The Mysteriously Complicated Life of Ashlynn Read online

  “I know that.” I was thrown off by his intensity. Normally, he was so reserved. “But it’s not like I can do anything about it.”

  “Yeah, there is,” he insisted, turning to face me.

  “Really?” I held my breath in anticipation. Could he really know a way? He was super smart, so maybe.

  He nodded. “You can choose not to listen to them.”

  My hope went kerplunk, but I hid my disappointment, not wanting to make him feel bad.

  “That’s a good idea.” Yet only feasible if I didn’t have ears.

  His lips pulled into an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry; it’s not as hard as it sounds.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I get teased all the time.”

  I knew this about him already. I’d never made fun of him personally, but a lot of kids at our school liked to call him science freak, four eyes, and other stupid stuff like that.

  “You don’t care that they make fun of you?” I questioned.

  “Not really. Do I wish they’d stop? Sure. But I’m not going to change who I am to get them to do that. All I can really do is choose not to let their words affect me, and own who I am.”

  “You know, you’re super smart for only being eleven.”

  He smiled at that, and then opened his lunchbox and offered me his cheese stick and half his sandwich. I thanked him, and then we spent the next ten minutes eating lunch together and chatting about cool television shows, movies, and how cool it would be to have a superpower. When it was time to go back to class, we parted ways.

  We spent the rest of the week doing the same thing until school ended for summer break. I didn’t see him again until middle school, when I became friends with Queeny.

  She once caught me staring at Maxon in the cafeteria and warned me that, if I talked to him, we couldn’t be friends anymore. Not wanting to be Asslynn, the loser sitting behind the dumpster again, I chose to let everyone’s words affect me. I chose everyone who had ever been mean to me over a sweet guy who was nice to me during one of the worst weeks of my life.

  And now look at me. Back to being the girl crying alone. Only, instead of hiding behind the dumpster, I hid in a bathroom stall. I highly doubt Maxon Harter is going to come to my rescue this time.

  Still, as I lie in bed, listening to The Clash and fiddling with the cheese stick wrapper I dorkily saved from that day we ate behind the dumpster, I daydream he might. That tomorrow at school, he’ll help me get through Queeny’s torment. Only, instead of offering me his cheese stick, he’ll let me hang out with his friends.

  I shake my head. Who would’ve thought I’d be daydreaming of Maxon Hater becoming my friend? Well, okay, it isn’t that weird considering I’ve daydreamed he was my secret make out buddy.

  I lie in bed until the song ends and the time reaches 7:15. Then I push up from my bed, crack the curtain, and peer out the window at the trailer beside mine. Right on cue, Maxon walks into his bedroom and flips on the light. The window curtain is wide open, giving me a full view of every move he makes, from him tossing his backpack onto his bed to him shucking off his hoodie. His shirt comes off next, and I bite down on my lip as my stomach flutters.

  He’s not rock hard and ripped or anything, just lean and kind of toned, probably from his weekend job of doing yard work around the trailer park and surrounding neighborhoods.

  I continue to spy on him as he kicks off his boots, slips off his leather bracelets, and then removes his studded belt. When he undoes the button of his jeans, I turn my back to my window, telling myself that what I’m doing doesn’t make me a total perv since I look away before he takes his pants off. Deep down, though, I know I’m being a creeper.

  In my defense, my favorite part about watching him isn’t when he strips off his shirt, but what he does after he gets into his pajamas.

  I keep my back to the window for a couple more minutes, giving him time to get changed before kneeling back up and crack the curtain again. He’s changed into a pair of plaid drawstring pajama bottoms, a black T-shirt, and a pair of goggles, and is now standing in front of a small table covered with test tubes, beakers, a small torch, a long pipe, and a bunch of other strange looking objects. I have no clue what kind of strange contraption he’s building, but I like watching him create experiments and build projects.

