone to think that we'd be meeting up for a prearranged booty call.

My stomach flopped. I didn't want
this.
I hadn't thought the plan through very far, but these whispers certainly hadn't been part of it. Then again, I'd figured it would be enough of a stretch getting people to believe that he wanted to date me without adding in a sexual component.

What I hadn't factored into my calculations was that with Spencer King, everyone took sex as a given.

And now that those rumors included me, I wondered whether Spencer's reputation had actually been earned. Sure, he'd had sex with girls at our school. That was common knowledge. But I had never heard him brag about it, certainly not with any kind of seriousness. He acted like it was all some kind of joke. So maybe he had adopted humor as a coping strategy to handle the scrutiny that was unnerving me. If his fellow classmates were going to whisper no matter what, maybe he'd simply chosen to raise one cynical eyebrow and smirk until someone else stepped into the spotlight.

It was undoubtedly more effective than adjusting glasses and wiping sweaty palms against the denim of worn jeans.

The weirdest part of the whole day was speculating on whether or not I should expect to see him at my house later that day. Whether I should warn my parents that their little girl would be receiving a gentleman caller whose interest rested solely in harnessing her geek power for his own nefarious purposes. Especially when I still didn't know if I even
wanted
his friendship.

Funny that I had absentmindedly accepted that befriending Spencer King would be great without considering the baggage included in the package deal. I had been too intrigued with the idea of setting myself apart. Too determined to leave Smith High School secure in the knowledge that I had done something memorable. That no matter what kind of glamorous life awaited Spencer, he'd always think of me fondly as a girl with integrity.

I wanted to leave an indelible mark that said,
Isobel Peters was here.

But did that make me any different from anyone else at this fracking school?

For a girl who was supposed to have all the answers, I was sure coming up empty far too often. Or maybe I'd just been asking myself the wrong questions for a whole lot longer than I wanted to admit. Normally, I would've asked Melanie for advice, but I reached the school parking lot just in time to see her head toward Mackenzie's house. Apparently she hadn't cut things off with Dylan, which left me with a limited number of options. I could help Jane and Scott plot world domination from the headquarters of
The Smithsonian
or try to message Sam while she sat in detention for her most recent act of civil disobedience. But I wasn't sure I wanted to discuss Spencer with anyone, let alone two girls who had their thumbs pressed firmly against the pulse of Smith High School. There was no way they would let the rumors that Spencer and I had a clothing-optional arrangement die out on their own. And the last thing I needed was for a reporter and a rabble-rouser to get indignant on my behalf.

So I walked home and waited.

Of course, I told myself that I wasn't some pathetic girl who put her life on hold in case some boy decided to make a move. I legitimately wanted to spend my time rewatching the second season of
Battlestar Galactica,
and if I happened to think that Captain Lee Adama looked like an older, darker haired version of Spencer King . . . that was purely an intellectual observation. It didn't mean anything. Neither did the fact that I pressed pause when a shirtless Adama tried to kick a reporter out of the pilot's changing room.

That was just . . . research. For something.

I didn't know the details, but I had no doubt that someday it would come in handy.

I pulled out my notebook and started slogging through my math homework while Starbuck defended the galactic fleet on my mom's old laptop. It was soothing, actually. I had seen the show enough times for it to have the familiarity of an old friend, even though the suspenseful moments still sucked me in.

“Don't do it, Apollo!” I muttered, before I double-checked my last answer in the back of the textbook. “You don't want to go in there. Trust me, you don't . . .
go! RUN!
”

I was so riveted to the action onscreen that I ignored what might've been a light rap on my door. My dad was in his office downstairs, probably dealing with an endless amount of paperwork, but both my parents knew better than to knock quietly. It takes a whole lot more than that to break my concentration, with or without
Battlestar Galactica
. That's why they usually sent me a text when they wanted us to spend “quality time” together.

Or they would pound on my door until I responded.

My parents were great, but I didn't get why they had to make a big production out of cooking dinner as a family since it was part of the daily routine. My dad and I always took over the kitchen, while my mom set the table and avoided anything that was even remotely dangerous. We had banned her from helping when she accidentally created an oil fireball and then tried to douse it with water.

But even though my body instinctively tensed as it tried to warn my brain that I was no longer alone in the room, I didn't so much as glance over at the doorframe.

“RUN!”

“I had no idea you were a sports fan, Izzie.”

I toppled out of my chair. I twisted to see who was intruding on my personal space and
then
my shoes tangled together as I tried to lurch to my feet. The next thing I knew, I was looking at the world from an entirely different perspective. Mostly because my face was smooshed against the carpeting.

“I'm . . . uh . . . not sports. Sci-fi. Hi.”

