The DUFF

by Kody Keplinger

Genres: YA Coming of Age

Synopsis

An irreverent and irresistible New York Times bestselling romance between the so-called Designated Ugly Fat Friend and the Hot Jock. Seventeen-year-old Bianca Piper may not be the prettiest girl in her high school, but she has a loyal group of friends, a biting wit, and a spot-on BS detector. She's also way too smart to fall for the charms of man-slut and slimy school hottie Wesley Rush, who calls Bianca the Duff--the Designated Ugly Fat Friend--of her crew. But things aren't so great at home and Bianca, desperate for a distraction, ends up kissing Wesley. Worse, she likes it. Eager for escape, Bianca throws herself into a closeted enemies-with-benefits relationship with him. Until it all goes horribly awry. It turns out Wesley isn't such a bad listener, and his life is pretty screwed up, too. Suddenly Bianca realizes with absolute horror that she's falling for the guy she thought she hated more than anyone.

Release date: September 7, 2010

Publisher: Poppy

Print pages: 312

Sample

This was getting old.

Once again, Casey and Jessica were making complete fools of themselves, shaking their asses like dancers in a rap video. But I guess guys eat that shit up, don’t they? I could honestly feel my IQ dropping as I wondered, for the hundredth time that night, why I’d let them drag me here again.

Every time we came to the Nest, the same thing happened. Casey and Jessica danced, flirted, attracted the attention of every male in sight, and eventually were hauled out of the party by their protective best friend—me—before any of the horn dogs could take advantage of them. In the meantime, I sat at the bar all night talking to Joe, the thirty-year-old bartender, about “the problems with kids these days.”

I figured Joe would get offended if I told him that one of the biggest problems was this damn place. The Nest, which used to be a real bar, had been converted into a teen lounge three years ago. The rickety oak bar still stood, but Joe served only Coke products while the kids danced or listened to live music. I hated the place for the simple reason that it made my friends, who could be somewhat sensible most of the time, act like idiots. But in their defense, they weren’t the only ones. Half of Hamilton High showed up on the weekends, and no one left the club with their dignity intact.

I mean seriously, where was the fun in all of this? Want to dance to the same heavy bass techno music week after week? Sure! Then maybe I’ll hit on this sweaty, oversexed football player. Maybe we’ll have meaningful discussions about politics and philosophy while we bump ’n grind. Ugh. Yeah, right.

Casey plopped down on the stool next to mine. “You should come dance with us, B,” she said, breathless from her booty shaking. “It’s so much fun.”

“Sure it is,” I muttered.

“Oh my gosh!” Jessica sat down on my other side, her honey-blond ponytail bouncing against her shoulders. “Did you see that? Did you effing see that? Harrison Carlyle totally just hit on me! Did you see that? Omigosh!”

Casey rolled her eyes. “He asked you where you got your shoes, Jess. He’s totally gay.”

“He’s too cute to be gay.”

Casey ignored her, running her fingers behind her ear, as if tucking back invisible locks. It was a habit left over from before she’d chopped her hair into its current edgy blond pixie cut. “B, you should dance with us. We brought you here so that we could hang out with you—not that Joe isn’t entertaining.” She winked at the bartender, probably hoping to score some free sodas. “But we’re your friends. You should come dance. Shouldn’t she, Jess?”

“Totally,” Jessica agreed, eyeing Harrison Carlyle, who sat in a booth on the other side of the room. She paused and turned back to us. “Wait. What? I wasn’t listening.”

“You just look so bored over here, B. I want you to have some fun, too.”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’m having a great time. You know I can’t dance. I’d be in your way. Go… live it up or whatever. I’ll be okay over here.”

Casey narrowed her hazel eyes at me. “You sure?” she asked.

“Positive.”

She frowned, but after a second she shrugged and grabbed Jessica by the wrist, pulling her out onto the dance floor.

