Freshman year wasn’t so bad because Ellen hadn’t started dating Tim. Last year I faked sick. But this year, with everything that’s happened, I don’t notice the banners and the signs announcing ticket sales.
After a full five hours of walking through a minefield of Sadie Hawkins proposals—including a cheerleading pyramid during lunch—I have one hour to go. I slide into my desk next to Amanda.
She looks up from her phone. “So did you ask anyone?”
“No. You?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. I figure let the chips fall where they may and see who’s left tomorrow. I wouldn’t bother, but we’re gonna have to ask a guy to escort us at the pageant. Might as well cross two things off my list.”
I drop my head into my hands and moan. I forgot about the escorts. My desk jolts like someone’s kicked it. I whip around to see Bo walking to his seat at the back of the class.
I secretly love seeing him like this, in the clothes he chooses each morning from his closet. I wonder if he’s deliberate. Or if he’s one of those people who gets dressed in the dark because mornings are such a total violation. Or maybe he gets up super early and goes for a run or eats eggs or some other thing that morning people do.
Or maybe it’s none of your business anymore, I tell myself.
“Millie asked Malik. From the newspaper,” says Amanda. “He’s kind of hot if you can get past the unibrow. Or if you think unibrows are hot.”
I turn back to her, grateful for the distraction, but suddenly very conscious of exactly how I’m sitting. Maybe if I sit up straighter, my back fat will disappear.
“How’d she do it?”
She laughs. “She sang to him. With a ukulele.”
I cringe with embarrassment for her. Everyone probably laughed. “What happened?” I whisper.
“Well, he said yes.” She says it like, Duh, why would he not?
“Wait. Seriously?”
“He’s doing the pageant thing, too. It was sweet. And he kissed her on the cheek. More action than I’ve seen.”
Class drones on and I wonder how much of a jerk it makes me to expect that Millie would’ve been humiliated. If she had asked my opinion beforehand, I would’ve told her what a sweet idea it was, but I would’ve done everything in my power to stop her from going through with it. And it’s not that I don’t think she deserves to go to the dance and have an escort. I just don’t want her to be the butt of anyone’s joke. I would never wish that on anyone. And, yet, Millie’s been there. She’s been the punch line.
But there she is, doing her thing, not giving a toot what anyone else thinks.
It almost hurts to know that she’s putting herself out there so fearlessly. It’s like seeing an old friend you’ve drifted from and remembering all the shared experiences you used to have.
Class lets out and I’m pushed out the door in a current of students. I can hear Bo talking back and forth with José Herrera about calculus and then about a party.
In the hallway, a wall of girls stops us. They stand with their hands joined, like a game of Red Rover.
“Sorry for the delay,” one of them says.
“This will only take a minute,” adds another.
Bekah Cotter stands behind the row of girls in a pair of tiny denim shorts, gold flats, and an oversized white T-shirt that’s been tied into a knot at the small of her back. In iron-on letters the shirt reads Go to Sadie Hawkins with me . . . She spins a baton between her fingers, waiting for the crowd to settle.
Amanda stands behind me, bouncing on her toes. “Just looking at those shorts gives me a wedgie.”