Page 99 of Eye of the Beholder

She points one finger at Marcus, jabbing him in the chest. “You are disgusting. You will leave this tableright now”—she punctuates these words with more chest jabs—“and you will not come back. You will never speak to Mina or to me ever again. Do you understand?” Her eyes flash, and even though she’s shorter than me, she somehow seems ten feet tall.

And I suddenly understand how she got Marcus to stop saying gross things to her. Lydia is kind of…scary. I can’t help it; I grin as I sit back down. Judging by Marcus’s startled and disconcerted expression, Lydia has this under control.

Even though I want nothing more than to put my arm around Mina’s shoulders, I resist the urge. I tell myself forcefully and more than once that it’s not my place. But I guess she doesn’t need it anyway, because she now tugs on the hem of Lydia’s shirt and looks at her disapprovingly. Lydia gives an angry huff and sits on the other side of Mina. Then Mina looks back to Marcus. Her face is still red, but her voice doesn’t tremble this time.

“I’m not sleeping my way around the football team. I’m not sleeping with anyone. I don’t have time for petty insults. Please leave.”

Then she turns her back on him, looks to her lunch, and takes a big, slurping sip from her juice box. Marcus just stares at the three of us, his jaw hanging slightly, his face coloring.

He spins on his heel and walks away.

“Look at you,” I say to her with a grin. “Standing up to mean people. I guess my tutoring did some good after all, huh?”

She smiles at me. “Did I sound convincing? Because I was terrified.”

“Very convincing,” I say, still grinning. Then the grin fades. “Sorry I sort of freaked out. I’m just tired. And stressed, I guess. ACT results should be back any day. My dad’s wedding is this weekend. Stuff like that.” I don’t mention my significantly more personal feelings for disliking Marcus’s comments, but Lydia’s subtly raised brow at me tells me that she at least knows what I’m not saying.

“Yeah,” Mina says, tilting her head. She’s cute when she does that. “Remind me when that is?”

“Saturday,” I say with a sigh. “At five.”

She nods, looking thoughtful. “Well, I’m sure it will be fine.”

“And you’ll have fun watching your meteor shower thing,” I say.

Mina rolls her eyes, shoving her empty juice box and the rest of her trash in her paper bag. “It’s notmymeteor shower. It’s a beautiful gift of nature to people everywhere so that we can have the chance to experience celestial happenings for ourselves—”

“All right,” I say. “Not your meteor shower. You could have stopped there.” I grin at her, and she smiles back.

***

As it turns out, my ACT score shows up early Saturday afternoon. I’ve been checking every day—multiple times, if I’m being honest—with mingled excitement and terror.

But the terror is unwarranted. Because my score has gone up by four points.

My jaw actually drops when I see it, and I let out a disbelieving laugh. I didn’t realize how much stress the ACT thing was causing me until I feel the relief pour through me, and it feels like a burden has been lifted off my shoulders. It’s not my ideal five-point increase, but I’m more than satisfied.

The first thing I do is call Mina.

“My score went up by four points,” I say, my words coming out in a rush. I’m still smiling.

“Your—what?” she says, sounding distracted. Then, more focused, she says, “Wait, you got your ACT score back? Four points?” She sounds as excited as I feel.

I smile more broadly. “Yes! Four.”

She gives the most un-Mina-like squeal I’ve ever heard. “That’s awesome! I knew you could do it, Cohen! And I told you! I told you you were ready! How did you do on the English and reading sections?”

My eyes scan the details of my composite score. “Still my lowest,” I say when I find the English and reading scores. “But so much better.”

“Clearly,” she says. I can hear her smile. “I’m proud of you. I’m really proud of you.”

It’s strangely touching coming from her. “Thanks,” I say. “I owe you big time.”

“Nah, I thinkIoweyou. I already know more about football than I ever wanted to know. I’ve flirted with myself in the mirror. I’ve been more made over than Cinderella—”

“You’ve been flirting with yourself in the mirror?” I say, laughing.

“Practice makes perfect, Cohen,” she says. “But I do have to admit it’s not very effective.”

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