Spencer's laugh reminded me of his walk—easy and relaxed.

“You want a hand?” he offered, as if belatedly remembering that it was probably his fault I had tripped in the first place.

“I want you to go back in time and call first,” I groused as I debated taking the proffered help. His presence, in my
bedroom,
was a jolt to my system, but I couldn't see how I could refuse without looking rattled.

But the feel of his warm, calloused grip tugging me to my feet made me feel a whole lot more off balance than when I'd landed on the floor.

“I didn't have your number. So, let me guess . . . you decided to try out Mackenzie's personal brand of yoga?”

I grinned back. It was impossible not to smile as I remembered Mackenzie's expression when she'd gone down for the count the day before. It also made me feel a whole lot less ridiculous for taking a tumble in my own bedroom. That kind of thing just . . . happens.

But not everyone was able to brush it off as easily as Spencer King.

“You're really good at that.”

“I'm really good at a number of things. Want to be more specific?”

I rolled my eyes. “Putting people at ease . . . usually by acting like a jerk.”

“I'm never a jerk. And if this is how you look when you're relaxed”—Spencer's laughter rang out in my room—“then you seriously need to loosen up. You're practically bracing yourself for a body check.”

I gaped at him. “For a
what?
”

“Hockey term. Sorry.” His smile widened, and there was another flash of pure mischief in his eyes. “You're kind of cute when you're embarrassed.”

I froze. Maybe if I were some other girl—the type of girl who showed up to his Notable parties—I'd have known how to respond to a statement that was half-compliment, half . . . something else entirely, without inwardly panicking. I would have been able to say something flirty back.

You're not bad looking yourself, hotshot.

That wasn't something that would ever come out of my mouth. Not in this lifetime.

So instead of flirting, I . . . snorted. “Save the lines, Romeo. I never agreed to be more than your friend.
Comprende, amigo?
”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes were lit with something that looked suspiciously like excitement. My words of advice to Melanie came echoing back to me.

As long as you distract him with a bet or a dare—some kind of feat to prove his manliness—he'll probably forget you even exist.

My genius plan didn't work so well if the competitive boy in question thought that
I
was the challenge.

Especially when a small part of me—the stupid, optimistic part that went a little mushy when I noticed a couple who had probably been together for half a century—wasn't entirely sure it might not be fun to be caught.

Even if it only ended in heartbreak later.

“I
thought school went pretty well today—all things considered.”

I stared at Spencer in disbelief. My brain did not want to compute all the possible interpretations of that sentence. Was he trying to needle me with his sarcasm? Did he actually think that was
funny?
Or was he so removed from the geek lifestyle that he had no idea just how royally he had screwed me over?

Every ounce of frustration that had built up from having spent an entire day with whispers dogging my footsteps blasted through my system and I felt my reserve . . . crack.

There was no holding me back.

“Yeah? Did you have a good day? Glad to hear it. I didn't. Funny, but I don't remember writing
have the entire school speculate on sex life
in my daily planner. Here, why don't you double-check.” I grabbed my agenda and shoved it in his face.

“You have really tiny handwriting.”

“And you have a really messed-up idea of friendship. Did you honestly think I wanted our farce to go that far? Here's a newsflash for you, hotshot: I didn't.”

Spencer nodded, but one corner of his mouth was creeping upward. He was trying to smother his laughter. At me. I saw red—and it had nothing to do with my bedroom decor.

“What's so funny?” I snapped. “Fill me in. I could use a good joke.”

“Sorry, it's just that you've called me ‘hotshot' twice now. It . . . distracts me.” He shook his head and his expression sobered. “I'm sorry if I overstepped. I saw you talking to Steffani and thought you could use some backup. The rest was pure impulse. That's it, I swear.”

I looked at him skeptically. “You swear?”

“Yeah, I do. And my word is solid, ask anyone.” He seemed to remember that I couldn't exactly call up his hockey buddies for verification, and tugged on the collar of his shirt as he tossed out an alternative. “Ask Logan or Mackenzie if you want.”

“I'll pass, thanks.”

“Because you trust me?”

I considered that longer than I probably should have. It was one of those questions that people ask when they expect the other person will tell them exactly what they want to hear. Kind of like when a friend asks if their new haircut makes them look like a ferret. What they want is a short, concise answer that leaves their worldview intact.

But did I actually trust the King of the Notables to be upfront with me?

Surprisingly . . . yes. I had heard girls crying in the bathroom because he had ended their relationships before they could even change their Facebook status to “it's complicated,” but never that he had lied to them.

In fact, I distinctly remembered a rumor that Spencer laid out his rules of engagement before anything happened. That he never hooked up with anyone who had been drinking at his parties. That he never made promises he didn't keep.

