The Year of Living Awkwardly Read online

  Praise for

  Confessions of a High School Disaster

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  “Chloe Snow’s diary goes far beyond the expected awesomeness + angst of a freshman in high school, though it has both of those qualities in spades. But Chloe Snow, in all her hilarious brilliance, will also break your heart and make you bawl those ‘happy to be alive’ tears. Amazing.”

  —Lauren Myracle, New York Times bestselling author of The Infinite Moment of Us

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  “Chastain captures a spot-on teen voice that would feel at home in an updated version of the film Mean Girls.”

  —School Library Journal

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  “Recommended for fans of Louise Rennison or anyone who needs a good laugh.”

  —VOYA

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  “Chloe is refreshingly honest and unfiltered.”

  —Booklist

  * * *

  For Anita Lannom

  Wednesday, August 10

  OMG. I think Grady likes me.

  Maybe! I mean, I’m not positive. But work today was weird.

  It was hot, but there were big rain clouds overhead, so no one came to the pool. Grady and I sat on our stools in the concession stand, eating Twizzlers and talking about where we’d most like to live when we finally escape our hellishly pleasant New England suburb.

  Grady said, “Probably Berlin, or Istanbul.”

  I said, “New York, definitely. Or maybe Bermuda, so I can ride around on a scooter.”

  He shook his head. “No way. It’d be too boring, living there forever. We could go there on our honeymoon, though.”

  I whipped my head to the left to look at his face. My mouth was hanging open from the shock. He’s never said anything like that to me before! He’s a year younger than me! He knows I just got dumped by Mac, my pretend boyfriend who had a girlfriend but made out with me constantly anyway!

  He looked a little nervous, but also pleased with himself.

  “Sure,” I said finally. “I hear they have pink sand.”

  The thing about Grady is, he’s basically my height, so it’s easy to stare into his eyes, which are deep-set, and to notice his eyelashes, which are so long they get tangled sometimes.

  I see that he’s handsome, but I don’t feel it in my bones. Could I ever like Grady? Good old Grady, my co-worker, the guy who burps the alphabet for my entertainment when we get bored?

  Thursday, August 11

  OK, I think yesterday was all in my head. It was about a thousand degrees in the concession stand today, and I was dying.

  “I’m sweating like a pig,” I told Grady. “I think I forgot to put on deodorant.”

  He tried to smell my armpit and I pushed his head away.

  “You definitely forgot,” he said, fanning his hand in front of his face.

  This is how we normally treat each other: like siblings. Disgusting siblings.

  Then we talked about (a) whether or not dogs have a sense of the future, (b) gross smells we secretly like (gasoline, skunks), and (c) earbuds versus over-ear headphones. Hardly a sexy, tension-filled conversation, thank God.

  Friday, August 12

  Barf. Email from Mom.

  Dearest Chloe,

  I know you’re angry with me, and I respect that. Don’t feel you need to respond to this missive—but know I would adore a response, should you be able to muster one.

  Javi and I have settled into our new place in San Miguel. We’ve set aside a bedroom for you. In the evenings, we sit on the balcony and sip tequila while the lights come on, twinkling across the mountain below us as if mirroring the stars in the sky.

  I’ve finished the first draft of my novel and have put it in a drawer, where I intend to leave it for a while before revisiting it with fresh eyes. While I wait, I’ll deepen my yoga practice. I’ve found a charming little studio mere blocks away.

  Well, darling, I think of you every minute, and am sending you so much love.

  Yours,

  Ever,

  Mommy

  I started a draft.

  Veronica,

  Remember that time you ran away to Mexico to work on your (probably terrible) novel, abandoning me and Dad? Remember how you pretended you were only going to be away for a few months, when you knew you were never coming back? Remember how you showed up at our July 4th BBQ with your MUCH-YOUNGER boyfriend, Javi, and humiliated me in front of my friends and then told me you and Dad are getting a divorce? Oh, wait, that all happened in the past year, so you definitely remember it. I do too. Don’t email me anymore,

  —Chloe

  But then I deleted it. I don’t want to give her the attention. She doesn’t deserve it.

  Saturday, August 13

  Dad was washing the dishes and singing “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top.” You wouldn’t think it to look at him, since he’s a middle-aged lawyer dad who wears collared shirts even on the weekend, but he’s really into musicals. It must be hereditary, because I’ve always loved them too.

  He felt me staring at him and stopped.

  “Too loud?” he said.

  “No, it’s nice.” I didn’t tell him the truth, which is that I’d been standing there worrying about him. I worry about him all the time now. Mostly I picture him dying in a car accident. That’s what scares me the most, maybe because it seems like it could actually happen.

  Dad said, “I have to head out in a few minutes.”

  “You’re going out? I didn’t know that. I would have invited Tris over if—”

  “Hang on, Chloe.” He turned off the water and looked at me. “I’m meeting Miss Murphy for a drink.”

  “Oh. OK.”

  My voice must have sounded funny, because he said, “You did say I should ask her out again, so I thought . . .”

