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HarperCollins Publishers

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(Sophomore Year)

When I get on the bus, wearing my usual hoodie, army boots, and jeans a size too large, Whitney Jacobs stage-whispers that I look like a bag lady, but Alex Abercrombie does a Parisian pass, brushing his hand against my ass to get by me. I ignore them both.
Eyes on the prize.
Laurel’s holding a seat for me. She’s near the back, where we live, waving and generally looking more excited than anyone has the right to look at six-forty in the morning.

I know why. And sure enough:

“Is your mom letting you go to the concert?” she asks the instant I sit.

The concert! I let down my guard and do a little seat-dance to let her know I’m excited too, then say, “My wicked
step
mother, if that’s who you mean, isn’t in on the decision. But my dad says yes as long as your mom’s going.”

“Well, of course. What did he think, a couple of fifteen-year-olds are going to hitch to Orlando?”

“For Jonah Prince, I completely would.”

“Can I get an ‘amen’?”

And we squee in unison.

Whitney and her mean girlfriends look back at us and roll their eyes. I smile.

“Jelly?” Laurel says.

“Not of anyone who still says ‘jelly.’” Whitney turns away.

“Is ‘jelly’ not a thing anymore?” Laurel whispers to me.

“Don’t worry about it. She is such a hater.” I pat Laurel’s shoulder.

Jonah Prince, as everyone knows, is an incredibly gorgeous and gifted singer-songwriter. Previously the front man for the Boyz Band, he went out on his own when he noticed he was the only one with talent. And beautiful green eyes. And a hot British accent. I’m in love. Laurel and I host unofficial Jonah Prince pages on every social networking site I can think of, even Facebook, which only parents use.

Okay, so I have no life. I study, hang with Laurel, and listen to Jonah. But I know that, when we go to his concert in Orlando (where we’ll get front row floor seats because we’re in his fan club and plan to spend the entire night before tickets go on sale on the Ticketmaster site, entering CAPTCHA codes so we can get tickets the very first second the presale begins—and if that doesn’t work, I’m spending a year’s worth of babysitting money to buy them on StubHub), Jonah will pick me out from the crowd, his eyes attracted by the extraordinarily beautiful and artistic sign I’ll make, and my total memorization of all his songs. He’ll lead me onstage. I’ll have the perfect outfit, of course, something that’s actually figure flattering. Once there, he’ll sing every song to only me, ignoring the boos of the other poor girls. I’ll ask him to bring Laurel onstage to meet his drummer. After the
concert, we’ll talk for hours about the charity work he did in Haiti last year or the new songs he’s composing. He’ll ask me to come along on his tour, so I can get permanently away from my stepmother, who hates me.

Yeah, so it’s a bit of a stretch. But it
has
to happen. There has to be something really good coming to me, to make up for Violet.

In some cultures, like the Greeks and Turkish, they believe in the Evil Eye. It’s the idea that, if someone envies you, bad things will happen. Since that fateful day when my father said I was as beautiful as Violet, I’ve become more beautiful (don’t hate me—I can’t help it) and Violet’s eyes have been seriously evil. Curling irons attack me, leaving scars. Tweezers rip out my eyelashes. Cleansers turn toxic and give me rashes. I avoid Violet—and beauty products—as much as possible. I wear no makeup, no hair spray. I don’t get fake nails or even nice clothes. But people still stare at me. And Violet notices. And hates me for it.

“That’s really trite,” Laurel says, pointing to the chem notebook I’m studying for today’s test. It has
J.P. 4-ever
written on it in pink highlighter.

“Nothing about Jonah Prince is trite.”

“Do you even know what
trite
means?”

“Yes, I do.” The bus hits a bump, and I steady my notebook, covering the writing with my palm. “But it probably makes us sound like nerds who use words like”—I lower my voice—“trite.”

“Okay,” she whispers, then giggles.

“Jonah is special. He writes his own songs and plays four instruments.”

“Preaching to the choir. But my mom says he’s just like Justin Bieber. Or someone named Bruce Springsteen, who was apparently famous when she was a teenager. Or the Beatles. Or Elvis. She says the names change, but the pathetic-ness of a teenage girl, scribbling
initials of a guy she’s never met,
will
never meet, is always the same.”

“Laurel, I love your mom. She’s the closest thing I have to a mom, and she lets me call her Gennifer. Plus, she’s letting us use her credit card to buy tickets.”

