You know those teen movie scenes where the sexy love interest saunters slo-mo down the hallway? That’s him right now. Cue “Watermelon Sugar” by Harry Styles. All five feet, ten inches of his cross-country runner bod are backlit by the heavenly white beam of light streaming through the cafeteria window. His floppy charcoal hair blows in the nonexistent breeze, like a windswept actor in a luxury car commercial.
I white-knuckle my lunch tray as the distance between us closes. Suddenly, I’m questioning all my life decisions. Does my topknot make my head look gigantic? Renner once said my head is “humongous,” and ever since, I’ve been paranoid that wearing my hair up accentuates its bigness. Am I eating my Subway sandwich too suggestively? What the hell do I do with my hands? Can he hear my heart thrashing against my chest?
Guys don’t usually render me catatonic, but then again, no other guy at MHS has Clay’s whip-smart intelligence, soulful brown eyes, steel-cut jaw, and singular left dimple.
As he passes me in the narrow space between the cafeteria tables, I do a weirdly formal, slow head bob, like he’s British royalty or something. His lips spread into a smile that nearly catapults me into the spiritrealm. “Hey, Canada,” he says. He’s called me Canada since February, our last Model UN.
“Uh, hi, Clay—I mean, Turkey—” By the time I remember how to speak, let alone which country he represented, Clay has already beelined it to his usual table with the Model UN and debate kids, most of whom will surely go on to run the country.
This is how it always goes. Since joining Model UN freshman year, we’ve barely spoken more than two sentences. To be fair, Clay has tried striking up a few conversations here and there. But because I’m too awkward for multiword responses, the exchange pretty much dies instantly. One time, he even sat next to me on the bus to a summit and I promptly forgot how to breathe. I also got sweat pitters, which I had no choice but to hide under a thick wool blazer. It was an off day for me, to say the least.
Why am I like this? I wish I had Kassie’s effortless confidence with guys.
Kassie pulls her eyes from her phone and gives me a smirk.
“Are you still coming over tonight?” I ask through a bite of my sandwich. Nori and Kassie had planned to come over to celebrate the end of exams and my scholarship interview (scheduled for after school today), but Nori bailed because her mysteriously rich aunt is in town. Secretly, I’m happy it’s just Kassie and me. We rarely do things alone anymore.
Kassie gives me a hesitant look, partially distracted by the rowdy sophomore table next to us. “Crap ... Ollie asked me to film his football practice for his college coach.”
How did I know this was coming? “No worries,” I say quickly, forcing an appeasing smile.
What else can I say? I can’t force my best friend to hang out with me. It still sucks to lose out on time together, especially since we’ll be separated by eight hundred miles in only three months. Kassie is following Ollie to Chicago, where he got a full football scholarship. She’s taking a year off, which is probably for the better. Three days ago, shewas still flip-flopping between majoring in criminology or business. Though if we’re being honest, Kassie’s true dream is to become a rich WAG (a wife and/or girlfriend of a pro athlete), which I respect, because that life isn’t for the faint of heart.
“You’re the best.” Kassie blows me a sideways kiss before turning her nose at Nori’s latest smoothie concoction. “What the hell are you drinking? It looks like mud.”
Nori chugs half of it as fast as humanly possible, nose plugged. “It’s carrot juice, kale, blueberries, a shot of plant-based protein powder, and a healthy dose of male tears,” she says nonchalantly.
Kassie makes a grabby-hand motion. “Sounds right up my alley. Gimme.”
Nori hands over her smoothie cup and turns to me. “Oh, by the way, the rest of the deposit for the limo is due in a few days. Do you think you’ll have a date by then?”
I can tell she feels bad asking, yet again. Admittedly, I’m making the bill complicated. I’m the lone person in the limo without a date, even though there’s a spot reserved for one. I’ve stubbornly held out hope someone would ask me by now. Along with executing the perfect prom, being “promposed to” is sadly still outstanding on my high school bucket list.
“Of course she’ll get a date. Don’t rush her,” Kassie says before I have the chance. “Are you gonna put on your big-girl panties and finally ask Clay? You have no excuse now that he’s single.”
Clay dated Marielle MacDonald—MHS’s resident horse girl—for years. They used to come to the ice cream shop on my shifts and share a two-scoop mint and butterscotch ripple cone. One time, I saw Clay lick ice cream off the side of her face and audibly gagged behind the counter. They heard me and I had to awkwardly pretend I was coughing.
“But is his singleness actually confirmed?” I probe, delaying.
“Yup. He changed his display pic on all his accounts,” Nori informs, even though I already knew that.
If there’s one thing Kassie and Nori agree on, it’s that I should ask Clay to prom (because screw gender norms). Normally I’d agree. I don’t want to sit around like a demure little daisy waiting for Clay to look in my direction. But how am I supposed to ask him to prom when he makes me forget my own name? I’ve put serious thought into asking him in a handwritten letter, dropping it in his lap, and running away. But apparently my inability to communicate with him isn’t just oral—every time I try to write that letter, my mind blanks.
“FYI, Mercury is in retrograde. I’d be careful how you approach it,” Nori adds.
“It’s fine. I’ve accepted my fate as the thirteenth wheel.” I slouch, wincing at the prospect of being the only single one in the limo.
Kassie rolls her eyes. “Stop it. You’re asking him today.” She says it like it’s so easy. Then again, it is for her. Even without Ollie, she’d have a line of guys who’d jump at the chance to take her to prom.
“I’m too busy to face rejection this week,” I whine. It’s Senior Week, after all. And as VP, I’m overseeing all the activities. Most notable is the Senior Sleepover, where all the seniors bring their sleeping bags and spend the night in the gym. Then there’s Beach Day—where we skip class Friday to hit the beach the day before prom. The lead-up week is one of epic pranks, both on faculty and fellow students. Last year, the hallways were filled with approximately 3,493,483 red Solo Cups, balloons, and “napping” seniors.
It’s only Tuesday and pranks have already begun. Yesterday, during the track meet, three students in Gollum masks ran nude across the field. Their antics are now forever preserved on YouTube.
Kassie levels me with a look. “All I’m hearing are excuses. Come on. Imagine you two, side by side in your prom photos. He looks like that telenovela star, doesn’t he? With the shaggy hair? He’s sort of sexy, in a hipster, I-love-obscure-bands kinda way.” She casts an admiring look at him over her shoulder.
An obnoxious voice sounds nearby: “Who’s sexy?”
Midbite of my sandwich, I clamp my eyes shut, hoping that Renner sliding into the next seat is but a nightmarish mirage.