“Holy crap!” Jessica cried. “Slow down, Case! You’ll rip my arm off!” Then they made their merry way to the middle of the room, already syncing the sway of their hips with the pulsing techno music.

“Why didn’t you tell them you’re miserable?” Joe asked, pushing a glass of Cherry Coke toward me.

“I’m not miserable.”

“You’re not a good liar either,” he replied before a group of freshmen started yelling for drinks at the other end of the bar.

I sipped my Cherry Coke, watching the clock above the bar. The second hand seemed to be frozen, and I prayed the damn thing was broken or something. I wouldn’t ask Casey and Jessica to leave until eleven. Any earlier and I’d be the party pooper. But according to the clock it wasn’t even nine yet, and I could already feel myself getting a techno-music migraine, only made worse by the pulsing strobe light. Move, second hand! Move!

“Hello there.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to glare at the unwelcome intruder. This happened once in a while. Some guy, usually stoned or rank with BO, would take a seat beside me and make a half-assed attempt at small talk. Clearly they hadn’t inherited the observant gene, because the expression on my face made it pretty damn obvious that I wasn’t in the mood to be swept off my feet.

Surprisingly, the guy who’d taken the seat next to me didn’t stink like pot or armpits. In fact, that might have been cologne I smelled on the air. But my disgust only increased when I realized who the cologne belonged to. I would have preferred the fuzzy-headed stoner.

Wesley. Fucking. Rush.

“What do you want?” I demanded, not even bothering to be polite.

“Aren’t you the friendly type?” Wesley asked sarcastically. “Actually, I came to talk to you.”

“Well, that sucks for you. I’m not talking to people tonight.” I slurped my drink loudly, hoping he’d take the not-so-subtle hint to leave. No such luck. I could feel his dark gray eyes crawling all over me. He couldn’t even pretend to be looking me in the eyes, could he? Ugh!

“Come on,” Wesley teased. “There’s no need to be so cold.”

“Leave me alone,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Go try your charming act on some tramp with low self-esteem, because I’m not falling for it.”

“Oh, I’m not interested in tramps,” he said. “That’s not my thing.”

I snorted. “Any girl who’d give you the time of day, Wesley, is most definitely a tramp. No one with taste or class or dignity would actually find you attractive.”

Okay. That was a tiny lie.

Wesley Rush was the most disgusting womanizing playboy to ever darken the doorstep of Hamilton High… but he was kind of hot. Maybe if you could put him on mute… and cut off his hands… maybe—just maybe—he’d be tolerable then. Otherwise, he was a real piece of shit. Horn dog shit.

“And you do have taste and class and dignity, I assume?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Is this your attempt at flirting?” I asked. “If it is, you fail. Epically.”

He laughed. “I never fail at flirting.” He ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair and adjusted his crooked, arrogant little grin. “I’m just being friendly. Trying to have a nice conversation.”

“Sorry. Not interested.” I turned away and took another drink of my Cherry Coke. But he didn’t move. Not even an inch. “You can go now,” I said forcefully.

Wesley sighed. “Fine. You’re being really uncooperative, you know. So I guess I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got to hand it to you: you’re smarter and more stubborn than most girls I talk to. But I’m here for a little more than witty conversation.” He moved his attention to the dance floor. “I actually need your help. You see, your friends are hot. And you, darling, are the Duff.”

“Is that even a word?”

“Designated. Ugly. Fat. Friend,” he clarified. “No offense, but that would be you.”

“I am not the—!”

“Hey, don’t get defensive. It’s not like you’re an ogre or anything, but in comparison…” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Think about it. Why do they bring you here if you don’t dance?” He had the nerve to reach over and pat my knee, like he was trying to comfort me. I jerked away from him, and his fingers moved smoothly to brush some curls out of his face instead. “Look,” he said, “you have hot friends… really hot friends.” He paused, watching the action on the dance floor for a moment, before facing me again. “The point is, scientists have proven that every group of friends has a weak link, a Duff. And girls respond well to guys who associate with their Duffs.”