“And driving us to Orlando,” Laurel reminds me.

“And driving us to Orlando,” I agree. “Your mom is completely legit.”

Laurel laughs because she knows that’s something her mom would say, trying to be cool. Laurel and I have been best friends since we were born a month apart fifteen years ago, to moms who were best friends. I’m told that, usually, when people’s mothers want them to be friends, they inevitably end up hating each other. Laurel and I are the exception. At this point, she’s kind of the only person I hang with, but Dad says it’s better to have one good friend than ten bad ones. Violet sort of rolls her eyes when he says that, but it’s true. Also, it’s Laurel’s house I hide in almost every weekend. Laurel’s mom knows how weird Violet is, so she lets me sleep over. Without Laurel, I’d spend my weekends watching my dad and Violet suck face.

Still, I say, “But your mom’s old, Laurel. She doesn’t remember what it’s like to be our age. When Jonah sings ‘Beautiful but Deadly,’ it’s like we’ve already met, like he’s looking into my soul.”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know. Being the most beautiful girl on the planet is hard for you.”

I look back at my chem notes. She knows I hate when people say I’m beautiful.

“Celine?” Laurel tries to look over my notebook. She’s super-cute with wavy, dark hair. She thinks she’s fat, but she’s not. She’s curvy.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m on a chemistry grind. I want to get an A so I can take AP chem next year. And this chapter is hard.”

“All work and no play . . . ,” she singsongs. “You know, you could go for a normal guy. Bryce Richardson is into you, and he sort of looks like Jonah.”

“Bryce Richardson isn’t into me.” Bryce is the hottest guy in our class—and so knows it. I’ve seen him make fun of smaller guys, heavy girls, people with acne. I heard he wouldn’t go out with one girl because her eyebrows were too close to her eyes. The guys with huge egos always like me. The right ones never do. I just want a smart, funny guy, but it’s like guys my age are scared of me.

“I’ve seen Bryce looking at you,” Laurel insists.

“I don’t think so. You should go for him if you like him. I’m a little too sapiosexual for him.”

“Sapiosexual? What’s that? Sounds dirty.”

“It means attracted to smart people. That kind of lets out Bryce Richardson.”

She sighs. “I’m giving up now. Next order of business:
Oliver!
auditions are after school today.”

I sigh and close the notebook. “Guess I’m done studying.”

“You know you’ll ace it.”

I don’t want to talk about this any more than I want to talk about why I don’t like Bryce Richardson. But Laurel’s totally obsessed with theater. “Why are we trying out for a musical again?”

“Because I need to pay my dues in the chorus—or, hopefully, a small but pivotal role—so I can get a lead next year.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear. Why am
I
trying out? I have stage fright. And no talent.”

“Because you’re my best friend. And because, if I’m in the play and going to rehearsals every day, you can’t hang out at my house to avoid Lady Violet—unless you want my mom to teach you quilting. She’d completely love to do that.”

Laurel knows how important Violet avoidance is to me. At least,
she gave me the heads-up on the play. She made me watch the movie version a few weeks ago, and it was pretty good. I guess being in the chorus wouldn’t be horrible, as long as I can be in back where no one sees me.

“Okay,” I say, “so what do I have to do? Hopefully, not dance. Because I’m bad at that.”

“Just a song. The drama teacher said ‘Happy Birthday’ was okay for chorus. They just want to see if you can sing on pitch.”

“I think I remember all the words to ‘Happy Birthday,’” I tell Laurel, “but we can go over them at lunch, just in case.”

Laurel rolls her eyes.

When we get off the bus, Pierre Duval, a senior I don’t know, is rolling by in his BMW convertible. “Nice jeans, Celine,” he yells. “I’d love to get in them.”

I move to the other side of Laurel and try to ignore him.

“I am not trying for the role of Oliver,” the guy onstage tells the drama teacher, Mrs. Connors. “I may be little, but I’m not a kid. And I’m not cute.”

I’ve noticed this guy before, even though he’s a year ahead of me. He was in my bio class last year. His name is Goose Guzman. He has dark, wavy hair, olive skin, a wicked sense of humor . . . and he’s maybe four and a half feet tall. Is it wrong to say I want to meet him
because
he’s a little person? I figure he knows how it feels to be stared at for something beyond your control. Plus, he’s funny—as he’s demonstrating at the moment.

