The Only Thing Worse Than Me Is You (6 page)

“Sure. I finished
Anna Karenina,
so I'm ahead of the game. I can bust out all three of our costumes over the weekend.”

“Thank you,” she said, running her fingertips over the steering wheel before she turned over the engine. “Thank you so much. I'll pay for the fabric and keep you in Slurpees every day from now until forever—”

I interrupted her with a laugh. “It's okay. Find a way to keep me and West as far away from each other as possible and everything will be peachy.”

“He's not that bad,” Meg said. “Ben, I mean. You guys managed to have a fairly civil conversation while Harper and Cornell were talking. You were the one who decided to try to rip off his mustache.”

“I tested a hypothesis,” I said. “Turns out the mustache is real. Come on. We were all wondering about it.”

Harper waved an unconcerned hand, too flush with girly joy to be bothered with chastising me. “Stay close to Peter. He's a good buffer.”

“It is his civic duty as our president to maintain domestic peace,” I said.

Harper made a vague sound of assent, watching the road with a goofy grin. I could almost see the big Valentine hearts swimming in her pupils.

“We've lost her,” I said to Meg.

“Oh yeah.” She nodded. “It's okay. Now no one will roll their eyes when we point out that DC is a vastly inferior brand—”

“June 1938,” Harper said into the rearview mirror. “Action comics number one. The introduction of Superman. Detective comics number twenty-seven, May 1939, the introduction of Batman. And when, pray tell, was the first Marvel comic released?”

Meg lifted her chin, twirling her hand in the air. “The Human Torch. October 1939.”

“And there is your answer. Marvel is completely derivative,” Harper said. “DC invented the superhero and then Marvel came along like it was their idea—”

Well, maybe she wasn't completely lost.

Not that I was going to let that dig against Marvel stand.

 

[8:03 PM]

Harper

I don't think I've stopped smiling. Am I broken?

[8:05 PM]

Me

Yes.

 

5

Anyone who says
that uniforms mean you don't have to think about what you wear to school is a filthy liar. It wasn't quite cold enough yet to have to worry about whether to wear a pullover sweater or a cardigan, but there was still the endless supply of khaki pants, skirts, and shorts to thumb through. I thought about how much worse things must have been for Harper that morning. She would be standing in her bedroom across town, trying on polo after polo trying to find the perfect collar to match her mushy smile.

I snickered to myself at the thought and grabbed the closest pair of long khaki shorts in the name of soaking up the last few days of summer. I took a moment to daydream about a world where I could walk into school in jeans. Soft, stretchy jeans and shoes that were not made of patent leather.

College, I mused as I wandered into the bathroom, would be wonderful if for no other reason than getting to look like myself every day. I had a dresser teeming with beautiful, barely worn T-shirts. As much as I wanted to go to a good college and devote myself entirely to whatever major I decided on, I really just wanted to escape the Mess and be the kind of girl who came to class in a Princess Peach shirt and still managed to decimate everyone in an argument about Kierkegaard. Because that's the girl that I was in my head. Proudly geeky, not only about comics or sci-fi but about everything I loved.

I patted the remnants of face wash from my cheeks with a fluffy white towel and wrinkled my nose at my reflection. I wasn't adorable like Meg or a lost Disney princess like Harper or elegant like Mary-Anne France. I had brown hair and overcast eyes and small lips. Nothing particularly exciting unless you counted my being two inches above the national average height for Caucasian women.

The elastic band holding my ponytail slipped down. I grabbed two ends of my hair and yanked until I felt the ponytail secure itself to the base of my skull. It was shameful to be dissecting my own appearance. I blamed Cornell Aaron and the way he stared at Harper, as though he'd picked her out of a claw machine and couldn't believe his luck. I wasn't jealous, exactly. I certainly had no designs on Cornell for myself. He was a nice guy and good-looking, but nothing like the vague idea I had in mind for a male companion.

