Samantha kept leaning down with her face nearly pressed against the table as she rubbed her shin. It was not an attractive look.

Good strategy. I was wrong to ever doubt Samantha's abilities to look like a loser.

The guy at the counter gave me my soda. I took a deep breath, held my shoulders erect, and strolled across the dining room. I put a bounce in my step as I walked to an empty table. Smiling at anyone in the vicinity, I sat down, and leaned back in my chair.

My heart was beating too fast. Would people be able to sense that?

The table felt colder, looked bigger than I'd expected. And emptier too. A minute passed. No one even noticed me as they walked by. Another minute wound around my watch.

It was a stupid experiment, I realized, because I had forgotten the cardinal rule of the pick up. Guys never tried to pick you up when you wanted them to. No, when you were between boyfriends and desperate, they stayed away from you like you were wearing man repellent. It was when you didn't want it and weren't expecting it that they popped up to flirt with you.

Which meant despite all our manipulations, Samantha would get the guy, Molly and Polly wouldn't get makeovers, and Mr. Metzerol wouldn't think I was helping them. Rick would win the audition, and I'd have to explain to half the senior class why I was shunning them. Then again, after Rick won the audition spot maybe everyone would naturally shun me.

See, things always work out somehow.

"Hey."

I'd been so busy brooding I hadn't noticed anyone approaching. Now I looked up and saw a guy, and not just any guy—the Clark Kent guy.

Chapter 9

He wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt, but somehow managed to look even better than he had at Rick's party.

I blinked in surprise and struggled to find my voice. "Oh, hi."

He sat down in the chair next to me and smiled but his eyes had an edge to them. "You know, when some girls run out on a guy at a dance, they at least leave a glass slipper behind to help him out. You disappeared without so much as telling me your shoe size."

I laughed, and blushed, and felt happy despite the accusation in his voice. He had the most gorgeously familiar eyes, and he had cared that I left the dance. "Sorry about that," I said. "You see, there was this thing . . ."

He nodded with his eyebrows raised. "This thing? Are you sure you don't just make a habit of fleeing from dances?"

"No, you see . . ." But I didn't want to explain any of it. How did I go about telling a stranger that Rick and his deadbeat band hated me and had written a whole CD of awful songs in my honor? "It's a long story," I said.

"I see." More nodding. "Does it involve a carriage that turned into a pumpkin at midnight?"

"No." It did involve a wicked sister, but I wouldn't go into that either.

"Then, can you tell me your name?"

I hesitated, wondering if he had listened to, or remembered the song Rick had been singing when I left. I hoped not. "It's Chelsea."

"Chelsea?" he repeated, perhaps because I'd been hesitant to answer.

I was about to ask him what his name was, when Molly and Polly walked up. Well, Molly walked up, Polly sort of shuffled over and bumped into the table. Then she put one hand down on the top to stop it from wobbling.

Right on cue Molly said, "Hey Juliet, are you ready to go to English? We'd better hurry or we'll be late."

"Juliet?" The guy asked.

"Oh, my name isn't really Juliet." I looked back and forth between Molly and Polly. "You don't have to call me that. I know this guy. He's . . ." and that's when I realized I still didn't know. "Urn, what's your name?" I asked him.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Romeo Montague."

Polly waved her hand nervously in my direction. "Come on, Juliet. We've got to leave for English. Remember—Professor Dotti and our eyebrows?"

Molly just shook her head at me, tsking under her breath. "You're pitiful. You didn't even last two minutes."

I turned back to Romeo/whoever he was. "This is all just a big misunderstanding. You see, I came here to try to pick up guys—well, no, wait, that doesn't sound right. You see, actually I wasn't really trying to pick up guys, which is why I gave out a fake name, only I didn't give you a fake name because I really am Chelsea."

He nodded, his arms still folded. I could tell by his expression that he thought I was insane. Which is when I knew there was no point trying to explain because I couldn't talk my way out of this situation and come out looking like a normal person. I stood up and pushed away from my chair. "Urn, I'd better get going or I'll be late for English. See you around."

"Yeah, see you, Juliet."

We were able to get Molly and Polly an appointment in the salon. Dotti cut their hair shoulder length, adding layers and highlights. Then she did the eyebrow waxes. And yes, Molly shrieked during the process. Polly did one eyebrow and tried to chicken out and not do the other. We had to convince her that she couldn't walk around with uneven eyebrows.

Then we went shopping, and I found them some nice shirts that didn't cost a whole lot—which was a feat of willpower, considering I just wanted to sulk the entire time.

I couldn't believe I had met the guy again. He had looked even better than I remembered, and now he thought I was crazy. How could I fix that?

Samantha kept gushing about how wonderful the twins looked, and even they seemed happy with the end results, eyebrows and all. I could barely manage to get out a few compliments though. My thoughts kept returning to the guy.

I knew where he worked. If I went to the Hilltop, say on a daily basis, sooner or later he'd have to be my waiter, right? And once he was my waiter I could . . . well, I wasn't sure what I could do. Maybe give him a certified doctor's note swearing to my sanity along with a really big tip.

I was as pitiful as Molly had said. I'd spoken about three sentences to him and was willing to spend my entire college fund hanging out at a restaurant. And all this for a guy who most likely wouldn't take another look at me once he learned I was only a senior in high school.

When Samantha dropped me off at my house, I paused before shutting the car door and asked her, "So . . . do you want to go out to dinner at the Hilltop tomorrow night?"

Molly and Polly made quite the entrance when they walked into school in the morning. A lot of girls told them how nice they looked. The guys were silent on the matter, but even this was a good thing. No one called them Roly and Poly. I did hear the term Holy and Moly floating around, but I figured that was a compliment.

Polly smiled a lot, and told me her parents agreed to buy her contacts. Molly pointedly told me there was no way she was wearing contacts and seemed suspicious about the attention she received. But despite all of my coaching, when I saw them in the hallways between classes, both girls still shuffled their feet and kept their eyes downcast. "Watch your posture," I'd whisper to them as we passed. "You're confident, remember?"

When that didn't produce results, I took Mr. Metzerol's methods to heart and threatened to smack them in the back if they didn't straighten up. Instead of listening to me, I think they just avoided me in the halls.

At lunchtime Mr. Metzerol complimented me on their appearance though. "You're a miracle worker," he said. Of course, that was the last nice thing I heard him say. I sang my song for him again, and judging from his dour facial expression I hadn't improved since yesterday.