So Not Happening Read Free Page A

Does it get any better than this boy? He's hot, he's thoughtful, and he throws a good party. What more do I need?
    Hunter gets a water for himself, then we walk upstairs to find a table overlooking the dance floor. He pulls out my chair, and I smile at his ever-present politeness. Such the gentleman, that boy.
    Hunter is the only guy I've dated. Well, besides Sammy Nugent in the sixth grade, but that was only so he'd share his Oreos with me during children's church. Mr. Perfect and I have been together for two years. Our meeting was like Disney-movie heaven. He was a freshman at Royce Boys Academy, and I was in the same grade at the Hilliard School for Girls. Twice a year, our administration decides to pretend there are boys in the population, so they bring the two schools together for a social. I remember I was dancing with this tall, redheaded kid who had a retainer and watered me like a sprinkler every time he used the letter s. Then with a tap at his shoulder, the boy stopped moving, turned around, and there was Hunter Penbrook.
    “Sorry to butt in, but I have to leave soon, and she promised me a dance.”
    I giggled with relief and curiosity at this handsome ninth grader. Of course, being shut away from boys at my all-girls school, I pretty much giggled anytime someone of the male species was near.
    “I don't remember you asking me to dance this evening,” I had said, letting this cute stranger take my hand and lead me into a slow dance.
    “You didn't. But I thought you looked like you needed saving.”
    He thought I looked like I needed saving. And with those words, I knew I couldn't let him go. Two years later, here we are. Hunter and Bella.
    Together forever.
    I hope.

chapter four
    Dear Loyal Readers of Ask Miss Hilliard,
    As you know, when it is time for the reigning advice queen, Miss Hilliard, to move on, she must pass the torch. It is with great sadness (believe me, you have no idea) that I type my last blog entry as your queen of advice, your royalty of reason. My successor has been chosen, and the new Miss Hilliard will begin next week. So keep those e-mails coming. The new Miss Hilliard has plenty of wisdom to share.
    Thank you, my readers, for trusting me with your questions and dilemmas. As I leave our fine school, it seems I have acquired problems of my own. Who does an advice columnist go to for help? Please keep your former friend in your thoughts and prayers as I leave my beloved city and go to a place of complete and utter lack of refinement. I will be living on a farm complete with dirt roads and cows. I have been assured there are no muddy pigs, as we all know from dissection lab last year about my little swine phobia. But, ladies, my situation is dire. This town probably has no fashion. No style. No Starbucks, people! War criminals probably see better conditions.
    Think of me fondly and know that your problems filled me with joy.
    I shut my laptop and stare out my airplane window. Oklahoma in all its green glory stretches out beneath me.
    “Thank you for flying American Airlines. We welcome you to Tulsa. If this is your final destination, you can pick up your baggage ...”
    Welcome to Tulsa. An hour away from my new home in a town called Truman. My stomach clenches at the very idea. I can't shake this feeling that I'll wake up any moment and discover this has all been a bad dream. I'll jump out of bed, find my parents drinking lattes in the living room, and be safely tucked away in our Manhattan apartment. God can do anything, right? Give sight to the blind, heal the lame, raise the dead ... roll the stone away and resurrect my old life.
    Fifteen minutes later I follow the crowd to baggage claim.
    And there stands my mom.
    Surrounded by my new stepfamily—Jake the Giant and his two mongrel sons.
    “Bella!” She rushes to me, arms open wide, and pulls me close. “I've missed you!”
    “You too.” My face is pressed to her shoulder.
    Mom takes a step back, her face beaming. “I can't wait