  He always looks so content while working, like nothing else in the world matters but him and whatever he’s creating. I envy him for being able to tune out the world and own who he is. I wish I would’ve taken his advice back in fifth grade and decided to wear what I wanted, openly listen to the music that I love, and declare to the world that I’d rather be home reading a book, messing around with tarot cards, or trying to channel spirit energy on Saturday nights than be out at a party. However, knowing Queeny would’ve made fun of me, I kept everything that truly makes me happy a secret, too weak and caring more about what she thought than what I thought about myself.

  Yanking myself out of my pity party, I get situated with the curtain behind me and my cheek resting against the window as Maxon ignites a torch. I’m being pretty bold, sitting so out in the open, but since my bedroom light is off, he shouldn’t be able to see me.

  After he melts a piece of metal, he leans over and squints at the end of the pipe. Strands of his dark hair fall into his eyes as he bites down on his lip, looking lost in thought.

  I smile, wondering what he’s thinking, wondering what his lips would feel like if I—

  “Ash, turn the damn music down! Dad’s trying to sleep,” my brother’s voice unexpectedly rises over the music.

  A microsecond later, my bedroom light flips on and illuminates against the darkness outside like a freakin’ lighthouse.

  I duck for cover as Maxon snaps his head in the direction of my window.

  Crappity, crap, crap. Did he see me?

  “Lucky, turn the light off,” I hiss.

  When he makes no move to do so, I army crawl out from under the curtain and ungracefully head dive off my bed, kicking the lamp off the nightstand in the process.

  Lucky gapes at me like I just declared I want to prance around in a tutu for the rest of my life. “What the hell’s your problem?”

  “The light being on.” I crawl over to where he’s standing, jump up, and flip the light off. Then I hurry back to my bed, take a deep breath, and crack the curtain. “Please, please, please be completely oblivious to the fact that your next-door neighbor has an unhealthy habit of watching you from her bedroom window in the dark,” I mutter as I peek over at his house.

  The lights are off. So not a good sign. He probably saw me and turned off all the lights so I couldn’t see into his bedroom anymore.

  Awesome.

  Now, on top of recent leader of Loserville, I can add creeper/stalker to my resume when applying for new friends, which is the only way I’m going to be able to get new friends.

  “You’re acting weird,” my brother comments, turning down the volume of the stereo. “Even for you.”

  I open my mouth, ready to feed him some lame excuse about stargazing. “I was just—”

  “Please don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts me off, backing out of the room. “Because I’m pretty sure you were spying on that guy you’re obsessed with who lives next-door, and while he was doing who knows what.”

  “He was just messing around with his torch,” I reply defensively.

  Wait. Hold up. What in the wild, wild bananas did he just say? Lucky knows I’m obsessed with Maxon? Am I that transparent?

  Shit. If that’s the case, then who else knows about my nerdy crush?

  Lucky scrunches his nose. “His torch? Gross, Ash.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” I pick up a pillow and launch it at him. “You’re so disgusting.”

  He laughs, ducking out of the pillow’s way. “Yeah, coming from the girl who just got busted spying on her neighbor while he messes around with his”—he makes air quotes—“ ‘torch.’ ”

&nbs
p; I reach for another pillow to throw at him, but he scrambles out of my room, chuckling under his breath as he shuts the door.

  Shaking my head, I turn back to the window and peer outside. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Maxon holding up a giant, flashing neon sign that declares: I didn’t see you watching me! You’re good!

  Yeah, that’d be fantastic. The possibility of that happening is right up there with Queeny letting this whole revenge on Ash plan go.

  Nope, I won’t get a sign or a declaration, and I’m fairly positive Maxon saw me.

  Wanting to kick my own ass for being such an idiot, I sink back into bed. Lovely. Now, not only do I have to worry about what secret Queeny told everyone, but I have to worry that Maxon Harter now knows about my borderline stalker crush on him.

  Five

  The next morning, I fake a headache and stay home from school. During dinnertime, my mom grows skeptical about my alleged migraine and informs me I can’t play hooky tomorrow. So, I get up extra early Wednesday morning to put together an outfit that will somewhat resemble my normal, light colored, pretty springtime style. But since almost all the clothes Gabby brought are dark, I have no alternative but to say screw my old style and put on a pair of torn, black, skinny jeans; a black, loose-fitting Nirvana shirt; and a dark green hooded jacket that reaches mid-thigh.

