“Anyway, you probably guessed I didn’t just show up to get our Creative Writing assignment.”
Rachel’s eyes widened so far I could see the whites all the way around. I’d never really noticed, but the brown of her eyes was shot through with little glints of gold, like some kind of buried treasure. And her eyelashes were so long, longer than I’d expected; I wondered if they tickled her face when she blinked. Like giving herself butterfly kisses.
She nodded slowly.
“I came because . . .” This was where I could get back on track. I’d run through it with Mary maybe a hundred times on the van ride over. Still, it stuck in my mouth a little. Be the golden boy for once, Kyle. “Because you saw something in me, and, uh, I wanted you to know that I see something in you too.”
Rachel leaned a little farther out the door.
“What do you mean?”
I squinted, trying to remember what we’d practiced. This wasn’t like lacrosse, where I could just go on muscle memory. It was much, much harder . . . but also more exciting. Oh! I was supposed to bend down on one knee, according to Mary’s plan.
But we hadn’t had the fry bouquet before.
I started to squat down, but it was surprisingly awkward trying to balance a weird arrangement of fry cartons and get all the way down at the same time. Why hadn’t we practiced with me holding something? I could almost feel the camera lens drilling into my back. You’re messing it up, dude. Finally I just lunged forward, like when I was warming up for a game, until I got most of the way to the ground. Then I kinda fell, banging my kneecap hard against the concrete slab in front of Rachel’s door. Smoother one: yeah, right.
“I mean.” I swallowed. My hands were sweating against the cellophane enclosing the fries. This part we couldn’t plan for. I didn’t even know Rachel, not really. She might hate me. Girls like her weren’t into athletes. And even if she hadn’t hated me before, she might now. She hadn’t gotten asked on any TV shows because of the picture. She’d just had catty girls call her names.
She might say no. She probably would say no.
How had this not even occurred to me before? Would they show that on TV? Me getting rejected, kneeling on the cement with wilted fries in my arms? It would be like flubbing the shot that could win the championship. Suddenly Mary’s brilliant idea seemed full of holes.
It was too late now. Only way out: keep going.
“I’m saying, I was hoping you would . . . um . . . man, sorry, it’s hard to get this right with an audience.” I smiled, tilting my head to acknowledge the camera. Somehow, in the last three minutes, I’d transformed into the king of awkward. “Do you want to go to homecoming with me?” I finally spat out, all in one breath.
Rachel stared at me for a second. Oh jeez, here it comes.
Then the corner of her mouth started twitching into . . . a smile. One that she was pinching back like she was trying not to laugh. I started smiling too. It was pretty ridiculous, after all: the tux, the “bouquet,” Mary behind me watching so hard it was making her lean forward, like this was life-or-death stuff.
I laughed.
Then she laughed.
“Of course, I mean . . .” She caught sight of the camera again and choked a little. “What girl can turn down . . . a fry bouquet?” By the end her voice was kinda shaky, but Mary burst out laughing behind me. Rachel smiled wanly.
“Awesome. That’s awesome.” I struggled to stand up. Rachel extended a hand. I grabbed it and let her help me to my feet. She looked up at me, smirking hard, face paler than ever. She was breathing too fast. She looked exactly like I’d felt the minute before I walked onstage at the show. Before I could think about it I pulled her into a hug. She let out a little “oh.” The fries crushed in between us and started to spill out onto the ground.
She hugged back.
“Don’t worry, you did great. Sorry for surprising you.”
“No, it’s okay,” she murmured. I could feel her voice resonating in my chest. “It’s a nice surprise.”
She squeezed a little harder. I could smell her hair: sweet and soft, like some kind of flower. Kind of like her, actually. Her body loosened, like the tension was finally draining out. It made me realize how nervous she’d really been. It was hard to believe. Rachel was the best writer in our class, the one whose scenes Jenkins always chose to read out. I’d assumed she’d be more prepared for this than I was.
My heart started beating faster again. Or maybe that was her heart. With her body pressed up against me, it was hard to tell. It was weird, but feeling her that close to me, our entire bodies touching, part of me almost wanted to— “Okay, cut. Good job, guys. Really, that was great. Super relatable.”