One
Thea
Sexy selfie attempt number twenty and I still don’t have a winner I totally love on my phone’s camera roll.
“Just do it,” I mutter, arguing with myself. “Spontaneity is a good thing. He’ll like it. Be cool.”
I’ve been going in circles for five minutes, getting nowhere as I pace my bedroom.
My school uniform hangs on the closet door from a funky sun-shaped brass hook, the plaid skirt in the school colors—evergreen and white—and the black blazer with the gold embroidered crest mocking me. At school I’m known by cruel names because I prefer wearing my uniform a couple of sizes too big to hide my body, unlike the girls who wear their skirts short enough their asses almost hang out and their blazers fitted to their petite waistlines. The other students are labelled cool because they break the uniform code with designer fashion, but I’m not because my rebellion isn’t worthy in their eyes.
At least most of the time I’m invisible to them.
Narrowing my eyes at the uniform, I turn my back, where the riot of color on the other side of the room makes me smile. The wall is a pastel rainbow of baking-themed art with funny sayings like bake the world happy and happiness is homemade.
“Okay, focus. Send the photo,” I coach.
My stomach protests with a wave of butterflies. All of my positive thinking flees.
I can’t believe I’m losing an argument against myself. I blow out harshly, deflating my ballooned cheeks along with my nerve. A wayward auburn curl ends up in my eyes. With an impatient flick, I brush it aside.
It’s taken me weeks to work up the courage for this step with Wyatt, the cute lifeguard at the summer retreat my parents sent me to. We had a sort of fling. Well, okay. Not really.
It was fling-like. Fling adjacent. We were on our way to flirting.
At least, that's what my friend Maisy assured me between yoga class and gourmet s'mores by the campfire.
The air hisses from my lungs in a soft, flat laugh that caves my chest.
You? Dream on. He was only being polite. As a staff member, he was probably contracted to be whatever the guests needed. Even appearing interested romantically.
I shake my head to dispel the depressing inner voice. Wyatt wasn’t only being a nice guy, and I am a damn goddess he would love to be with.
Forget the short-girl-with-an-ass figure it’s difficult to find jeans for, the stretch marks on my hips and boobs from puberty growth spurts, and the memories of shopping for bras when my friends were still playing with toys.
“A goddess,” I repeat, letting the affirmation give me the mental hug I need to restore my confidence.
My tongue pokes out of the corner of my mouth as I hesitate to click on the message icon in his contact, where I saved his name with waves. As if I’d forget about how he looked in his red lifeguard trunks with a deep golden tan. Maybe I should go for a Facebook message or an Instagram DM first to double check I have his number saved correctly.
I shake my head. “Be bold.”
This is my chance to keep our tiny spark alive before it snuffs out. I have to act fast. I arrived back in Ridgeview the week before school at Silver Lake High started, and Wyatt went home to Colorado Springs. The drive down is under two hours if this works out—but I’m getting ahead of myself.
First I have to buck the hell up and send the photo.
I’ve decided. Senior year is my year. I’m eighteen and it’s time I stopped hiding myself from the world.
Mom can spout her crap until she’s red in the face, but I’m not listening anymore.
A whine sounds at the locked door, followed by a muffled scratch.
“Not tonight, buddy. Go to your bed,” I tell my rottweiler. He’s an oversized lapdog that usually shadows me all over the house. He whines once more. “Bed, Constantine.”
The dog makes a put out sound as his nails click down the hall.
My grip tightens on my cell phone. The picture I took is all right. Not my best, but like the hundreds of photos in a secret folder, it’s the version of the girl I want to be.
Confident, sexy, and owning my curvy body.
Ah, the pipe dream.
I pluck at the sunflower yellow chunky knit cardigan I tugged on over the lace-edged romper that barely contains my breasts. It’s designed to drape nicely on elegant bodies with long limbs and chests much flatter than mine. Instead, the romper fits to my big hips and rides up my thighs. Thank god for still photos where I can fake like I’m not trying to pick the material my ass is eating every two seconds.
Mom doesn’t know I own the romper, or some of the other clothes hidden in the closet. I have to rotate my hiding spots because she is a notorious snooper.
Photo-me looks up from the phone screen with bedroom eyes, my lashes fluttered low over my blue-green eyes. My dark red curls are tossed over strategically to give my hair that bombshell volume, spilling down my neck and over one shoulder as I lean forward to show off my cleavage. My plump lips are puckered into duck lips. I can’t help it, duck lips are my go to when I put myself on the spot in the hopes I’ll capture something natural and effortless. It’s me, and yet…not.
My gaze slides to the mirror and my shoulders droop as soon as I eye my reflection critically.
Mirrors and phone cameras must have a deal with the devil.
Somehow the reflection and the pictures never match up. Maybe the girl I am in my secret folder of photos exists only in digital format.
Squinting, I lean closer. Is that—? Yup. That’s flour in my hair. I sink my fingers into my curls with an aggravated sigh and shake them out as I check the photo. Fan-flipping-tastic.
I thought I cleaned myself up after baking the rustic cranberry tarts I’ve been trying to perfect when I got home from school, but I must have missed some. What else is new? I’m almost always covered in some ingredient with my love of baking.
Okay, attempt number twenty-one.
This time I crop part of my face out of the frame and go for a coy smirk. Once I snap the photo, I drop out of the pose and perch on the arm of the floral print cushioned chair by the window, nudging one of my infinite recipe notebooks onto the seat.
“Not bad.” I tilt my head and scrunch my lips to the side. The next dilemma occurs to me and my eyes widen. “Crap.”
I’m already being bold with the photo, but should I say anything or just send the picture? What do people normally say when they send selfies revealing their thirst levels to their crush? Oh god, I’m going to screw this up. I’m so bad at this!
The glow of headlights shining through the window distracts me from my momentary panic as a dark silver SUV pulls into the house next door. The Bishop’s place. I’m the lucky duck who not only has the school principal for a neighbor but also his vicious son, Connor Bishop. Most of the time he ignores my existence, but on days he doesn’t, he’s the champion of the crusade against me and my favorite sweaters.
“Oh freaking great,” I mumble, ducking down in the chair so he doesn’t look up to my window and think I’m creeping on him.
I’m not risking Connor seeing me in this romper, either. No free shows for that asshole.
The headlights cut off as he parks outside of the garage. Their house looks like it belongs in the Hollywood Hills with its sprawling paved terraces, huge arched windows, and terracotta tiled roof. It stands out against the other houses, like mine, that resemble mountain lodges and chalets with stone columns and dark accents. Almost everything in our town matches the same mountain vibe. Our neighborhood is comfortably upscale as far as Ridgeview goes, but Connor’s is the biggest on the street.