  I have a lot of my own shoes, but most are strappy platforms in shades of silver, pink, and gold, so I opt for a pair of black leather, four-inch, clunky ankle boots that feel like they weigh ten pounds each. Then I pull my hair up into a ponytail, dab on some kohl eyeliner, some lip gloss, and then head out to grab some breakfast before the bus comes.

  When I enter the kitchen, Mom is digging through one of the many boxes taking over the counters. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and plaid shirt, and her brown hair is done up in a bun, dressed to go to work—the stores dress code policy is super casual.

  “Hey, sweetie. Hope you’re feeling better,” she says without looking up. “Breakfast is on the table.”

  I glance over at the plate of bacon and eggs. “Mom, I thought we all agreed you’d stop making breakfast? Lucky and I can take care of ourselves.”

  “So what? That still doesn’t mean I want to stop taking care of you.” She draws her hand out of the box with her fingers wrapped around a small bag of ambers. “Now eat up before it gets cold …” Her eyes bulge out when she notices my outfit. “What on earth are you wearing?”

  I tug on the bottom of the jacket. “Clothes.”

  “Ash, while I always appreciate your sarcasm, I’ve had way too little sleep for jokes. So please, lovely daughter of mine, tell your amazingly patient mother why you’re dressed so bizarrely this morning … Wait? Is this like the pre-Halloween thing you and Queeny did last year when you dressed up the day before Halloween?” Her nose crinkles at the last part, as if she bit into a sour piece of candy; a look she always gets whenever she mentions Queeny.

  While she’s never flat-out said the words, I know she’s always hoped I’d one day ditch the evil beotch who turned me into ditzy, shallow, cruel girl. What she doesn’t realize, though, is Queeny didn’t force me to become who I am. I chose to.

  I slump down in a chair at the table. “No, it’s not a pre-Halloween thing. And we only did that the day before Halloween, not two weeks before.” I pick up the fork and dig into the eggs. “I just decided to mix my style up a bit. You know, experiment with my identity. It’s what all the cool kids are doing these days.”

  “Oh.” She distractedly fiddles with a bag of ambers. “That’s good, I guess.”

  I nibble on a piece of bacon. “Then why do you sound depressed about it?”

  “I don’t. I’m just a bit concerned over why my daughter completely changed her identity overnight. And I’d be a terrible mother if I wasn’t worried that perhaps there’s a bigger reason behind this abrupt style change. And perhaps it has something to do with why you had a headache yesterday.”

  “Easy, ex-psych major,” I tease. Inside, I turn all squirrely at her mad crazy perception skills.

  “I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you.” She leans against the counter. “I just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Of course.” I shovel a forkful of eggs into my mouth. “Everything’s always okay.”

  Doubt floods her eyes, and her lips part, but then she closes her mouth and lets out a slow exhale. “Fine, I’ll accept that answer for now. I hope you change your mind and tell me the truth later.”

  With how convinced she is that something is wrong, I’m concerned Lucky may have told her what happened. But I doubt he’d do anything to add more stress to our mom’s chaotic mess of a life.

  “I’m really okay. This clothing change … it’s not a big deal.” I pop a piece of bacon into my mouth while glancing at the time on the microwave. “Crap, I gotta go.” I shovel more eggs into my mouth, then collect my bag from off the floor and jump to my feet.

  My mom slants back to check the time. “It’s kind of early for Queeny to pick you up, isn’t it?”

  “She wants to stop and get coffee before school,” I lie for the tenth time in two minutes. I feel like the worst person ever as I give her a hug in a lame attempt to make up for being horrible. I just hope she can’t feel my heart pounding with my guilt.

  “Oh, Ash, something’s definitely bothering you,” she says, hugging me back. “Please talk to me, honey.”

