The Pretty One by Cheryl Klam

that’s for sure.”
    â€œI remember when I came to see you in the hospital, right after…
it
happened. Your face was all puffy and swollen and you had stitches all over and I thought that, well, I didn’t think they’d ever be able to fix you. And here you are.
Tu sembles parfaite
.”
    â€œWhat?” I ask, even though I have taken enough French to translate. What I really mean is, Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?
    â€œYou look perfect,” he says softly.
    I crunch down on something hard and vaguely familiar. With horror, I realize that I’ve bitten off part of my thumbnail.

eight
    director (noun): the person responsible for the interpretive aspects of a stage, film, or television production.
    On Wednesday I stay after school to talk to my pre-calc teacher, Mrs. Pritchie. Students weren’t allowed to take pre-calc unless they achieved a B or higher in Algebra 2 and even though I had finished the textbook with my tutor, Mrs. Pritchie is concerned I might not be able to keep up with the class and has loaned me a tutoring book in case I need it.
    I finish tucking
Tutoring for Precalculus
into my backpack and I’m standing at my locker, staring at the sign and trying to make out the two signatures that are smeared together on the bottom, when I hear a familiar voice say hello. My blood pressure suddenly spikes because I know who it is before I turn around.
    Drew.
    We don’t have a class together this semester, so we’ve not really spoken besides an occasional hello in the halls. I have however, learned two key details:
    He and Lindsey broke up over the summer.
    He spent his summer working as a counselor at a camp for the arts. (Not exactly key, but I’m always happy to get any details on Drew, no matter how trivial.)
    I’m so nervous standing so close to him after all this time that I step back up against my open locker, nearly toppling inside.
    â€œHi,” I reply, grabbing onto the edges of my locker and pulling myself upright.
    â€œAre you coming out or going in?” he asks, nodding toward my locker.
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    â€œNarnia. You know, the magical door that leads to the other world. My guess is you were coming out.”
    Drew is making a Narnia reference? I had no idea something this dorky would make him even hotter. “Ha, ha,” I say stiffly. “I loved that movie, too.”
    He brushes a lock of his thick hair out of his eyes. “Oh yeah, I heard there was a movie. I’ll bet it wasn’t as good as the books though.”
    My smile fades away. I suddenly feel the need to say something really, really smart. I think of Albert Einstein and for some reason I think of his closet, which I once read was filled with set after set of the same shirts and the same pants.
    â€œI’ve been meaning to see it, though,” he adds quickly, for what I’m hoping is my benefit. “So what are you doing here so late?”
    How do I weave Albert Einstein’s clothes into that? Suddenly, I can’t remember what he just said. And so I say “What?,” which I don’t think helps me seem more intellectual.
    â€œYou’re here late. I was asking why.”
    Oh yeah.
    â€œI had a meeting with Mrs. Pritchie. Even though I took precal with my tutor, she’s worried that I won’t be able to keep up with the class.” Um, hello? Did I really need to share that tidbit? What happened to sounding intelligent?
    â€œI see,” he says politely.
    I glance back at my locker, not trusting myself to speak.
    â€œNice,” he says, nodding toward my sister’s sign. The tone of his voice is hard to read and I can’t tell whether he’s being sarcastic or complimentary. I wouldn’t blame him for being sarcastic. The sign
is
a little stupid. I only left it up because I’m not sure what to replace it with. Last year I coated the inside of my locker with pictures of me