“Dancing. Duh.”
You twirl me and I laugh, but I also can’t help but notice that everyone in the chips aisle is looking at us. Not bad looks, but still looking. My face heats up and I keep my head down. This is exactly why you’re an actor and I’m not—I can’t stand people looking at me.
When the song stops, you plant a kiss on my cheek. “You’re totally mortified right now, aren’t you?”
I nod and you turn to our fellow customers. “Thank you!” you say, with a sweeping bow. “We’ll be here all night.”
“Oh my gosh.” I drag you out of the aisle.
“Come on,” you say, laughing, “was that so bad?”
I take stock. Was it? You’re the most uninhibited person I know. Other people might think I am, too, because I’m a theatre nerd, but they’d be dead wrong. I worry suddenly that I might be a disappointment to you. Summer doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her, but me—I care. I care a lot.
“Yeah, it was bad,” I admit. “I think. Yes. I don’t like people watching me.”
“I’m going to keep that in mind.” You don’t say that like, Okay, I won’t push you. You say it like we’re about to embark on a grand experiment. An adventure of epic proportions.
A few days later, it begins.
Prom is a few weeks away and everyone’s talking about it. I’m not certain you’ll ask me because you told me you might not go at all. The prom is for seniors only and nearly all of your closest friends are juniors like me.
But then I get the first clue on Friday morning, handed to me by Kyle on a small square of notebook paper. I know it’s from you because your handwriting has already become very familiar to me. You like passing me little notes throughout the day—I have a cigar box full of them at home.
On one side of the paper Kyle hands me is the word WILL. On the other side, a directive:
Walk like a penguin to the library. Someone will give you the next clue upon your arrival.
“Is he serious?” I ask Kyle.
He grins. “I don’t know what it says, I just know Gavin’s watching you.”
I look around, but there’s no sign of you. How often does this happen, me looking around, wondering if you’re watching? In less than a year, I won’t be looking around with hope. I’ll be scared. Paranoid. I’ll see conspiracies in kisses, ulterior motives in hugs.
“I can’t believe he’s making me do this,” I mutter under my breath.
I know you’re asking me to prom. I mean, come on, the first clue is WILL. And instead of flowers or maybe a song—hey, you’re a rock star, why not a song?—I get walking like a goddamn penguin.
The school is crawling with students. The library is on the other side of campus. Knowing you’re watching makes me feel even more self-conscious. I’m going to look like an idiot in front of the one person I’m desperate to impress.
I take out my ponytail and try to hide my face with my hair. I stare at the ground and begin to walk like a penguin, waddling from side to side like Charlie Chaplin.
Penguins aren’t very fast. By the time I get to the library I’m sweating and my face is ten shades of red.
Peter is standing beside the glass double doors and he starts guffawing—a real stage laugh—when he sees me making my way painfully toward him. Of all people, you chose the prick of our group to witness my penguinness.
“Oh my god, this is priceless!” he yells, following me with his phone. Great, now he’ll post a video of my humiliation for all the world to see.
I just shake my head and pray no one got a good look at my face.
Peter hands me the next piece of paper, but only after I beg in a Mr. Penguin voice, which he informs me is very high and snooty sounding. From the next clue, I can tell you’re going to make me work for it. YOU.
Crawl on all fours and bark like a dog in the drama room during lunch. Someone will give you the next clue.
By the time I make it to the drama room, my stomach is a knot of nerves. I’m not sure if I should be angry at you or not. You know how introverted I am. But you’re always telling me I need to learn how to live on the wild side. I wish I could be more like you: stick my head out a car window with the wind rushing over my face, yell Shakespearean monologues on the football field during P.E.
But that’s just not me. Am I not good enough as I am?
I throw my backpack down and get on all fours. There’s always, I think, room for improvement.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lys asks.
“You don’t even want to know,” I say.
I crawl. I bark.
I want to cry.
Nat looks murderous. “This is so stupid,” she says to no one in particular.
Ryan rushes to me. Leans down. He grins, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of sympathy he can’t quite tamp down.
“Clue number three,” your bassist says softly.
Is there pity in his eyes? I can’t even tell at this point. I’ve only been looking into your eyes for so long now, learning their language. I don’t realize that I’ve begun seeing myself this way—through your eyes. Only through your eyes.
I open the paper: GO.
Sing the national anthem outside your sixth-period classroom. Someone will give you the next clue.
I do it. I do all the things and by the end of the day, I want to change my name and move to Guatemala—get as far away from here as I can. It’s worth it, I tell myself, when you walk up to my last class with the final word in your hand. You whip out your guitar and suddenly all the guys are with you—the band, whoever’s around—and you’re singing a punk version of “My Girl.”
When you’re done and half the school is applauding the impromptu concert, you wrap your arms around me, tight.
“I’m so proud of you for doing all that crazy shit. You must really love me. I was afraid you’d give up.”
I hide my face in your neck, still mortified. “Were you, like, testing me?”
“I wouldn’t say testing.…” You grin. “But you passed.”
“Gavin!”
“Don’t be mad, I love you! We’re going to prom!” You kiss me before I can say anything else.
With your lips on mine, your song still in my ears, I forget that I never said yes, that all of it—the dance, us—was a foregone conclusion. You told me to be your girlfriend. You didn’t wait for me to answer about prom. I gave you my heart on a silver fucking platter and you ate it, piece by bloody piece.
*
YOU HAND THE policeman your ID. Again.
We’re not even to the dance yet.