But that was the problem. Harper only wanted Cornell. Meg only wanted to see what the hype was about without letting her limbic system get the best of her. And I didn't really want anything. Not anything concrete. I didn't want to waste my time. I didn't want someone who wouldn't understand when I referenced Tony Stark, Mal Reynolds, and Alexander Hamilton in the same breath—all handsome rogues, obviously. I wanted someone who didn't need me to backtrack and explain everything. Someone who would escort me to midnight showings but never ask me to dress up to attend. Someone who knew that I always, always, always wanted a Slurpee, but especially when it was snowing.

A boyfriend, I concluded, should be like a new best friend. Which didn't help me at all considering I hadn't made a new best friend since I was eight and Meg transferred to Aragon. Even in a world full of people as smart as I was, there weren't that many people I wanted on my team.

I pushed the thought away. It didn't do any good to spend too much time dwelling on it. I was content to be a singular kind of person, to focus on comics and homework and surviving senior year. If I went the way of Harper and Meg and started prematurely melting down about the harvest festival or the spring fling or any of the other Messina Academy social events, our group would undoubtedly explode in an array of hormones and prom dresses. I had to hold down the sanity quadrant.

And yet, a prickle of wistfulness crept across my shoulders like the feeling of trying to remember the details of a dream that remained elusive. It lasted throughout my walk to school. I tried to shake myself like an Etch A Sketch, but the feeling persisted, fraying my patience. Maybe Harper's and Meg's boyfriend-centric insanity had started the same way. Had they gone to bed normal and woken up unable to think about anything else? Perhaps it was a communicable disease and I'd spent too long being infected by their chatter.

The Mess came into view, a blooming series of brick buildings half-hidden behind the open wrought iron gate. I sat on a planter box near the gate, my Mary Janes sinking into the immaculately cut grass. I flipped open the front of my bag and pulled out my sunglasses and the
Buffy
comic. Scanning pages, I finally found the point where I'd left off the night before and started reading.

“You haven't finished it yet?”

Ben West had moved out of a line of other Mess kids and was leaning against the planter a few feet away from me. His polo was wrinkled and he hadn't brushed his hair. I glared at him for a second and then turned my attention back to the comic.

“No spoilers,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, staring at the groups of incoming classmates. “So, you haven't reached the point where Xander dies?”

“Damn it, West.” The glossy pages gave a pathetic crinkle as I closed the book.

He laughed loudly. “Kidding. Don't freak out.”

“Why don't you leave me alone?” I growled at him. “There is absolutely no reason for us to ever have a conversation.”

He gave me a sardonic look out of the corner of his eye as he reached up and twirled the end of his mustache.

“I was just trying to uphold the school ordinance,” he said. “Everyone is required to try to be pleasant to you in the name of making you seem like less of a dangerous loner.”

“Go to hell,” I said with a groan, stuffing the comic into my bag. “Or whatever hellish dimension you prefer.”

“I'm partial to the world without shrimp. I'm allergic.”

“Name the episode or stop sullying my fandom,” I said. There really should have been a rule about unworthy jerks making
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
references. I shoved my sunglasses farther up my nose.

“‘Superstar.' Season four, episode seventeen,” he said drily. “You're extra shrewish today. Did your friends finally realize that they could do better?”

“Did yours?” I asked, turning to look at him dead-on. “Why are you skulking around alone?”

He gestured vaguely to the front gate. “Waiting for the guys.”

“Then wait with your mouth shut.”

Someone called my name and I spotted Meg bobbing toward us, her shiny black hair leaping around her cheeks. She landed in the grass faintly out of breath.

“Good morning, Trix,” she said. She gave West a confused wave. “And Ben West.”

“Margaret Royama,” he said, inclining his head.

“You guys aren't going to, like, duel or something, are you?” Meg asked me, cocking her head.

“I submitted the challenge years ago,” I said blandly. “But appealing to his sense of honor is useless.”

“We're divvying up hell dimensions,” West said. “Trix is taking the world that's nothing but shrimp.”

“But you don't eat meat,” Meg said, blinking at me. She brightened suddenly and said, “Oh! Did you guys read the new
Buffy
? Isn't it cool when—”

“No spoilers,” I huffed, holding up a staying hand.