“You’re definitely not cute, Goose,” Mrs. Connors says.

“Thank you.” He half smiles, lifting only one side of his mouth. “I’m also not a soprano.” He makes his voice real deep when he says that.

“What part did you want to try for?” Connors asks.

Goose shrugs. “Bill Sikes. Maybe Fagin.”

She sighs. “Bill Sikes is supposed to be a big, scary guy, Goose. I don’t think—”

“Oh, I see how it is. You’re being heightist.” Goose stands up very straight. “Someday, when I’m the next Peter Dinklage or Warwick Davis, I’ll tell people my high school drama teacher wouldn’t cast me because I was too short.”

I chuckle. The guy is awesome.

Connors rolls her eyes. “I’m not refusing to cast you, just refusing to cast you as Bill Sikes. I won’t consider you for Widow Corney either, if that’s okay. Maybe you can be—I mean try for—the Artful Dodger.”

I remember from the movie that the Artful Dodger was a clever teenage pickpocket. Good call. Goose seems okay with that idea. At least, both sides of his mouth are now up. “Fine. Either that or Fagin.”

Mrs. Connors shrugs. “Try for both. We’ll see what happens. But who am I going to cast as Oliver? Most of the boys here are huge.”

“Cast a girl,” Goose says, “a little, cute girl. Cast her.”

And he points right at me. I shrink down in my seat and try to think of some clever retort about how he doesn’t seem to mind looks-based casting when he’s not the one being stereotyped. But I realize it’s probably not the same. Mrs. Connors looks at me and claps. “Splendid idea. Anyone under five foot three—except Goose—will read for Oliver.” She walks over to me. “Can you sing ‘Where Is Love?’”

I remember that song from the movie too. It perfectly described my life, a lonely child yearning for a lost mother.

But I don’t want to be Oliver. I hate being the center of attention. This reminds me of second grade, when we did
Cinderella
, and I really wanted to be a mouse. I got Cinderella. Not only did I have
to memorize a ton of lines, but all the mouse girls hated me. I glare at Laurel, who’s five eight, then say to Mrs. Connors, “I only wanted chorus. I was going to sing ‘Happy Birthday
.
’”

She sighs audibly. “Maybe just try?”

And, like the people pleaser I am, I say, “I guess if you have the sheet music.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing onstage singing “Where Is Love?” Three other girls—girls who actually wanted to be Oliver—have already tried, and I could barely hear them. I could do that. No one’s heard me sing before. I even avoid karaoke at birthday parties. I could waver off pitch on the high notes or sing so softly that no one could hear me. But when I get onstage, I start thinking about Mom, about how we used to bake cutout cookies at Christmas, and the Hannah Montana costume she made me for Halloween when I was five and thought Hannah Montana was cool. I remember all the crafts we did for Girl Scouts before that fateful day. And I start to sing about poor miserable Oliver, searching for his mother.

Halfway through, I see Mrs. Connors wipe away a tear.

When I finish the song, there’s silence except a few sniffles. Sniffles!

Someone—Goose—starts to applaud and whistle. Thanks, dude. Then, everyone else applauds too.

I go back to my seat, sort of hoping no one else tries out. Maybe I want the part after all. I wonder if this is how Jonah feels onstage. That would be something else we could bond about.

No one else tries out. Mrs. Connors starts with the girls who want to play Nancy. Which is all of them, except me. So after Laurel and a few others go, I head for the ladies’ room.

“She thinks she’s all that,” I hear one of the other girls whisper as I walk by.

So unfair! I want to round on her and ask what, exactly, I did to
make her say that. Of course I don’t.

When I come out, angrily, I pass Goose by the water fountain. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

He doesn’t quite reach my shoulder. He has these chocolate brown puppy-dog eyes. “You really moved me in there. My parents, they take in foster kids, and when you sang that song, it made me think of them, like, think of their
struggle.
Also, those are cool boots.”

“Thanks. My mother died when I was little. The song reminded me of her.” Why did I say that? I never talk about my mother. To anyone, let alone complete strangers. I hug my notebook to my chest. “Um, I’m Celine.”

He nods. “I know. We had bio together last year. Goose.”

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t think you remembered me. I was just a freshman.” He was always at the center of a group of theater kids, making people laugh, while I sat off by myself and acted studious because I didn’t know anyone in the class. All my friends took Earth-Space, the normal ninth grade class, but I love science, so I was ahead.