I hold my breath expecting “Vicurious” to be the next word out of his mouth. Instead, he grins and says, “Secret weapon of the yearbook staff. And I bet she has some great ideas. Don’t you, Vicky?”
Marissa looks over at me, her pen poised to write. If Marvo knows about Vicurious, he’s not outing me. Yet. I swallow and slowly raise my hand.
“You don’t have to raise your hand, Vicky,” says Marissa.
I pull it back down. Hug it to my stomach. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
I almost say sorry again but manage to stop myself.
“Just . . . what?” says Marissa. “Do you want to be featured?”
“No,” I say. “No, thank you.” I drop my gaze to my knees, which are bouncing. I press my hands to steady them. “I was thinking we could focus on kids who do stuff outside of school. Like Hallie Bryce is a dancer. And . . .” I dart a glance at Marissa. “And Adrian Ahn has his band.”
She smiles. Writes their names on her list.
I think of a dozen other kids I’ve discovered online just by clicking on who follows who follows who.
“Elizabeth Gaffey makes the most amazing cupcakes,” I say. “And Darla McMann is a dog walker. She must walk ten miles a day with different dogs. Also there’s Becca Eliason. She paints her fingernails to match the books she’s reading. And Geoffrey Phillips is helping his grandfather build a race car. It’s pretty cool.”
Marissa keeps writing and I keep talking, faster as I go. “There’s a girl, Felicity, who’s a yarn bomber. She knits scarves around trees. And Joshua Devon is really good at skateboarding. He does these amazing flips.” I pause, but only for a second. “Lindy Johannsen makes jewelry out of soda tabs and safety pins. It sounds like they would look cheap but they’re really beautiful and delicate. And, uh . . . Raj Radhakrishnan, he, um . . . ”
I glance up. Marissa has stopped writing. I’ve probably said too much, but I can’t seem to stop. “Raj, he, uh, takes these really interesting selfies. He stands in exactly the same spot every day and he changes his clothes, of course, and gets his hair cut every few weeks. Objects in the room move around sometimes. It’s uh, it’s kind of . . .” My voice drops to a whisper. “Fascinating.”
Marvo tips his chair back and lets out a low whistle. Beth Ann says, “Wow.” And Marissa closes her notebook.
I can’t think of the last time I’ve spoken that many words at once, even in one of my unintended word vomits, and it’s left me breathless. Also strangely invigorated.
The bell rings, and Marissa smiles, but as if someone’s holding a gun to her head and forcing her to read a ransom note. “Great ideas, Vicky. We’ll, uh . . . keep brainstorming. It’s a good start, though. Really good.”
She backs away from me and out of the room. Beth Ann follows, but Marvo holds the door.
“You coming, Vic?”
I gather my things and hurry out. I feel like a cat whose fur has been brushed the wrong way. I’m poised to skitter to one of my hiding spots, but I hesitate, estimating how long it will take to reach the bathroom versus Mrs. Greene’s office, except someone else might be in there so it would be quicker to just go straight to the bathroom, except if all the stalls are taken and then—
“Walk with me,” says Marvo.
I didn’t even realize he was still there. He hooks his arm through mine and we are walking. Ohmygod, I am walking down the hall with Marvo. I have never walked down the hall with anyone other than Jenna. Not on purpose, at least. Other people have walked near me or next to me for a few paces, but not with me. I always slow down or speed up to leave a respectable gap.
But Marvo is walking with me, our elbows linked, his stride slowing to match my stuttering steps.
“So, how do you know all those people?” he says. “I never see you talking to anyone.”
“I, uh . . . don’t really . . .”
“Because they do sound fascinating. Yarn bombing!”
We keep walking, and Marvo’s friends say “hey” and look at me funny. They’re putting us together and we don’t belong together and I really need to find the nearest bathroom.
“. . . much better than eight pages of football,” says Marvo. “Or cheerleader pyramids. Which are great, I mean no offense to cheerleaders, but it’s the same every year . . .”
I’m really trying to listen to him, but my brain can focus on only one thing at a time, and right now I am conscious of how much I am sweating and worried he’ll start to feel a little damp.
Then Lipton is walking toward us and he sees me and his eyes get brighter. He smiles and flashes his dimple, but then his gaze flits to my arm, which is still hooked into Marvo’s, and the light dims. The dimple disappears.
Marvo is still talking merrily away, but Lipton is getting away. And I can’t let that happen again. I push toward him, dragging Marvo along. I reach for Lipton. I catch him by the wrist.
He turns, surprised.
“Lipton. Hi! Hey,” I say, breathless. “This is Marvo. We work on the yearbook together. That’s, uh. That’s who he is.” I awkwardly extricate myself from Marvo’s arm.
After his initial startled expression and a brief moment of confusion, Lipton’s eyes are shining again. He nods to Marvo. “Hey.”
And Marvo nods back at him. “Hi.”
“So, uh, Lipton might be someone we could feature in the yearbook,” I say to Marvo.
They both crinkle their eyebrows at me.
“He plays Minecraft!” I declare. “He’s also very smart. And nice. And, you know, different. Than the usual. Like we were talking about.”
Marvo appears on the verge of bursting out laughing, which I actually hope is at me and how idiotic I’m acting, not at Lipton. But he doesn’t laugh. He just nods again and says, “Cool.”
Lipton, meanwhile, has turned an interesting shade of red.
“Nice meeting you, dude,” says Marvo. “Later, Vic.” He walks away, glancing back once to give us a casual salute.
I swallow. “Sorry, that was, I didn’t want you to—”
“It’s okay,” Lipton says quickly, his gaze dropping to his feet, where a sliver of sock is exposed. It’s a plain old white athletic sock, not his signature red or blue or yellow. It makes me sad that I did that to him, took the joy out of his socks.
“I’m so sorry about that day in class,” I murmur. “When you asked me . . . you know, if I wanted—”
“To pet my cat?” He cringes. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No, you’re not. I am. I get so nervous in front of people . . . and then I, with your socks, and Jeremy . . .” I close my eyes for a second, frustrated at my inability to complete a sentence, my own words as jumbled as my thoughts were that day.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have asked you in front of everybody. That was stupid.”
“I’m stupid.” I shake my head. “Jeremy is stupid.”
Lipton snorts. “Don’t blame yourself for that. Jeremy has pretty much been bullying me since kindergarten. You could’ve said you loved my socks and really meant it, and he still would’ve made fun of me.”
“I do love your socks.” I glance down at the white. “The colorful ones.”
“Really?”
I nod. Smile.
He laughs. The sound of it lifts the tension from my shoulders.