Page 9 of Eye of the Beholder

3) Step outside my comfort zone

Okay. Say what I’m thinking, remember my worth, and step outside my comfort zone. I can do that. Right?

Because it’s time for a change. I don’t want to be a cat lady, as much as I enjoy cats. I want to be a people lady. And as late as it is to be realizing this, it’s now or never. And I know the boyfriend thing I daydream about isn’t going to happen. In general I believe that people can change, but the amount of change that would be required for me to snag a guy would be beyond astronomical. And that’s fine. It really is. But I’m done cowering. I’m going to start talking to people and looking them in the eye. I’m going to make friends. Or maybe even just one friend.

I grab a piece of tape from my desk and tape my new list on the wall, right next to the poster that says “You are enough.” It’s one of my favorite parts of my room; I’ve spent a lot of time just looking at that poster. It’s decorated in bright florals, but more than that, it’s something I need to hear on a regular basis.

This is my year.

I mean, probably.

This is probably my year.

4

Cohen

My car is a piece of junk. It’s old and beat up, and the inside of it smells perpetually like fast food. It’s on its last legs. I usually don’t care about any of that, because whatever else the car is, it’s also mine.

But apparently today I care, because today it doesn’t start when I get in and turn the key. It gives a few feeble stutters and then falls silent.

This is not my year.

I’m not surprised about the car, but I am irritated. I haven’t taken the bus to school in years, but by now it’s come and gone. I get out of my car, lock it—although I guess there’s no need, since it won’t start anyway—and crane my neck to look at Mina’s house.

Bingo. Her car is still there.

I cross the lawn, stepping carefully over the flowerbeds that her mom would flay me for disturbing, and knock loudly on the door. Extra loudly, really, just to make sure she hears me.

Her front door lurches open, and there she is, wearing one of what must be a dozen gray shirts she owns. Sometimes her shirt is white, I guess. Other than that there’s not much variation. She’s not bad looking; she might even be pretty. It’s hard to tell when you can’t see past the baggy clothes and the hair pulled tight to her head.

She’s got the coolest eyes I’ve ever seen, though, one blue and one brown. They’re slightly narrowed at me right now.

“Willy,” I say. I think I’m the only person who calls her that, although she has been calledWetWilly by a lot of people. I give her a smile—mostly to dispel the slight awkwardness I feel after our run-in at the florist’s last night. Talk about uncomfortable. She clearly still has a thing for Jack, who just as clearly does not know she exists.

Well,nowhe does, I guess.

“Coco,” she says, her voice flat as she steps out of her house and locks the door behind her.

I wince. “All right. Point taken. Hey, can I get a ride to school? My car won’t start.”

“Your car is a piece of junk,” she says, looking to where it’s parked on the street.

“It’s not a piece of junk,” I say, even though I thought the same thing not five minutes ago. I follow her down the little paved path that runs through her lawn.

“Why did you bang on the door so hard?” she says over her shoulder.

“I just wanted to make sure you would hear me.”

“I think the whole neighborhood heard you. Where’s Lydia?”

Good question. My twin sister is involved in everything. It’s exhausting to remember what all she does, so I don’t try. “Student council, I think?” I shrug. “I’m not sure. But she left early. So…can I get a ride?” I eye her hopefully.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, gesturing to the passenger side of her car as she walks around to get in the driver’s seat. “But you’ll probably have to slide your seat back. Tall people don’t usually sit there.”

She’s right; when I get in the car my legs crunch up almost comically, and I immediately adjust the seat. Her car is ten times cleaner than mine, and there’s no fast food smell.

I feel my phone buzz and pull it out as I buckle my seatbelt. Safety first and all that.

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