Drop Dead Handsome

Chapter 1

Not Good Enough

Real life ISN'T a video game.

There aren't any do-overs when you slip up. No extra lives. Only the lasting scars of embarrassment. They serve as reminders to be smarter and avoid side quests, to keep your eyes trained on the end goal. I had learned that ten months, two weeks, and four days ago. Autumn of junior year would forever be known as the season I'd sworn off romance. My ex-girlfriend was supposed to be my player two, my best friend who had my back. Too bad she'd turned out to be a traitor who backstabbed me instead. I'd fallen for her deceitful guise, only adding injury to the insult my life had become.

Literally.

Now, a year later, all I had to show for it was a jagged scar on my thigh. I sat back in a chair, adjusting my black skirt to hide it. The chill of the AC in the guidance counselor's office seeped through my silky shirt while I waited. I shivered against both the frigidness and the reminder of Laura Leigh Beauregard, my H-E-Double-L of an ex. We'd only been officially dating for six months before the incident, but we'd been best friends for a year. Until the Miss Spirit pageant. Then she'd ditched the advocacy club-and me-in the middle of staging a protest at city hall. We'd gotten into an argument while I hung a banner across the building, because I was apparently too much to deal with. If she hadn't let go of the ladder during our breakup spat, then I wouldn't have fallen ten feet and knocked out a window.

Footsteps sounded, and I stood up. At least the hell I went through can be used as material for my college admission essay, I reminded myself as the door to the office swung open. The always-well-dressed Mr. Dane, with his signature polka-dot tie and matching suspenders, beckoned me with a wave. "Parker Ryland," he called. "Let's make this quick, young man. I had to squeeze you in before my last appointment of the day."

I gripped my backpack straps anxiously, and the soles of my combat boots squeaked across the polished tiles. He'd been the one to request a meeting to discuss my application to Boston University. Despite the nerves thrashing in my stomach, I kept my head held high. There was no reason to be worried. My escape plan was meticulously crafted. Grades, extracurriculars, my sights set on the future-no more distractions, like my ex. However, the notification on the student portal from Mr. Dane had been short and to the point. It wasn't Good job! or Go ahead and apply, future BU graduate! or even This is the best essay I've ever read and everyone else pales in comparison to your level of genius! like I'd been expecting.

Pulling the door closed behind me, I eyed the many motivational posters decorating the office. How the hell was I supposed to "Hang in there!" or "Live, laugh, love!" when he'd given me no indication as to what this meeting was about? That alone had me question if I was missing some key step to getting out of Greensboro, Tennessee.

Mr. Dane plopped down in his fancy desk chair and motioned to a less-plush one across from him. "Take a seat," he said.

I perched on the armrest instead, refusing to be intimidated. "You wanted to see me, sir?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, fingers flying across the keyboard of his laptop. "Let me pull up your record . . . Ah, yes, here we go." He turned his attention to me with a too-polite smile that made my stomach clench. "The Boston University long shot."

Long shot? I didn't like the sound of that. "Yes?" I replied uncertainly.

"I've had the chance to review your application," he said, lacing his fingers together. "You're a strong student academically with good credentials. However, I think you should add more colleges to your list. We can start right here at Greensboro State Uni—"

"No." I cut him off, bristling at the thought of staying here. "I just mean, I'm set on Boston."

Mr. Dane leveled his gaze at me. "Can I ask why that university out of all the sure bets that you could apply to?"

"Because no other college has the same speech pathology program."

I could have told him about my childhood therapy sessions. How the pathologist's framed BU degree watched over me as I tried to overcome my fear of talking. I'd felt trapped in my body, in Greensboro, until she'd helped me. That was why I wanted to go to BU, to be like her one day, but that was offering up more of myself for him—or anyone else for that matter—to pick apart.

He studied me for a moment before leaning back in his chair. His eyes cut toward his computer screen and then back to me. "Can I be perfectly honest with you?" he asked, and I nodded. "BU is highly selective, and by their standards, you're a . . . boring student."

"You don't think I'm . . . wait." His remark sank in. "Excuse me, but did you say 'boring'?"

There were many attributes I'd used to describe myself. "Smart" and "self-assured," "forever single because I was better off on my own," "most likely to not give a damn about what people said about me," but never "boring." The. Audacity.

"You don't have that extra oomph they're looking for," he continued. "Legions of students as academically qualified as you apply each year and don't get accepted. Now, I know you have a reputation of doing too much sometimes"-he forced a chuckle, and I flinched at his word choice-"but there's nothing on your application that makes you stand out from them."

"But my accomplishments . . ." I trailed off, unsure of what he meant.

"About those." He exhaled roughly and leaned forward. Propping himself up with his elbows, he slowly shook his head. "You've mercilessly beat out students to win academic competitions, awards, even the election for advocacy club president, despite causing it to be disbanded—"

"Let's not go there," I interjected.

"—but I know most if not all seniors applying to BU have track records like yours."

"What about my essay, then?" I countered.

"It's good but not good enough."

"How is my essay about the protest I organized not enough?" I demanded, my tone clipped. The application required hopeful students to detail a challenge they'd fought to overcome. I'd written about protesting the assigned-gender bathroom law our city passed, even touching on my visit to the emergency room for good measure; I left out the argument with Double L because it was too painful to revisit. "That's insensitive, sir."