“Beatrice is a little behind,” West said in a loud whisper. “There were some very big words in this issue.”

“I have some very short words for you, West. Shut your damn mouth, for a start.” Taking in a deep breath, I turned to Meg. “I was up late starting our costumes.”

“Oh,” she said. “That's okay, then.”

“What will you be dressing up as this year?” West asked me. “Something with a mask, I hope?”

“Maleficent,” I ground out.

“Ah.” He paused. “So, just scraping off your makeup and going in your true form.”

“Perhaps you could follow suit and put on a pair of donkey ears.”

“Oh look,” Meg interrupted with false cheeriness. “Peter and Jack are here.”

The Donnelly brothers were, in fact, walking toward us. Jack sped ahead of Peter, leaving his brother limping behind as he rushed through the gate without a backward glance.

“Asshole,” I breathed.

West nodded in pleasantly mute agreement as he stepped forward. He and Peter clasped each other's forearms in greeting like a pair of Roman soldiers in white cotton polos.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” I said.

“Hey, Trix, Meg.” Peter grinned, casting around for a second. “No sign of Harper and Cornell?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“The poor saps are probably off somewhere gazing deeply into each other's eyes,” West muttered. He stared off into the parking lot as wistful wind played at the corners of his mustache. “At least with Cornell distracted with composing sonnets I've got a chance of getting valedictorian.”

Meg looked appalled. I'm sure I did, too, but only because I hated hearing my own secret desire to up my place in the ranking coming out of Ben West's mouth.

Peter laughed, ever the picture of amiability. “Whatever keeps you from getting in their way, Ben.”

West's mouth twisted into an unconcerned smile. “I told him that if he let his guard down, I'd sweep him. I'm not going to get distracted by some chick.”

“And all of the chicks on Earth thank you kindly for that,” I said. “What could be worse than being courted by that mustache? You could start prospecting for gold any minute.”

He flushed to a pernicious shade of scarlet. “You really should examine your obsession with my facial hair, Trix. It's becoming a problem for you.”

“It seems wise to keep an eye on anything that could gain sentience and go on a killing spree,” I said, peering at him over the tops of my sunglasses. “It wouldn't be difficult for it to surpass your diminutive IQ.”

“Hey,” Peter said, dragging the syllable out into a heavy warning. He glanced around for eavesdroppers before lowering his voice. “The gag rule.”

“Eff the gag rule,” West snarled. He took a threatening step toward me. “You want to throw down numbers, girly? We aren't on campus yet. Let's do this.”

“We're on school property,” Meg squeaked. She shuffled her feet against the grass in a sort of manic jig. “See? Official Messina Academy grass. Our tuition pays the landscapers.”

“No,” I said, jumping off the planter. “We've been dancing around this for years. Go ahead, West. Inflate your IQ points to try to win this once and for all.”

“I'll tell the truth if you will, Beatrice,” he growled.

“The IQ test really isn't a reliable test of intelligence,” Peter said imploringly. “That's why the entrance exam is so long. It measures more than the standard—”

“Meg, count to three for us,” I said.

“I knew this was going to turn into a duel,” Meg whimpered. “You could both be suspended for this, you know.”

Peter scrubbed a hand over his forehead, mussing his hair. “I really shouldn't be a part of this. Ben, you could lose your seat on student council—”

“Worth it,” West barked, not taking his eyes off me. “Meg, count us off.”

“Okay,” she sighed. She gave Peter an apologetic frown. “Unos, duo … tres.”

“One hundred and seventy-eight.”

I paused at the sound of the echo. My voice had never been on the dulcet side of things, but I was sure that I hadn't woken up as a baritone. I tilted my head at West, who looked as though he'd been slapped.

Peter and Meg stared at us in abject horror. I reached up and pulled my sunglasses off, squinting through the sunlight.

“You're a damn liar,” I said.

He slapped a hand to his chest. “I'm the liar? There is no way—”

“You have the exact same IQ,” Meg breathed, holding onto her cheeks.