“Crackheads can call themselves scientists now? That’s news to me.”

“Don’t be bitter,” he said. “What I’m saying is, girls—like your friends—find it sexy when guys show some sensitivity and socialize with the Duff. So by talking to you right now I am doubling my chances of getting laid tonight. Please assist me here, and just pretend to enjoy the conversation.”

I stared at him, flabbergasted, for a long moment. Beauty really was skin-deep. Wesley Rush may have had the body of a Greek god, but his soul was as black and empty as the inside of my closet. What a bastard!

With one swift motion I jumped to my feet and flung the contents of my glass in Wesley’s direction. Cherry Coke flew all over him, splattering his expensive-looking white polo. Drops of dark red liquid glistened on his cheeks and colored his brown hair. His face glowed with anger, and his chiseled jaw clinched fiercely.

“What was that for?” he snapped, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“What do you think it was for?” I bellowed, fists balled at my sides.

“Honestly, Duffy, I have no earthly idea.”

Angry flames blazed in my cheeks. “If you think I’m letting one of my friends leave this place with you, Wesley, you’re very, very wrong,” I spat. “You’re a disgusting, shallow, womanizing jackass, and I hope that soda stains your preppy little shirt.” Just before I marched away, I looked over my shoulder and added, “And my name isn’t Duffy. It’s Bianca. We’ve been in the same homeroom since middle school, you self-absorbed son of a bitch.”

I never thought I’d say this, but thank God the damn techno played so loud. No one but Joe overheard the little episode, and he probably found the whole thing hysterical. I had to push my way through the crowded dance floor to find my friends. When I tracked them down, I grabbed Casey and Jessica by their elbows and tugged them toward the exit.

“Hey!” Jessica protested.

“What’s wrong?” Casey asked.

“We’re getting the fuck out of here,” I said, yanking their unwilling bodies along behind me. “I’ll explain in the car. I just can’t stand to be in this hellhole for one more second.”

“Can’t I say bye to Harrison first?” Jessica whined, trying to loosen my grip on her arm.

“Jessica!” I cricked my neck painfully when I twisted around to face her. “He’s gay! You don’t have a chance, so just give it up already. I need to get out of here. Please.”

I pulled them out into the parking lot, where the icy January air tore at the bare flesh of our faces. Relenting, Casey and Jessica gathered close on either side of me. They must have found their outfits, which were intended to be sexy, ill equipped to handle the windchill. We moved to my car in a huddle, separating only when we reached the front bumper. I clicked the unlock button on my key chain so that we could climb into the slightly warmer cab of the Saturn without delay.

Casey curled up in the front seat and said, through chattering teeth, “Why are we leaving so early? B, it’s only, like, nine-fifteen.”

Jessica sulked in the backseat with an ancient blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. (My piece-of-shit heater rarely decided to work, so I kept a stash of blankets on the floorboard.)

“I got into an argument with someone,” I explained, jabbing the key into the ignition with unnecessary force. “I threw my Coke on him, and I didn’t want to stick around for his response.”

“Who?” Casey asked.

I’d been dreading that question because I knew the reaction I’d get. “Wesley Rush.”

Two swoony, girly sighs followed my answer.

“Oh, come on,” I fumed. “The guy is a man-whore. I can’t stand him. He sleeps with everything that moves, and his brain is located in his pants—which means it’s microscopic.”

“I doubt that,” Casey said with another sigh. “God, B, only you could find a flaw in Wesley Rush.”

I glared at her as I turned my head to back out of the parking lot. “He’s a jerk.”

“That’s not true,” Jessica interjected. “Jeanine said he talked to her at a party recently. She was with Vikki and Angela, and she said he just came up and sat down beside her. He was really friendly.”

That made sense. Jeanine was definitely the Duff if she was out with Angela and Vikki. I wondered which of them left with Wesley that night.