"The sign you hung up at city hall is what the mayor considered insensitive, Parker, if I remember correctly." He squinted at the computer screen and read off, "Ah, yes. You wrote 'Our Genitals Don't Define Us.' "

"Where's the lie?" I said defensively. "But the essay was—"

"A cut-and-dry statement where you only delivered the facts," he interrupted, adjusting his polka-dotted tie, which had a rainbow pin attached. "I'm all for inclusivity, but there was no personal narrative in your essay, Parker."

"I, uh . . ." I said.

"If you're dead set on Boston University," he said, rising from his desk, "then you're going to need to go deeper, to stand out."

I stood up from the armrest as Mr. Dane opened his office door. "How so?" I inquired before he could usher me out.

"Write about something that will set you apart from the other students who think they deserve a spot."

"I don't think," I corrected with a smirk. "I know I deserve a spot."

"Then tell me why," he began, "you wanted to organize that protest?"

"Because lawmakers are policing people's identities."

"See, that's the problem, Parker." He spared me a polite smile and motioned toward the door in dismissal. "You're focused on how you challenged gender laws, not how gender has challenged you. Come back to me when you have your next draft, and then we can discuss further."

"What if I just rephrased—"

"Take some time and give it some real thought," he interrupted again, not unkindly, as he tapped his smartwatch. "You're a bright kid. You'll figure it out."

"Thanks," I heard myself mumble in a hollow voice.

This whole situation didn't feel right. My head was spinning already, trying to grasp at a lifeline to get back on track. The sudden existential crisis he'd thrust me into forced my boots forward. I gave Mr. Dane a half-hearted nod, beyond ready to get the hell out of his office. What I needed was a brainstorm session to think through the—

Someone let out a surprised yelp as I collided into them.

I glanced up and up at a tall guy with neatly combed hair and retro tortoiseshell glasses. The same guy who'd held the door for me last year when I was struggling with my crutches. His name was Dean . . . I think? It was hard to keep track with seven hundred students at this school. I just referred to him as "Oxford Shirt Guy" since he wore one every day, buttoned up and tucked into chinos like he was a candidate for political office.

We both said a "sorry" at the same time, both tried to step out of each other's way. Only to move in the same direction. He muttered another apology and kept his head down. A wave of scarlet crashed against his fair cheeks as I finally maneuvered around him.

"Come on in," Mr. Dane called from inside his office. "Let's discuss the bake sale idea for your admission essay . . ."

I walked out of the waiting room, worry twisting in me. The final bell had thankfully already rung. No one was around to see my cool-calm-collected mask slip. I hurried down the empty hallway to the lobby, and then I hung a right toward the back of the school. It would take approximately three minutes to make it to the student parking garage. Then another fifteen minutes to my dad's bakery, where I worked each afternoon. Twenty-two to our house in the Fabius subdivision. And if I kept going, thirty-three to the bridge crossing the Tennessee River out of town. Nine hundred sixty minutes to Boston University.

All these escape routes were like mission objectives for my favorite character Rodge Dangerlight in the RPG video game series Assassin's Duty. They kept me sane, kept me from being trapped. I focused on that feeling and stomped my boots with determination. The essay was supposed to get me one step closer to leaving, but it'd only taken me two steps back to last fall. That was when everything had changed.

I'd had both a best friend and girlfriend until Double L decided to follow in her late mother's footsteps. She'd entered the Miss Spirit pageant like her older sister had done. They both wanted to honor their family legacy of beauty queens, and she was worried that I'd cost her the tiara. Because I was too outspoken, too selfish, too determined to make a scene-too much. Her accusation left me with stitches and an unshakable belief that I couldn't rely on anyone to catch me if I fell.

No one would ever make me stumble again.

This was no different.

If Mr. Dane wanted me to start over, then I'd write an essay with the most angliest angle he'd ever read. How have gender expectations challenged me? I thought, heaving against the garage doors. Metallic clinks reverberated along with my racing mind. I glanced down at my skirt as I took the stairs to the top floor. Only a few people had given me hell for wearing it today, as if clothes had a gender, and most called me a Harry Styles wannabe. But that wasn't good enough to write about. The grief they gave me was a reminder of the final blow Double L had hit me with before it all came crashing down: I wasn't "handsome" enough to be her pageant escort with my constantly revolving hair color, loud opinions, fashion choices-everything that made me who I am.

How could that be an angle?

I climbed the last flight into the bright afternoon. My lungs filled with the humid September air, still thick with the last days of summer. A voice of doubt that sounded exactly like Mr. Dane echoed with each step toward my vintage Bronco. I thought the protest was a challenge I'd faced, but now I wasn't so sure. Everything I was supposed to do, I'd done. And all it amounted to was . . . boring.

"What the hell am I supposed to write about?" I asked aloud, but the sound of the city was the only reply.

Cars honked and engines roared as I dug my keys out of my backpack. The busy streets were misleading. Greensboro might have been the fourth largest city in Tennessee-like the welcome sign bragged-but it had a small-town attitude. Rural and urban neighborhoods were stitched together to blanket the valley between two mountains. Tourism ads called it "Quilt City," the old and new South sewn together for unity.

But to me it felt like Frankenstein's monster.

It hadn't always been scary, not until I'd realized how certain political signs were meant to tell me my worth when I was seven. They chased me down every street. Candidates yelled at me for daring to be myself, and hateful laws threatened to sew me into the folds of "normalcy." It was a challenge just to exist . . . only I didn't know how to put all that on paper.