CHAPTER 1
MOLLY
“The best feeling is when you look at him, and he’s already staring. On second thought, that can be kind of creepy…”
– Jenna, best friend
First off, I want to say how bored I am just sitting here.
There are a million things I could be doing right now—such as homework—but honestly I don’t have the motivation. For the sake of argument, we’ll call it a run-of-the-mill case of boredom, and for a good, solid twenty minutes, I’ve done nothing but stare at the large industrial clock on the wall, listening to the faint tick-tick-ticking sound.
You know that saying, like watching paint dry?
Yeah. This is worse.
This is like waiting for your second top coat of nail polish to dry. You know, when you can’t do anything but just sit there waiting and waving your hands in the air, trying to make wind because you need it dry now but don’t want to smudge it.
Time just isn’t drying it fast enough, but you have stuff to do.
I shift in the stiff wooden chair, slouching down behind the table because my left butt cheek is beginning to fall asleep. Could I be any more uncomfortable? I mean, if they put these crappy chairs in the library explicitly to torture us, it is definitely working. It’s 90 degrees outside, and not much better inside even with air conditioning because the school is so old, and I’m wearing a short jean skirt today—a huge mistake with this humidity. No doubt my rear is going stick to the seat when I get up.
Ugh. There’s nothing worse than a sweating, sticky skirt-butt—or shorts-butt. Have you ever been in a car with leather seats on a hot day, and your rear sticks to the seat? That’s what my thighs feel like right now.
It’s so gross.
The library is quiet, and because it’s Friday, no one else in study hall seems to be focusing either. Ericka Pierce, a freshman sitting at the next table, is texting—which is, hello, strictly forbidden—under her geometry book. The tapping from her phone is almost making me insane.
Tap.
Tap tap tap.
Every so often she looks up at me, frowns, and then starts feverishly texting again.
And I’m over here like, Um, okay…
I cannot tune the sound out.
In front of me is a hot-pink three-ring binder and a thick AP European History textbook that is open to the chapter on Rome. Why am I taking AP European History my senior year? Dear lord, don’t ask me why! I must have slipped into a coma the day we registered for classes, because:
1. I hardly study at all for this class, and
2. I have absolutely no interest at all in European History (sorry, Europe).
I tap my boring yellow #2 pencil, blow the bangs out of my eyes from the side of my mouth, pull out a sheet of loose-leaf paper, and start doodling.
Heart.
Star.
Square box.
My initials, M and W, which stand for Molly Wakefield.
Then I write Molly <3 Boys. Unfortunately, there is no one particular boy I’m doodling about. My best friend, Jenna, says I have the worst luck because I’m too picky. I’m not sure what that is actually supposed to mean, considering my dating pool is basically a group of hormonal high school boys who think it’s funny to burp the alphabet. Example: last week in biology, this guy named Brad Bosner actually made a spitball and blew it at the substitute. He’s seventeen years old, for crying out loud—who does that!
So obviously, you can see what are my options are.
Not. Good.
I have no doubt Spitball Bosner would take me on a date in a heartbeat, but do I want him to? Hell no. In my opinion, he’s a good representation of what I have to work with.
So no. I have nothing to doodle except hearts, boxes, and my own initials.
Here’s the thing: I’m not at all unfortunate looking. I definitely lucked out in the looks department, and guys actually do find me really attractive. But, let’s be perfectly honest, guys aren’t tripping over themselves to take me out. I also seem to have one other problem: the wrong guys find me attractive.