Before I can say anything, Meg snaps, “Why aren’t you excited about this? You’re supposed to be excited about this!”
“Sorry, I just—I’ll have to ask my parents.” They’ll say no. They have to. But what if they don’t? Seven metal death trap . . . eight defying gravity . . .
There’s a long pause. Then, “Okay.” She sighs. “Just let me know as soon as you can. We have to book flights.”
After she hangs up, her words hang in the air. We have to book flights. My chest tightens like Hulk is holding it in a death grip.
Twelve green monster . . . thirteen aviation . . .
Would it be so bad to go?
Because here’s the thing: it’s not LotSCON that I’m scared of. I mean, I don’t love the idea of being surrounded by thousands of people. But it wouldn’t just be people, it’d be thousands of video-game nerds, which makes it mostly okay.
And Dan will be there. Hulk tightens his grip on my chest. But Meg would be there, too. With me. Hulk’s grip loosens a little.
But here’s the other thing: I don’t fly. I just don’t.
I pull up a map app on my phone and type in Toronto. Thirty-three hours by car. So that’s not happening. One hundred and ninety-two hours by bike. Definitely not happening.
Three hours and thirty-five minutes by plane.
Three hours and thirty-five minutes hovering thousands of feet above the earth.
Three hours and thirty-five minutes in a metal box I can’t escape.
I love LotS, but I don’t love it that much.
Mom will give me an out. She’s my only hope.
I close the map app, hop off the chair, and rush upstairs. Mom’s rolling out a pie crust in the kitchen. She swipes a loose hair back, leaving a streak of flour across her face. Then she sees me and smiles. “I’m making coconut cream pie. Your favorite. I thought we’d celebrate your win.”
“It was just second place,” I say.
“And you should be very proud of that.” She beams at me.
She’s not going to say no. She’s in too good of a mood. She’d probably give me anything I asked for.
Including an excuse. An excuse that would allow me to lie to Meg. Lie. To Meg. Is that what I’ve already been doing?
Mom stops rolling and glances at her pie dish, then at me. “Did you want something, love?”
If I ask Mom for an excuse, I’ll be asking her to lie to Meg, too. I can’t ask her that. I bite my lip. “Just . . . can I go over to Meg’s? Just for a little bit. I’ll be home for supper.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Mom says cheerily, and I know that not asking her was the right choice.
Meg’s mom answers the door. “Kat! Congratulations on second place!”
“Thank you. Is Meg home?”
Her forehead crinkles. “She’s downstairs. Head on down.”
My heart thumps with every step down the stairs.
Meg’s lying on the concrete floor, skateboard across her stomach like a plank.
“Hi,” I say as I reach the bottom step.
She hops to her feet, skateboard thudding against the ground. “What’d they say? They said yes, right?”
She looks so hopeful. A frantic sort of hopeful.
I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs and stretch them into my stomach. Ease it back out again. I could still lie to her. Tell her they said no. Make it their fault, not mine.
But of course, I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I don’t lie to Meg. I should have told her a long time ago. “I . . . I didn’t ask.”
“Why not? Is it the money? I’m pretty sure I can get Stephen-the-Leaver to pay for it. He—”
“Meg, no. It’s not that.” I just have to tell her. One gravity . . . two fiery death . . . “It’s the planes, okay? Flying freaks me out. All that metal just hovering in the air. Just thinking about it gives me an ulcer. I don’t think I can do it. I know I can’t do it.”
She blinks at me for a long moment, and I wait for the deadness to enter her eyes. But they don’t die, just droop a little, like her shoulders. She tugs at one of her curls. “Is this like the party?” she asks.
I nod.
She gives her skateboard a little absentminded kick, and it rolls across the room, bouncing off the couch. “Okay,” she says. “You have to help me decide what to wear, though.”
That’s all it takes, apparently. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Meg gets me. And she’ll be fine on her own, won’t she? She’s always fine on her own. I wait for the tension in my shoulders to relax, but it doesn’t. “So you’re still going to go?” I ask. “With Stephen?”
“Look, it’s not like I’ve never spent time with him before. We’ve gone loads of places together. Of course, all of those times we were talking, and this time I’m not talking to him for even a second.” She follows the skateboard across the room and collapses onto the couch. “And yeah, there are like seven billion people on the earth I’d rather go with than him, but seven billion people aren’t offering, are they? So I’m going with him, and I’m going to meet LumberLegs, and it is going to be magical.”
“Well, good,” is all I can think to say. I walk across the room and settle onto the couch beside her.
She rolls the skateboard back and forth with her foot. “Because I’m going to date LumberLegs, you know.”
“I know,” I say.
She stops rolling the board. “Hey, what were you going to do if we won?”
I shrug. “I was just hoping we wouldn’t.” It’s surprisingly easy to admit, though I really shouldn’t be surprised. Meg’s my best friend. Of course I can tell her anything.
“You worked really hard, though,” she says.
Not as hard as you, I think, and guilt ripples through me like a shiver. Meg will be fine, though. Meg is always fine.
“Yeah, well, I still wanted an A,” I say.
Meg laughs. It’s not a dead laugh, but it’s not entirely alive, either.
CHAPTER 22
MEG
MY BLUE POLKA-DOT SHIRT HAS ARMPIT STAINS. I’VE NEVER NOTICED THAT before. Are they recent, or have I accidentally worn it this way? I yank it off and toss it at the garbage can. It hits the rim and slides down to the floor.
I’ve had two whole weeks to figure out what to wear, but nothing says quite what I want it to, which is, “LumberLegs! See how hot and awesome I am? Now, ask me on a date.” And since LumberLegs announced he’s doing a whole Q & A and signing on Friday night to kick the convention off, and since Friday night is tomorrow, I need to conjure up a brilliant outfit stat.
As I stare into my stripped-bare closet, there’s a knock on the door. “Come in!” I shout.
The door creaks open, then immediately slams shut. “Meg!” Kat’s muffled voice floats in from behind it. “Put some clothes on! Honestly, I thought you said I could come in.”
I march over to the door and yank it open. “It’s not like I’m naked. I’m wearing underwear. Just pretend it’s a bathing suit and get in here. Can’t you see I’m in distress?”
Kat steps inside, not looking at me. She leans against the wall and surveys the heaps of clothes—on my bed, on my chair, on the floor. “Dude,” she says, “what’s wrong with what I told you to wear?”