“He’s charming,” Casey said. “You’re just being Little Miss Cynical, as usual.” She gave me a warm smile from across the cab. “But what the hell did he do to get you to throw Coke at him?” Now she sounded concerned. Took her long enough. “Did he say something to you, B?”

“No,” I lied. “It’s nothing. He just pisses me off.”

Duff.

The word bounced around in my mind as I sped down 5th Street. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my friends about the wonderful new insult that had just been added to my vocab list, but when I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror, Wesley’s assertion that I was the unattractive, undesirable tagalong (more like dragalong) seemed to be confirmed. Jessica’s perfect hourglass figure and warm, welcoming brown eyes. Casey’s flawless complexion and mile-long legs. I couldn’t compare to either of them.

“Well, I say we hit another party, since it’s so early,” Casey suggested. “I heard about this one out in Oak Hill. Some college kid is home for Christmas break and decided to have a big blowout. Angela told me about it this morning. Want to go?”

“Yeah!” Jessica straightened up beneath the blanket. “We should totally go! College parties have college boys. Won’t that be fun, Bianca?”

I sighed. “No. Not really.”

“Oh, come on.” Casey reached over and squeezed my arm. “No dancing this time, okay? And Jess and I promise to keep all hot guys away from you, since clearly you hate them.” She smirked, trying to nudge me back into a good mood.

“I don’t hate hot guys,” I told her. “Just the one.” After a moment, I sighed and turned onto the highway, heading for the county line. “Fine, we’ll go. But you two are buying me ice cream afterward. Two scoops.”

“Deal.”

There is nothing more peaceful than quiet on a Saturday night—or very early Sunday morning. Dad’s muffled snores rumbled from down the hall, but the rest of the house was silent when I crept in sometime after one. Or maybe I’d been deafened by the thudding bass at the Oak Hill party. Honestly, the idea of hearing loss didn’t bother me too much. If it meant I never had to listen to techno again, I was all for it.

I locked the front door behind me and walked through the dark, empty living room. I saw the postcard lying on the coffee table, sent from whatever city Mom was in now, but I didn’t bother reading it. It would still be there in the morning, and I was just too tired, so I dragged myself up the stairs to my bedroom instead.

Stifling a yawn, I hung my coat over the back of my desk chair and moved over to my bed. The migraine began to subside as I kicked my Converses across the room. I was exhausted, but my OCD was totally calling. The pile of clean laundry on the floor, by the foot of my bed, had to be folded before I’d ever be able to sleep.

Carefully, I lifted each piece of clothing and folded it with embarrassing precision. Then I stacked the shirts, jeans, and underwear in separate sections on the floor. Somehow, the act of folding the wrinkled clothes soothed me. As I made the perfect piles, my mind cleared, my body relaxed, and my irritation from the night of loud music and obnoxious, rich, sex-obsessed pigs ebbed. With every even crease, I was reborn.

When all of the clothes were folded, I stood up, leaving the stacks on the floor. I pulled off my sweater and jeans, which stank from the sweltering parties, and tossed them into the hamper in the corner of my room. I could shower in the morning. I was too tired to deal with it tonight.

Before crawling under my sheets, I took a glance at the full-length mirror across the room. I searched my reflection with new eyes, with new knowledge. Uncontrollable wavy auburn hair. A long nose. Big thighs. Small boobs. Yep. Definitely Duff material. How had I not known?

I mean, I’d never considered myself particularly attractive, and it wasn’t hard to see that Casey and Jessica, both thin and blond, were gorgeous, but still. The fact that I played the role of the ugly girl to their luscious duo hadn’t occurred to me. Thanks to Wesley Rush, I could see it now.

Sometimes it’s better to be clueless.

I pulled a blanket up to my chin, hiding my naked body from the scrutiny of the mirror. Wesley was living proof that beauty was only skin-deep, so why did his words bother me? I was intelligent. I was a good person. So who cared if I was the Duff? If I were attractive, I’d have to deal with guys like Wesley hitting on me. Ugh! So being the Duff had its benefits, right? Being unattractive didn’t have to suck.

