“You obviously care about Kyle, and trying to convince yourself you don’t on the night you’re going to homecoming with him is just . . . pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic.” I clenched my hands into fists. It was the only thing I could do that wouldn’t wreck something professionals had spent hours coaxing into position. “I was wrong about him, that’s all. And I’m being realistic. I’ll play nice for the cameras, don’t worry.” I smiled a Disney-princess-among-her-animal-friends smile for Mo.
“I’m not worried about that. Although playing nice for the cameras is boring.”
“Jesus, why are we friends?”
“Seriously, Rach, what are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.” My stomach went slithery. I pressed one of my fist-balls into it.
“Prove it.”
“I have.” I could hear my voice getting wavery. I tried to breathe. “I have proved it. I’m doing this, aren’t I? Putting myself out there in front of literally millions of people?”
“Rachel. You know we’re not talking about that. But even that Kyle convinced you to do. He’s the first person I’ve seen get you to open up in I don’t know how long.”
I sighed.
Obviously I’d told Mo what Emma had said, but she didn’t know the thing I really was afraid of: how hard I’d fallen for Kyle. Somewhere between bowling and the texts and the kiss—god, the kiss—he’d become more than just the cute guy I had a crush on. He was so positive, and so genuinely nice to people, and being around him actually made me feel . . . happier. Before I’d just assumed most people sucked. But the more time I spent with Kyle, the more I started to wonder if maybe I was wrong, and then . . . I wasn’t. It felt like learning that Santa wasn’t real, like someone had deliberately tricked me about something magical and wonderful.
I assume. We weren’t particularly religious, but my parents weren’t such bad Jews that they’d let me believe in Santa.
“This is simpler.”
“Maybe.” Mo screwed her mouth up, considering. “Since when has that ever been a pro, though?”
My phone buzzed in the tiny purse I was carrying. It was Mary: they were five minutes away.
“I think I have to go,” I murmured.
“Good luck.”
I thought about what Mo had said.
“It’s not going to work the way you think it is.”
“You don’t know that. I think how it works out is up to you.”
“Jesus, Mo.” I came over to stand behind her, giving myself one last check in the mirror. “Does it ever get boring being such a know-it-all?”
“Not yet.”
I peeked through the pebbled glass panel next to the door. Mary’s “five minutes” had stretched to thirty while they set things up in my driveway. I couldn’t see anything from this angle—just a few burly guys hiding lights between our bushes—and Mary had absolutely forbidden me from opening the door, since it would “ruin my reaction shot.”
I tapped my toe against the wood floor, the sound appealingly sharp.
Finally my phone buzzed.
(From Mary, Laura Show): This is it.
I breathed in as deep as the dress would let me, trying to smooth out my face. Just be pleasant. Pretend he’s like guys who asked you to dances in the past. Like Mark: just a friend. Someone you like, but don’t like.
The doorbell rang. Like I wouldn’t hear a knock from two feet away. I counted to five slowly, picked up my purse and the boutonniere Mary had sent over, exhaled, and opened the door.
Kyle stood there, tall and slim in an expensive-looking black tux, like something you’d see on a movie star. The stylists had swept his hair back, which only made it easier to see his stupid-beautiful green eyes. He was smiling slightly, shyly, like he didn’t know what to do next.
Resolve would be easier if he could be even slightly less adorable.
“Hey, Rachel,” he said softly, staring at me. “You look . . . beautiful.”
Hearing him say it out loud, I suddenly felt beautiful. Sophisticated, in my designer dress, with my hair pinned back loosely like some kind of fairy princess.
Breathe, Rachel. Just a friend.
“Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
“I have something for you.” He pulled a Burger Barn box from behind his back. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. I looked around; they’d spread fries along the edges of the entire walkway, like the most downmarket rose petal path that ever existed. Apparently that joke never got old.
He pulled open the cardboard top and pulled out a soft, orangey-yellow corsage.
“Daffodils?” I frowned, confused. “How did you know I liked . . . ? Wait, how did you even get daffodils in October?”
He smiled, his mouth pinched closed like he was working to keep it from going full-teeth.
“I have my sources.” He bent down slightly, catching my eye. “Do you like them?”