And yet he still left a trail of pissed-off girls in his wake.

“I believe you were trying to help,” I said at last. “But you didn't have to take it that far. You could have walked over without pretending there was something going on between us.”

Spencer rubbed his temple, and it was only then that I noticed a red bruise that was only deepening in color on his jaw. “I thought you needed backup,” he repeated. “Do you mind if I sit down? I got kind of banged up in hockey practice today.”

“What happened? Did you get, uh . . . body checked?”

Spencer's eyes seemed to brighten with amusement as he looked at me, and I could feel my cheeks begin to flush. I quickly scooped up a pile of textbooks that were sprawled out across my bed and moved them to their rightful place on my desk as Spencer sat on the side of the bed and idly rubbed his knee. He winced briefly, but instantly tried to mask the pain.

“There was a skirmish on the ice. Patrick got in a lucky swing. Or two.” Spencer folded his arms and you didn't have to be a body-language expert to tell that he was still pissed off that he had been caught with his guard down.

“Do you need frozen peas or something?” I jolted to my feet. “I could—”

“Don't worry about it. Although I should probably warn you, I think your dad wanted me to declare my intentions on the porch before speaking to you.”

I rolled my eyes. “My parents can be a bit on the overprotective side.” Understatement of the year. “But I'm surprised you didn't make up some story for my dad. You've already got the
entire
school whispering about us.”

“Those girls were going to talk about us no matter what I said,” Spencer informed me with perfect calm, as if being the focal point of the school's gossip didn't faze him at all. “All I did was make sure they know I'm the one doing the chasing.”

I crossed my arms. “How is that supposed to be comforting?”

“Because if they thought you were pursuing me, they'd ridicule you nonstop,” he said bluntly. A chill began to creep down my neck as I soaked in the truth of his words. “It's a shitty double standard, but I didn't want you to be diced to pieces for doing me a solid.”

Is that going to be so much worse than what I faced every day already?

If my high school experience was a rollercoaster, it would probably be called “Crap Mountain” and involve a lot of gut-wrenchingly sharp twists and turns. It was a shitty experience, but at least it was a familiar ride. Even if the suckitude increased proportionally to the amount of time I spent at Smith High School, I could still make it out with my sanity more or less intact. But all of those calculations had been made before Spencer triggered a Mount Vesuvius–level explosion on my social life.

“I changed my mind.” My chest clenched tighter until I felt like I couldn't breathe. “I can't do this.”

Spencer nodded absentmindedly. He seemed preoccupied surveying my room; from the Einstein poster, to the autographed promo shot of the band ReadySet, to the rich red color of my bedroom walls. My parents had been skeptical of the color choice when I had first broached the idea, but when I promised to do all of the work myself, they had eventually caved.

I still had a worn tank top in the bottom dresser drawer that was speckled and splotched with crimson paint.

“Earth to Spencer!” I snapped. “I. Can't. Do. This.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. I'm just not sure what there is to say. We've passed the point of return. Even if we said that I was joking earlier, I doubt anyone would believe it.”

I sank down numbly on the bed next to Spencer, too overwhelmed with the dire reality of the situation to pay attention to the fact that our limbs were mere inches away from touching.

“What have I gotten myself into?” I murmured. “I must have lost my fracking mind when I suggested this.”

“To be fair,” Spencer said reasonably, “your reputation will probably get a boost now that people think we've gotten”—he seemed to rethink his choice of words when I glared at him—“closer.”

“That's
not
the kind of reputation I wanted!”

He gently nudged my shoulder. “Lighten up, Belle. It's only high school.”

“Easy for you to say. People aren't exactly insulting you on a daily basis. Why would they? You're
Spencer King.
” I let the sarcasm roll heavy off my tongue but was surprised to feel him stiffen beside me before he cranked up the intensity of those piercing green eyes.

“Is Alex still bothering you?”

I instantly regretted saying anything. The last thing I needed was another rumble in the cafeteria. I'd much rather let the subject drop entirely.

“It doesn't matter,” I said evasively.

Spencer nudged my shoulder again, but this time there was nothing gentle about it. “I thought we were going to be friends. That's the deal we both agreed to yesterday.”

Yes, it was. But I'd already begun regretting the offer. Maybe Spencer needed a girl in his life who didn't have an endgame, but the last thing
I
needed was an arrogant, annoying, absolutely impossible—

“Well, as your friend, I want to help. And I know how we can make everyone shut up.”

I eyed him nervously. Spencer's smirk was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean he didn't have something entirely inappropriate in mind. With a guy like Spencer, you could never be too sure what he had in mind.

“C'mon, Belle. Live a little. What's the worst that could happen?”

I hoped I wasn't about to find out firsthand.