  “I promise I’m okay.” I step back, sling my bag over my shoulder, and change the subject. “If you want, I can go through these boxes and do inventory when I get home.”

  “That’s a nice offer, but what about Queeny?”

  “What about her?” I feign dumb, pretending like I don’t hang out with Queeny every day after school, at least on the days Lucky doesn’t work, like today.

  “Aren’t you hanging out with her today?” she asks cautiously.

  I shake my head, swallowing the lump wedged in my throat.

  She assesses me with wariness. “Fine, if you feel up to it when you get home from school, you can sort through these boxes and sort the crystals and herbs. Then record how many there are in each category.”

  I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “It didn’t come with a shipment list?”

  “It usually does, but unfortunately, the company forgot to include one this time.” She picks up the bag of ambers again, opens the top, and takes out a golden brown smooth stone. “Here, take one of these with you. It’ll give you positive energy.”

  I’m not a big believer in crystals and stones giving out energy, but I take the amber, anyway, figuring I’ll need every amount of extra positivity I can scrounge up. “Thanks.”

  She smiles, worry still residing in her eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I nod, stuffing the stone into my pocket. “Yep, everything’s great.” I throw her a wave then dash out the front door before I cave and bury her with all of my problems.

  When I step out onto the crooked front porch, I suck in a breath of the cool morning air to calm down my racing heart. I’ve never been fantastic at lying to my mom, and even with semi-good intentions, I feel sick to my stomach.

  “It’s for the best,” I mumble as I trot down the steps and cut across the gravel driveway toward the dirt road that leads to the bus stop.

  I’ve barely stepped over the border of my property when a beast of a car drives up the road. An 80s rock song is blasting from the speakers, the windows are grimy, and every piece of metal covering the car is a different color. I don’t have to see the driver to know who owns the vehicle—it’s one of those cars that is easily recognizable.

  I consider ducking into my yard and hiding, but I’m going to have to face the entire school in about an hour, so I might as well rip off the Band-Aid now. Besides, crossing paths with Clove might be the easiest part of my day.

  The car slows down as it nears my house then pulls into the driveway beside Maxon’s family’s trailer. The engine cuts,
and then Clove hops out with that dopey smile on his face.

  “Good morning, vampire, tarot card reader, potential ass grabber of mine who just doesn’t know it yet.” He bumps the door closed then rounds the back of the car, stuffing his car keys into the pockets of his faded jeans.

  “Clove, Clove, Clove, we already talked about this,” I tsk. “I’m only an ass grabber in your dreams.”

  “Well, maybe I am dreaming. Who really knows? Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s reality and what’s not.” He tugs his beanie lower over his head, his brows dipping as he gets closer to me. Then his eyes flick up and down my body before he blinks his focus on my face again. “Yeah, I’m definitely dreaming.”

  I roll my eyes, pretending to be way cooler than I am, something I used to be fabulous at doing. “No, you’re not, dude, so quit tripping.”

  “Um, yeah, I am. Because you only dress like that in my dreams, and say things like quit tripping.”

  Normally, I’d roll my eyes at such a cheesy line, but my nerves are too bubbly at the moment.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my outfit.” I wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my legs. “So, quit tripping.”

  His eyes glimmer with amusement as he wags a finger at me. “Nice one. But I’m still not convinced I’m awake.” Sticking out his arm, he rolls up the sleeve of his long-sleeved black shirt then pinches his arm hard enough to leave a red mark. “Ow.” His face twists in pain as he tugs down his sleeve. “Okay, yeah, I’m for sure awake.”

  “You know, there are easier ways to tell if you’re awake or asleep.”

  “Really?” He rubs his jawline pensively. “And what are these alleged ways?”

  I have to bite down on my lip to stop from cracking up. “Are you ever serious?”

  He points a finger at me, his lips lifting into an adorable half-smile. “Only in my dreams.”

  “Ha, ha,” I retort.

  He chuckles, his eyes crinkling around the corners. Then his laughter fades. “Wait a second, should I be worried?”

  I squint against the sunlight. “Um … About what?”