Famous Last Words Read Online Free PDF Page A

only in infomercials. I don’t know what I fear more about parties, having people look at me or not being noticed at all.
    “I guess I missed the Evite regarding the island theme,” I say.
    Shelby frowns at my maroon Decemberists T-shirt, denim miniskirt, and flip-flops.
    “What?” I say. “I wore makeup.” Why am I here? It was all that fire excitement. Damned endorphins—great for a jump start, short on follow-through.
    I scan the crowd for signs of Rob McGinty and his girlfriend, Liza. Rob has black hair and icy blue eyes, and I’ve been in love with him since the sixth grade, when he kissed me during spin the bottle. It wasn’t a kiss kiss. But still. It meant something. To me at least. When we were young, I thought he liked me, too. We used to walk to school together.
    But then junior high happened, and whatever I had going on in sixth grade, puberty stole from me. Add braces and a constellation of pimples to the glasses I already wore, and I became an easy target for insults. Shelby says I’ve always been too sensitive. Even back then, when she was nerdier, Shelby never cared what kids said about her. I tried talking to Rob sometimes, but once, some kids passing by in the hall started barking. I didn’t talk to him at all after that. I was too humiliated. And maybe I expected him to stand up for me. Shelby always did. Still does.
    Maybe I’m no longer that awkward seventh-grade girl, but my own metamorphosis from ugly ducking to swan stalled out in the Cornish-game-hen stage. At some point, I decided self-imposed exile was safer than putting myself out there.
    “Relax. I bet Rob won’t even be here,” Shelby says, and gives my hand a squeeze.
    “I hope you’re right.”
    “Let’s get a beer,” she says.
    “You know I don’t drink.”
    “Maybe you should start. It helps when you’re shy,” Shelby says matter-of-factly. “Drinking and showing cleavage. Remember that for the next party.”
    “I don’t have cleavage.”
    “Two words: Cleavage Cupcakes.”
    With honey blond hair and a chest that enters a room a full two seconds before she does, Shelby always gets noticed. Me? I’m more cute than pretty. Despite my pure Mediterranean bloodline, I’m not blessed with olive skin or thick hair like everyone else in my family and most people in my town. I’m not saying I want to be overly tan and flaunt an Italian-princess necklace, but it would make things easier. I’m, like, a pasty white, wispy-haired exile in Guidoville. My brown eyes are just that—brown—which may be interesting to the guy who wrote “Brown-Eyed Girl” but isn’t, really, to anyone else. So I don’t think putting gel inserts into my bra is going to help.
    Reluctantly, I follow Shelby as she shimmies her way through the crowd toward the keg, smiling and saying hello to people like she’s walking the red carpet. Year after year, I keep hoping the Shelby-tude will rub off on me—a silent wish that for better or worse tethers us together. I hold my breath, hoping it will render me invisible.
    “Shelby!” yells a guy standing by the keg filling red plastic cups.
    “Hey, Mark,” Shelby answers.
    “You look great!” Mark says.
    “Thanks,” Shelby says. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “This is my friend—”
    But Mark cuts her off, either because he doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. “So Olaf went back to Germany, huh?” he says as he hands Shelby a foamy beer, which she passes to me.
    “Yeah, he’s been gone for two weeks. Can I have another one of those?” Shelby asks, pointing to the keg.
    “Huh? Oh, yeah,” Mark says. He fills another cup for Shelby.
    It’s as if I’m not even here. Careful what you wish for.
    “So … are you two doing the long-distance thing?” Mark asks.
    Shelby shakes her head. “We broke up before he left.”
    Mark, who doesn’t bother to conceal that this is good news as far as he’s concerned, grins big as he pours himself a beer.
    “Hey, come with me,” Mark says.