Page 2 of Woke Up Like This
She chuckles. “My little adrenaline junkie. Seriously, though. Don’t be in such a rush to barrel into adulthood.”
“Why not? You get to do whatever you want. Eat whatever you want. You can even buy a pet,” I point out, blinking away the memory of Mom forgetting to feed my goldfish while I was at summer camp. RIP Herbert.
“Hate to break it to you, but adulthood is just a never-ending cycle of chores, obligations, googling how to fix stuff, and spending money on things you hate. Like sponges and dish detergent.” She gestures vaguely to the sink behind me.
Maybe for you.I don’t say that out loud, though.
“Hey, that stainless steel sponge has done wonders for us. It was a worthwhile investment.”
My statement garners a derisive headshake. “My point is, I spend half the time pretending to know what I’m doing, and the other half ignoring all my problems and hoping they’ll disappear. Spoiler alert: they do not. And don’t even get me started on your body. One minute you’re throwing down chips by the bag, and the next you’re stirring Metamucil into your water and using a heating pad on your back.” She pretends to crack her back for dramatic effect.
“Wow, Mom. Thanks for painting that bleak picture.”
“That’s adulting,” she says with a knowingyou’ll see when you’re oldershrug.
Filled with optimism for my uncertain future, I grab my backpack by the door. “I’ll take Metamucil and back pain any day over being a teenager with a bedtime. But first—”
“Prom,” Mom finishes.
TWO
Unfortunately, other students aren’t as invested in executing the perfect teenage rite of passage.
Fifteen minutes into the student council prom-planning meeting and our fair president is nowhere to be seen.
Kassie (secretary and my best friend), Ollie (chief of fundraising), and Nori (creative vision) appear unfazed by our leader’s tardiness. Kassie and Nori are too busy hanging on to Ollie’s every word. He always has the latest Maplewood High School tea, which is allegedly “piping hot” today.
“Two kids from drama club got caught hooking up in the weight room this morning,” he explains, bouncing his thick brows suggestively. “Heard it from Coach Tanner.”
Nori perches on the chair like an owl, proverbial popcorn at the ready, layered butter and all. “What kind ofhooking up?”
Ollie makes a lewd gesture with his hands, which tells me more than I needed to know.
Kassie gasps, as if she and Ollie haven’t done much worse—like their bathroom rendezvous at my sixteenth birthday party. I haven’t used that bathroom since. “In the weight room? That’s ballsy.”
I snort. “Literally.”
They pass the next twelve minutes sharing other rumors about people boinking on school property (including Principal Proulx’s desk).Meanwhile, I clench my jaw, oversharpen my pencil, and stare at the clock.
I’m about to suggest we begin the meeting without Mr.President when the door whooshes open. Everyone hollers cheerfully, unbothered. Of course they do. Because everybody loves J.T.Renner.
“Track practice went late,” he announces unapologetically as he waltzes in, broad chest puffed out like God can’t touch him. His navy “smedium” T-shirt is working overtime today, fabric taut around his biceps in a thinly veiled effort to accentuate his muscles. Don’t get me wrong, I harbor no ill will toward muscles. As a scrawny nerd with nary an athletic bone in my body, I’m jealous of people who can open water bottle caps with ease and take the stairs without getting winded. I do, however, reserve the right to be petty when those muscles are attached to Renner, whose smug face makes me want to toss myself into a wormhole.
“It’s fine, Renner. It’s not like we have anywhere else to be.” I make my voice sugary sweet as he plunks into the seat beside me, stretching his abnormally long legs under the table. His left sneaker is less than an inch from my mustard patent ballet flat, and I don’t like it one bit.
He shoots me the stink eye—he does this whenever I use his last name. Everyone else calls him J. T. “Did I miss anything important?” he asks, extending a tanned arm to swipe one of the nut-free granola bars I generously supplied.
Because I’m a mature seventeen-year-old, I shift the granola bar pile two inches to the left.If you want it, work for it, sucker.He still manages to get his grubby paws on one without missing a beat.
“We’re only having the most critical meeting to date,” I say primly.
He tears the granola bar wrapper open like a chimpanzee as he conducts a stony inspection of my turtleneck T-shirt and matching plaid skirt. “Nice outfit, Char. Diarrhea green really is your color.”
“Thanks. I wore it to match your eyes,” I retort. For the record, my shirt is olive green.
Nori waves her hand like a wand, casting a pretend hex to dissolve the tension. “Guys, I have a FaceTime with my energy healer in forty minutes. Let’s get started.”
Ollie turns to a crisp, fresh page in his notebook. “Let’s go over the budget after our projected ticket sales,” he starts, barely suppressing a giggle when Kassie fondles his thigh under the table.