Damn Wesley Rush! I couldn’t believe he was making me worry about such stupid, pointless, shallow bullshit.

I closed my eyes. I wouldn’t think about it in the morning. I wouldn’t think about Duffs ever again.

Sunday was fantastic—nice, quiet, uninterrupted euphoria. Of course, things were usually pretty quiet when Mom was away. When she was home, the house always seemed loud. There was always music or laughter or something lively and chaotic. But she never seemed to be home for more than a couple of months, and in the time that she was gone, everything grew still. Like me, Dad wasn’t much for socializing. He was usually buried in his work or watching television. Which meant the Piper house was pretty much silent.

And, on a morning after I’d been forced to withstand all the racket of clubs and parties, a quiet house was the equivalent of perfection.

But Monday sucked.

All Mondays suck, of course, but this Monday really fucked up everything. It all started first block when Jessica slumped into Spanish with tear-stained cheeks and running mascara.

“Jessica, what’s wrong?” I asked. “Did something happen? Is everything okay?”

I’ll admit it; I always got really freaked out on the rare occasions when Jessica came to class looking anything less than perky. I mean, she was constantly bouncing and giggling. So when she came in looking so depressed, it scared the shit out of me.

Jessica shook her head miserably and collapsed into her seat. “Everything’s fine, but… I can’t go to Homecoming!” Fresh tears spewed from her wide chocolate eyes. “Mom won’t let me go!”

That was it? She’d gotten me all freaked out over Homecoming?

“Why not?” I asked, still trying to be sympathetic.

“I’m grounded,” Jessica sniffed. “She saw my report card in my room this morning, and she found out I’m failing chemistry, and she flipped out! It’s not effing fair! Basketball Homecoming is, like, my favorite dance of the year… after prom and Sadie Hawkins and Football Homecoming.”

I tilted my chin down and looked at her teasingly. “Wow, how many favorites do you have?”

She didn’t answer. Or laugh.

“I’m sorry, Jessica. I know it must suck… but I’m not going either.” I didn’t mention that I considered the whole practice of school dances degrading or that they were just giant wastes of time and money. Jessica already knew my opinions on the matter, and I didn’t think reminding her would help the situation. But I was pretty happy I wouldn’t be the only girl skipping. “How about this: I’ll come over, and we’ll watch movies all night. Will your mom be cool with that?”

Jessica nodded and wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. “Yeah,” she said. “Mom likes you. She thinks you’re a good influence on me. So that’ll be okay. Thanks, Bianca. Can we watch Atonement again? Are you sick of it yet?”

Yes, I was getting very sick of the mushy romances Jessica swooned over, but I could get over it. I grinned at her. “I never get tired of James McAvoy. We can even watch Becoming Jane if you want. It’ll be a double feature.”

She laughed—finally—just as the teacher made her way to the front of the room and began obsessively straightening the pencils on her desk before calling roll. Jessica tossed a glance at the scrawny instructor. When she looked back at me, her dark brown eyes sparkled with a few fresh tears. “You know what the worst part is, Bianca?” she whispered. “I was gonna ask Harrison to go with me. Now I’ll have to wait until prom to ask him to a dance.”

Because of her sensitive state, I decided not to remind her that Harrison wouldn’t be interested because she had boobs—big ones. Instead I just said, “I know. I’m sorry, Jessica.”

Once that little crisis was behind us, Spanish went by smoothly. Jessica’s tears cleared up, and by the time the bell rang, she was laughing giddily while Angela, a friend of ours, told us about her new boyfriend. I found out that I’d made an A on my last prueba de vocabulario. Plus, I totally understood how to conjugate regular present subjunctive verbs. So I was in a pretty damn good mood when Jessica, Angela, and I walked out of the classroom.

“And he has a job on campus,” Angela rambled as we pushed our way into the crowde. . .