“Ticktock, Renner,” I warn, voice trailing as I spot Clay’s mop of hair coming around the corner. He’s striding toward me, looking far too fine for my mere mortal eyes. Our gazes lock from a distance and I remember what Kassie said in the cafeteria. Put on your big-girl panties.
What’s the worst that can happen if I ask him to prom? Even if he says no, I won’t see him after graduation anyways. He’s moving across the country for Stanford, after all. I’d be in no worse position than I am right now (aside from the cold wrath of humiliation, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves).
It isn’t my imagination that he holds eye contact as he passes by. And I’m certainly not imagining his cheeky over-the-shoulder look my way before he stops to chat with Joey Mathison.
This is it. This is my moment. It’s now or never.
I start to devise a plan: I’ll grab my books and backpack, then approach cool and casual, like I’m just heading to class, even though calculus is in the opposite direction.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I elbow Renner’s legs out of the way to grab my bag.
He gapes down at me. “Jeez. Your elbows are bony. I bruise easily, you know.”
“Didn’t realize you’re such a delicate little peach,” I say, pulling the door as far as it’ll open against Renner’s shin. The thunk gives me a momentary high. I don’t make a habit of reveling in the pain of my adversaries, but he makes it so darn easy. Like the dirtbag he is, he widens his stance farther, leaving the narrowest space to pull out my backpack and toss my heels in.
“Renner, seriously. Stop being a dingus for two seconds and move,” I demand.
“Dingus. That’s a new one. More original than donkey, at least.”
“There’s a lot more where that came from.” I run through the catalog of vicious insults I’ve banked for moments such as this. But as usual, I fail to come up with anything else under pressure. I settle for a growl. “Move. Now.”
His face twists with confusion. “Chill. I’m not even blocking you.”
And that’s when I see it. The thin fabric of the front pocket of my bag has snagged on a jagged piece of metal in the door.
Evidently annoyed that I’m breathing down his neck, Renner yanks my bag free. With one swift movement, the threadbare fabric rips like tissue paper. My spare tampons, all ten (yes, ten, I like to be prepared), stream out like an avalanche, sprinkling onto the hallway floor. I’m frozen in blatant horror as they roll in all directions at people’s feet like a spilled container of marbles.
At that exact moment, the rowdy group of freshman boys stampeding by quite literally screech at the sight. They dramatically jump out of the way, body-slamming into lockers, dodging them like an active land mine site.
Even Renner is speechless for once, probably committing my humiliation to memory for future use.
I have half a mind to pull a Forrest Gump and run, barefoot. Out of the school, out of Maplewood entirely. I could adopt a whole new identity, even get a wig. I’ve always wanted blonde hair. But because I’m me, I’m compelled to clean my mess. At least, I try to.
I drop to my hands and knees, scrambling between people’s legs in a sad attempt to retrieve the tampons before anyone else sees. It’s like a sick version of Frogger (which, by the way, is an awful game for children), trying to cross the road without being flattened by traffic. No wonder I don’t drive. I yelp when Sylvester Brock’s chunky running shoe crushes my hand in the process. And again, when I almost get kicked in the forehead by a freshman running at full tilt. I start to wonder what I did to deserve such a harsh fate. I must have done something really egregious in a past life. At least, that’s what Nori would say.
By the time I pop back to my feet, crimson faced, I’ve collected exactly eight tampons. Everyone—even Judy Holloway, the girl who wears cat ears and hisses at her enemies—is judging me. Clay and Joey are gawking, mouths hanging open. And worse, one rogue tampon is rolling directly toward Clay’s shoes.
“Um. Hi. Hello. Sorry about that,” I word vomit, busting out a graceless wave. Unlike the cute, shy-girl wave I’d imagined, I’m wielding eight tampons between my fingers like Edward Scissorhands.
Clay is stone-faced, evidently appalled. I didn’t think there could be anything more ego-crushing than the prospect of him turning me down for prom. I was dead wrong.
He kicks the rogue tampon toward me like it’s a live grenade. Then he turns away and heads in the opposite direction with Joey. I bend down to collect it—and will myself to disintegrate into the floor. Goodbye, cruel world. At least I had a semidecent run.
Renner is leaning against the lockers when I return, the tenth tampon pinched between his fingers.
I take a sharp breath, bracing for his taunting. But when he hands it over, I catch a brief flash of what looks like pity in his expression. Even worse.
By the time I zip my torn bag and close my locker, Clay is long gone, as is the prospect of asking him to prom.
SIX
Three days until prom
Renner is late. Shocker.
We made special arrangements to pick up the decor at 6:00 a.m. for prom decorating. It’s now 6:05.
It’s cool. No one else’s time is important or anything. Not that I really want to leave the house.
I’m sprawled on the couch lopsidedly, awaiting his arrival. Frankly, I’m still unwell. When I close my eyes, I’m tormented by the memory of Clay Diaz’s face when he saw my tampon. He was disgusted (and somehow still incredibly handsome). Disgusted is probably too generous—more generous than the portions at IHOP.
It’s not quite as mortifying as when a gust of wind blew my skirt up in sixth grade, revealing my period panties and superabsorbent pad to the entire class—but it’s nearly as bad.
Kassie and Nori tried to convince me periods aren’t embarrassing, that it’s natural, yada yada. Logically, I agree. But spilling a pharmacy’s worth of feminine products in front of the entire student body (including your crush) is flat-out humiliating, no matter how you slice it.
To make matters worse, the whole debacle caused me to bomb my scholarship interview. And by bomb, I mean I rambled incoherently about the double standard for women versus men. For the record, Cynthia, the foundation chairwoman, had merely asked me to outline my biggest academic accomplishments.
Renner is to blame, obviously. If he hadn’t blocked me and subsequently ripped my bag pocket like an ape, this never would have happened.
Nori is adamant that I slide into Clay’s DMs for damage control. It’s weirder NOT to acknowledge the tampon explosion. Kassie agrees and says it gives me an excuse to strike up a conversation instead of my first choice: disappear into obscurity.
After much back-and-forth in our girls’ chat, I fired off a casual peer-reviewed Instagram DM this morning.
Me: Hey Clay. Sorry about what happened in the hallway yesterday. Hope you weren’t too traumatized.
And then it began. The staring contest with my phone. It’s like watching boiling water under the delusion that my eye lasers will speed up the process.
I’ve grown weary of the lack of response, and send an SOS in the group chat, which only heightens my anxiety. Whenever my phone buzzes with Calm down texts, I’m overcome with false hope that it’s Clay.
I’ve restarted my phone twice now, paranoid that it’s not receiving correspondence of any sort. I can only conclude that Clay thinks I’m a freak. (He’d be correct.)
My phone vibrates and my heart kicks into double time.
My Fair Leader: sry, gimme 5.
I grumble like a curmudgeon. Since ninth grade, Renner has made an annoying habit of stealing my phone and changing his contact name. Since the student council election, he’s gotten cockier with the names.
Sexy President
Commander & Chief
Your Worst Nightmare
The Right Honorable JTR
J. T.
In my opinion, Twit or Satan would be more fitting. I promptly switch his name back to the latter, with the purple devil emoji.
Footsteps in the hall jolt me out of my trance. Mom’s up.