Page 12 of Her Alien Matchmaker

Poor Little Tilly

“Well, if it isn’t the biggest piece of trash in town,” a high voice squeals. “Tilly Morgan. Ugh.”

“Those shoes,” another female, tone dripping disgust, chuckles. “Did you find them in a dumpster?”

Even over Breaking Benjamin’s “Evil Angel” playing in my ear, each hurtful word is a knife cutting into my chest. Gritting my teeth, I transfer a book from my locker to my backpack. With my spine to the girls, I bite my bottom lip.

One, two, three, four…

Emory Watson, one of Callahan High School’s most popular girls—and my number one enemy—never misses an opportunity to cut me down.

I don’t know why, but she’s delighted in my torment since kindergarten.

I shouldn’t let it get under my skin, but sometimes it can’t be helped.

I’ve never known anyone more hateful—or bitchy.

Don’t do anything drastic, I chide myself. If I go to the principal’s office one more time, Mamma’s going to have a heart attack or ground me forever—probably both.

“Come on, ladies,” Emory titters, and her voice lowers, reminding me of a purring cat toying with a mouse. “We don’t want to stand too close to this loser—she might rub off on us.”

“Good riddance,” I mumble, relaxing my shoulders.

It’s the end of the day—Friday, thank God—and lockers bang shut in the hallway.

Other voices echo throughout the corridor, creating a constant thrum of sound.

Sweat, fruity perfumes, and the faint whiff of pot slides through the air.

A few arms jostle me in passing. Some students call out good-natured insults to one another; others speak in excited tones and share plans for the coming weekend.

Me? I don’t have any, but I’m ecstatic to get away from all these douchebags.

“Hey, Tilly.” From the other side of my open locker door, Maximillian Jacobsen raps his knuckles on the metal, then jerks a wireless bud from my ear.

“Stop that.” Yanking it from his fingers, I refocus on loading my bag. What the hell does he want? Known as our school’s troublemaker and all-around bad boy, he doesn’t usually deign to talk to people like me.

“What’re you doing this weekend?” He tosses a blue stress ball into the air and catches it, leaning around the door and peering into the depths of my locker. A strong whiff of expensive cologne wafts my way.

“Do you mind?” I wave at the air and shoulder him out of the way.

“Not usually.” He smiles wickedly. “So, weekend plans? Yay or nay?” The overhead fluorescent lights catch on a small, silver stud in his earlobe.

“No.” Why in the world is he interested in my plans? “Why? You robbing a store and need a lookout?”

“Hmm.” The ball bounces against my head and he snatches it back. “You offering?”

“What? No.” Pinching my eyebrows inward, I still and search his face. What’s his game? He’s never said more than five words to me before, and they were usually “Get out of my way.”

His blue eyes shine. Dark brown hair slides across his forehead and into his vision. Day-old stubble covers his chin. Pushing himself closer, he forces me a couple of inches to the side.

“Dude, if you don’t step back, I’m gonna bust you in the nuts.” I try to ignore him and continue searching the catastrophe inside my locker.

The ball hits the back of my head and I count to ten and grind my teeth.

“So, you going to the dance tomorrow?” Pop.

Is that what this is about?

“Do I look like I want to go to the dance?” With the meanest glare I can muster, I elbow against his body and concentrate on which books I need for weekend homework.

It might be kind of nice to go, but I’ll never know because it’s almost the end of high school, and then I’m out of this crappy, busybody town.

“No, you don’t seem like the dancing-type of gal, which is why I was wondering what you’re doing tomorrow.

” An amused smile tugs at his lips. “If you get bored, I actually do need a partner in crime.” With one last soft thump of the ball against my temple, he saunters away, retro wallet chain swinging from his hip and black biker boots clomping down the hallway.

Shaking my head, I let out a breath and dig through papers. That was so freaking weird.

Something sharp pokes me in the shoulder. He must’ve forgotten something.

“Max, leave me alone. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Several females chuckle.

I clench the strap of my backpack, now sitting on the bottom of the locker. Those giggles mean one thing: Emory Watson and her pack of laughing hyenas have returned.

Ignoring what was probably her long, manicured fingernail digging into my skin, I zip the bag closed and focus on breathing deep, cleansing breaths.

“Oh, poor little Tilly.” A high chuckle. “No one invited you to the Spring Dance. So sad.”

Grabbing a handle, I pivot to face her and the trio of sycophants.

With her long, blonde hair and big baby-blue eyes, she looks like a porcelain doll, but that’s where anything doll-like ends. Since she’s the most popular girl at CHS, if you get on her bad side then everyone hates you by default.

Like I said, I’ve been on her shit list since kindergarten.

“What do you need?” I keep my voice low and even while pulling my cell from a pocket to check the time.

Damn . If I don’t leave in the next minute or so, I’ll miss the bus and have to walk three miles to get home.

Another two weeks and I should have enough savings to buy a cheap car, thank God.

“What do I need ?” she asks, widening her eyes. “Nothing from you, that’s for sure.”

The other three girls cackle as if she’s told the funniest joke in the world.

“So, you’re gonna stand here and waste my time?” I try to push my way through the group, but they won’t budge.

I imagine grabbing her long locks and slamming her forehead against the metal door. Okay, that’s violent, Tilly , my inner voice reminds me. Yeah? Well, she’s a little—

“You know, with plastic surgery, like right here—” She taps the end of my nose. “—and a better wardrobe besides ancient band t-shirts and jeans, you might have a chance with a guy like Max.”

Blood boils in my veins. “Never touch me—”

“Well, maybe not.” She shakes her head and pouts her red lips, putting the palms of her hands against her cheeks and raising her eyebrows.

“I forgot. With that temper, you’ve never even had a boyfriend, have you?

” Twisting away with an evil laugh, she motions her group to follow, but stops and glances over a shoulder.

“After all, who’d want to date someone as ugly and angry as you? ”

Unable to contain the rising wave of red fury, I swing the backpack toward the side of her head. Twenty pounds of books and unbridled anger smacks her full force. It connects with a satisfying thump.

Score one for Tilly Morgan.

Her legs fold and her butt plops onto the tiled floor.

The flow of traffic freezes. Some students gape while others gasp. Several rush to help her stand.

She rubs her ear as if in slow motion. Eyes wide and unfocused, she blinks and stumbles to her feet.

Oops. I didn’t mean to hurt her too badly, just give her something to remember why she should leave me alone.

“Matilda Morgan,” Mr. Sanders shouts, barreling through the crowd of onlookers. “Go to my office right now.” His balding head reflects the lights from above.

“But she started it—”

“Now.” He stabs a shaky finger toward the administrative section of the school. I know the way to his office all too well.

I sigh, close my locker, and trudge toward my doom.

Everyone either glares or sneers as I pass.

Here we go again. Mamma’s going to kill me.