It was pretty much the only other thing I had, besides my license and keys. I took it out of my purse and held it up.
“Nice case,” he said.
“It’s practical.” My phone was sheathed in a case that looked like a pastel rainbow of Legos. It was cute, but it was also indestructible, and I had a tendency to drop my phone a lot.
“Now type in my number and call me. That way you can reach me anytime, and I’ll know it’s you.” He read off the digits before I had a chance to ask why I’d need to get in touch with him. “Just in case you have questions. Or need more. Or if you just want to say hi.”
I was losing the ability to tell the difference between him flirting and him trying to sell me something. Either way, he was smiling. And he had a really great smile. I needed to put that thought out of my head quick. “I won’t need more,” I said, sharply. “This is a one-time thing.”
“I understand,” he said. “Then you can just call to chat.”
That was definitely flirting. I wondered if it was calculated. “Sure,” I said, though I had no intention of ever calling him.
“I’m going to get back out there.” He pointed to the dance floor. “Coming?”
“No, I’m good,” I said. “I’ll go find Alex.”
“Good luck with that,” he said.
I left behind his liquid movements and elastic limbs and went back outside, hoping that maybe Alex and Bryan had done whatever it was she’d decided they were going to do and that she’d be ready to go home. No such luck. I got out my phone to text her but my feet were killing me—how did anyone stay in heels for this long, even platforms? I found a bench next to one of the statues, sat down, and took my shoes off. Stretching out my toes felt incredible.
Outside, I wrote. Ready to go whenever you are
I waited a minute to see if she’d write back right away, but she didn’t. Good for her—I loved that she was so in charge of what she wanted to happen. She had a plan and she’d executed it perfectly. I had my Novalert, and she had her Prospect. For her, I bet this was the best night ever.
For me? Well, I’d made it this far without completely flipping out, which was progress and which let me feel better about the upcoming SAT. I’d met some cute guys, even if I was a terrible judge of character, and I kind of liked getting all dressed up, even if I was wearing Alex’s clothes. For the last couple of hours, I’d barely thought about my skin at all, which was rare. Maybe this wasn’t my best night ever, but it was still pretty good.
And, as usual, the person I wanted to talk to about it was Becca.
Despite the fact that I’d bailed on cutting my hair with her, high school had started out okay. Becca, Isabel, and I were all in different classes, but we knew that was coming—they’d both focused on their extracurricular activities over academics even in middle school, but my parents would never have gone for that. Isabel joined the drama club pretty much the minute we showed up, but at first she still sat with Becca and me in the cafeteria at lunch, and we talked about the new people we were meeting and our teachers and how much fun we were going to have.
But everything changed when swim tryouts were announced. Becca kept talking about how excited she was, kept asking me to go practice with her, but I made every excuse I could think of. I faked a cold for weeks, complained about cramps, begged off to study.
“You know the team here is really good,” she warned me. “I’m not sure that killer freestyle is enough. We really have to get some practice in.”
“I will,” I said. I knew I should just tell her, but I couldn’t stand the thought of how disappointed she’d be. I really hated disappointing people. I hated being Perfect Kara, and yet I was terrified of people discovering my actual imperfections. Something would have to give eventually. And though it was inevitable that the first thing to go would be the swim team, I kept putting off telling Becca.
The day of tryouts I knew I couldn’t go to school. I couldn’t face Becca. So I stayed in my room after my alarm went off and waited for Mom to come pry me out of bed.
“Why aren’t you up yet, honey?” she asked. “You know you’re going to be late.”
“I’m sick,” I told her, with a fake crack in my voice. I’d debated whether to fake it with some proof—putting hot water on the thermometer, or making retching sounds in the bathroom—but I’d never pretended to be sick before, and I was counting on Mom trusting me. Which made me feel terrible, but which also made me sounding sick way more convincing.
“Will you be all right at home by yourself? I’ve got a lot of meetings today.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
She came over to the bed and kissed my forehead. “You don’t feel warm.”
I got nervous for a minute. “But I feel awful. I just need to sleep.”