  “It’s fine. I don’t care.”

  I dried a pan off furiously and then clanged it into a cabinet.

  “Chloe. Come on.”

  “Just . . . Please don’t go out around here. I don’t want people seeing you and teasing me at school.”

  “Do you think they would?”

  I picked up the colander and examined it. “There’s still a bunch of pasta on this thing.”

  “Oh yeah. Give me a do-over.”

  I handed it to him.

  “They would definitely tease me,” I said. “Definitely.”

  “OK.” He was bent over, working with the sponge. “We can drive a few towns over.”

  I folded the dish towel in half, then in half again. “You know she’s my English teacher again this year, right?” I thought for sure she’d keep teaching freshman English, but no, apparently she’s going to follow me through high school like a curse.

  He nodded without looking at me. “I did see that on your schedule.”

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe something like, I can see how awkward it would be for you to know that the person teaching your favorite subject is also boning your dad.

  After we finished the dishes, I walked upstairs slowly so it wouldn’t seem like I was storming off. Why did I even feel like storming off?

  I love Miss Murphy. She was mine before she was Dad’s. She was my English teacher, and she thought I said smart things about Ethan Frome. And she cast me, a mere freshman, as the star of The Sound of Music! She’s in her thirties, I think, but she still remembers what it was like to be a kid. She’s funny and interesting and she used to be a Broadway director before she moved back here to take care of her mom. I admire her.

  And I know my mother abandoned my father and started an affair, and what was Dad supposed to do, sit at home crying while she drank beer on the beach with a guy y
oung enough to be her son?

  But it still makes me slightly sick to think about them dating people who are not each other.

  Sunday, August 14

  I think some major sophomore class drama kicked off at the pool today. Reese was the lifeguard on duty. She’s the queen of our grade, the kind of girl grown-ups refuse to believe is horrible because she fools them with her performance of bubbly sweetness and they can’t perceive the darkness in her soul. She has two dimples she’s constantly twinkling at everyone. She wears a lot of purple. Instead of saying something openly cruel, like, “Good gravy, Madeline got huge over the summer,” she says something ostensibly kind, like, “I’m so worried about Madeline.” She rules with an iron fist, but she wants everyone to think she’s So Nice.

  I’m terrified of Reese. I also desperately want her to like me. I am a disgusting person.

  Anyway, a girl showed up at work today first thing in the morning, before it was busy, and immediately ran over to Reese. They both squealed and threw their arms around each other.

  Grady elbowed me and tried to show me a sketch he was working on. “It’s a giant octopus eating the concession stand,” he said. “Look, I put you—”

  “SHHHHH,” I hissed. I didn’t want to miss anything.

  “Who is that?” Grady asked, looking where I was looking.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said.

  Then Reese shrieked, “How was Paris? Tell me everything!” and I realized.

  “Wait,” I said. “That’s Noelle Phelps!”

  Noelle had left for Paris about 90 pounds dripping wet. It was obvious why she was Reese’s number two: she worshipped Reese, and she was pretty enough, but not Reese-pretty. She was scrawny and watchful and unsmiling, with mousy brown hair. The person now grinning at Reese was platinum blond and wearing huge glamorous sunglasses. Then Noelle said, “It’s so hot I can’t stand it!” and whipped off her cover-up.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Noelle’s boobs came in.”

  Grady nodded. “I’ve never seen her before, but she definitely has boobs now.”

  I covered his eyes with my hand. “Don’t be a perv.”

  “You started it!” he said, and pulled my hand off his face.

  Reese ran her eyes over Noelle. “You look amazing,” she said thoughtfully, and I thought, Noelle is screwed.

  Noelle sat next to Reese on the lifeguard chair for hours, which is definitely against the rules, and they talked and laughed the entire time, but I’m not fooled. Noelle is a dead man walking.

  Monday, August 15

  Grady’s three-year-old brother, Bear, showed up at the pool with his babysitter in the afternoon and came tearing over to jump into Grady’s arms. Then he looked at me and said, “I like your underwear.”

  “It’s a bikini, buddy,” said Grady.

  Suddenly bathing suits seemed bizarre. We would never hang around in our undies, so why were we standing a foot away from each other, basically naked, just because we were at the pool?

  “He’s so cute,” I said, watching Bear race over to the kiddie pool. “It’s weird—you guys look nothing alike.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “No, I meant—I didn’t mean you’re not cute.”

  “REALLY!” He made a Sexy Expression at me.

  “Get your face out of my face,” I said, and pushed him away.

  “Bear and I have different dads,” he said. “Thanks for making me feel awkward about it.”

  I gasped. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m just messing with you, dork,” he said, laughing. “I mean, he is my mom’s kid with my stepfather, but it’s fine. I’ve had three years to get used to it.”

  “You are incredibly annoying,” I said.

  “You love me,” he said.

  “I really don’t.”

  “You love me so much you want to marry me.”

  “Stop trying to hug me! You’re all sweaty and covered in sunscreen!”

  God! He’s so immature!

