Chapter 20

Chapter 20
“What? No. I don’t care what they say. They’re just jealous.” I reply—but the truth is, I am scared.

“Gossip doesn’t define who you really are. It’s just how the media portrays celebrities.” Arya says, pointing her fork at me.

Zara smiles, but students are still staring. I look at my phone again and open Twitter, reading tweets filled with jealousy and hate:

@anyasayscheese: Some people pretend to be nice just to use you.
@iamsandywonder: A user, you may say?
@nit_: I know someone who acts invisible at school but is a big gold digger.

Zara grabs my phone, clearly disturbed that I’m on it. My heart races, and my hands shake. Should I be mad? I didn’t ask for this. Maybe Arya is right. They don’t know me. I’m just starting to accept the love Harry talks about, and this is what I get? Zara hands back my phone, and I toss it into my bag.

When we return to practice, the gossip doesn’t stop. They act like it’s a big deal, but they have no idea what they’re talking about. I don’t want to sound arrogant by saying it, but come on—I’m dating Harry, the Harry from The Pedals. Of course they’re jealous. He’s one of the hottest guys alive, and I’m just a normal high school senior. But he loves me. I kissed him before he even said it, and now they want to drag me down?

What I’ve learned in seventeen years: people always have something to say—whether you do good, bad, or nothing at all.

We get dismissed early at three in the afternoon. I’m not really interested in practice anymore, but I play their game like a pro. I wait in the hallway for my friends. When they reach me, I tell them what happened last night, starting from the moment Harry came over.

I notice the glances, the stares. My classmates look at me like I’m something to be judged. But I keep talking. Zara whispers that I don’t need to say it so loudly, but I’m done staying quiet. They started this. Arya gets it—she even mentions the camp when Harry told everyone I’m his inspiration. Then she asks what Harry’s lips taste like.

“Like a chocolate chip cookie with a hint of fireworks—with my eyes closed.” I reply.

We’re quiet as we leave campus, but we burst into laughter when we reach the bus stop. I feel a little stupid for telling the story but seeing the anger in their eyes is enough justice. Rumors never die, but at least I made them mad.

“It’s funny how everyone actually listened to you for once.” Arya says.

“I feel like you just made them angrier.” Zara adds.

“They started it.” I say.

“Yeah. She didn’t even do anything wrong. Harry made the first move.” Arya defends.

The house is dark when I get home—Mom must still be at work. Sometimes I wonder where she goes when she’s not at work, but it’s exhausting to think about. She’s old enough, anyway. The kitchen is empty, and I’m starving. I open the fridge—nothing.

Then I see a note on the counter:

I’ll be home late. Buy food. Don’t forget to go to the grocery tomorrow—we’re out of supplies.
– Mom

So, dinner outside it is. I grab my phone and see three messages from Harry and one from mom. I open Harry’s first:

2:00 PM – I want to meet you after school.
2:27 PM – Just text me.
3:00 PM – What time are you going home?

Mom’s message is just a copy of the note.

I reply to Harry:

Me: Sorry, didn’t see your texts. I’m at home—want to grab something to eat? I’m starving.

I text Arya and Zara too, just in case. Then I run upstairs to change, toss my uniform on the bed, and put on jeans and a t-shirt. Just as I come back down, there’s a knock at the door. Is that him already?

I grab my phone—missed call from Harry. I open the door, and he’s standing there.

“Where the hell did you come from?” I ask.

“You weren’t replying. I texted Arya, she said you were home. I was already nearby.” he says.

The way he pulls me into a hug caught me off guard, just like the kiss that made me believe in love. After a moment, he starts the car, sneaking glances at me in the passenger seat.

“Where are we going to eat?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I just want something real food.” I say, watching him.

He’s quiet for a second. “What do you want? I don’t know this place well.”

I smile. “There’s a street food area nearby. But first—can we stop at the mall? I need groceries.”

He puts on a cap and shades, trying to disguise himself. I ask if that works—he says people always notice him anyway. And he’s right. A guard at the mall recognizes him even after asking him to take off the disguise. Harry grabs a cart, acting like a child, and I pick out snacks for mom.

“Harry, stop it.” I say.

“Give me a kiss first.” he teases.

I kiss him—until I notice a girl staring. She’s from school. I kiss his cheek and walk beside him. He reads my body language.

Now I’m definitely going to be the ‘Most Hated Girl’ in school.

Later, in the car, I thank him for playing along.

“Oh, that wasn’t for her. I just wanted you to kiss me. I'm always the one making moves.” he says.

“What?! You want me to make the first move?” I punch him. He laughs.

“I’m hungry!” I groan.

“We were just at the mall!” he says.

“No. We’re going to my favorite place.”

We arrive at the street food area. He raises an eyebrow. “We’re eating here?”

“Yes! My best friends and I always eat here!”

I tell him how this place is where I met my closest friends. He laughs, and we order food. People start recognizing him, even with the disguise. A vendor asks for a selfie—Harry agrees. I start to panic a little, but Harry smiles, calm.

“It’s just a picture.” he says. “This is great, babe.” he says, mouth full.

I punch him again. “Who said you could call me that?”

“What? It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, it is! You’re getting too comfortable!”

I walk off, pretending to be mad, but truthfully, I like being with him—even in public.

After eating and taking selfies with fans, we head home. I ask him to stay for dinner.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask, unloading groceries.

“We just ate! And now you’re thinking about food again?” he says, collapsing onto the couch.

“It’s supper time!” I laugh.

We end up ordering pizza and watching a movie. We argue about what to watch—he wants horror, I don’t.

“This is my house. My choice!” I declare.

“Okay then,” he grins. “I want to know your favorite.”

I grab my DVDs and pick Lady Bird.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“My favorite.”

“Is it romantic?”

“No!” I chirp.