  Tuesday, August 16

  Dad had to work late, so I invited Tristan over. We ate crackers and cheese for dinner, sitting on a towel in the backyard, coated in bug spray.

  “Would it be weird if I went out with a freshman?” I said.

  “Who?” Tris said.

  “No one in particular.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Imagine a normal, shortish guy. Would everyone make fun of me?”

  Luckily, Grady has happened to be off work the few times Tris has visited me at the pool, or he would have instantly known who I was talking about.

  Tris shrugged. “Probably. You know how people are. They’d say you were robbing the cradle.”

  “It’s so ridiculous. No one cares when senior guys go out with freshman girls.” I collapsed backward onto the towel. “I hate high school.”

  Tris collapsed next to me. “I hate it more.”

  We looked up at the sky, which was still pink.

  “Roy’s going to a club tonight,” Tris said. “With all his new college friends.”

  I turned my face to look at him, and he turned his to look at me. We were two centimeters apart. I could smell his Tropical Twist Trident. “You’re not worried, are you?” I said.

  “No. A little bit. I don’t know. We FaceTimed twice today. I think he misses me.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  Tris sighed.

  I asked, “Do you think your mom told your dad about you and Roy?”

  “Probably.”

  “But you don’t know for sure? If she’d told him, wouldn’t he talk to you about it?”

  Tris laughed. “Are you serious? That’s the last thing he’d do. I bet I’ll be coming home with my husband and kid in 20 years and he’ll still pretend to have no idea what’s going on.”

  “Does it make you sad?” I said.

  He shook his head impatiently. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Tell me what’s going on with your dad.”

  “He’s dating Miss Murphy again,” I said. I wanted to keep asking Tris about his parents, but I didn’t want to be annoying or nosy.

  “No way. Are you upset?”

  “Yeah, but I know I shouldn’t be. She’s great, or whatever.”

  “She’s great as our director. Not as your stepmother!”

  Stepmother!?! Perish the thought.

  Wednesday, August 17

  Grady spent the whole day quizzing me about high school. How do the locks on the lockers work, again? Right, left, then right, but at what point do you go past the first number? Has anyone ever actually shoved a freshman’s head in a toilet and flushed, or is that a suburban legend? Do they hand out a map of the school on the first day? Do teachers get mad if freshmen are late to class because they got lost?

  Speaking of questions, is there anything less attractive than someone nervously fretting? I know I was the same way last year. I freely admit it must have been hideously unsexy.

  I keep thinking about Mac. I don’t want to. I order myself to cut it out, but it doesn’t work. It’s just that he was so confident. And mean, and thoughtless, and not even very interesting. But the confidence! It canceled out all of his flaws.

  Enough of this mooning around. I got over him. I need to stay over him.

  Thursday, August 18

  We got an email from the principal today with a bunch of reminders about parking passes, proof of a recent physical exam for student athletes, school email account access, etc., etc. All this nitty-gritty proof that classes are going to start again made me feel a little queasy, and I was about to delete the email when I saw a shocking announcement in the second-to-last bullet point: they’re adding a dance this year! A HALLOWEEN DANCE! Immediately, I texted Hannah and Tris to alert them to this life-altering news.

  I don’t know if it’s like this at every school, but at MH, dances are hotbeds of romance. People flirt. People make out for the duration of slow songs. People grind, which is against the rules, and get separated by
a chaperone, only to start grinding again as soon as the chaperone leaves. People get their hearts broken and sob in the bathrooms. It’s all very stressful and exciting, and you have to go, first because something amazing might happen to you, and second because even if it doesn’t, you need to know what happened to other people so you can be up to speed on the gossip.

  All I do is hide in my room and write in this diary. I want to change. I want to go to the Halloween dance, and I want something thrilling to happen to me there. Something I’ll remember when I’m 90. Winning the costume contest, or jumping into the center of a dance circle, or, I don’t know, making out with someone for the duration of a slow song. I’m writing it in all caps as a promise to myself: I WILL MAKE SOMETHING MEMORABLE HAPPEN AT THE HALLOWEEN DANCE.

  Friday, August 19

  I was standing by the edge of the pool today when Grady snuck up behind me, scooped me up, and threw me in the water.

  “I’m wearing my sneakers, you goober!” I yelled at him when I came up for air. He’d dropped to the grass and was rolling around laughing hysterically. What a child.

  My sneakers squished for the rest of the day.

  I’m surprised he can lift me. Those pipe cleaner arms are stronger than they look.

  Saturday, August 20

  Got my revenge on Grady today! I waited until our shift was over and he’d put on his T-shirt. We were walking toward the parking lot, talking about our least favorite customer, a little demon named Paxon who pays for his treats with fifties, when without warning I pushed him into the pool right at the five-foot mark. Oh, the shocked look on his face! I wish I had a picture of it.

  Sunday, August 21

  Told Hannah about the saga of the pool pushing. She smiled through the whole thing and then said, “That sounds pretty flirty.”

  “What? No, no, no. It’s not like that at all.”