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Except of course when I get to my locker, Justin is there, looking for someone. Lana is there, too, waiting for Josh.
You know, I really don’t need this. Justin revealing that he is my Secret Snowflake right in front of Lana, I mean. God only knows what she’s going to say, the girl who has been suggesting I wear Band-Aids instead of a bra every day since the two of us hit puberty. Plus, it isn’t like she’s been super happy with me since the whole cell-phone thing. I’ll bet she’ll have something extra mean all prepared for the occasion. . . .
“Dude,” Justin says.
Dude? I’m not a dude. Who is Justin talking to?
I turn around. Josh is standing there, behind Lana.
“Dude, I’ve been looking for you all week,” Justin says, to Josh. “Do you have those Trig notes for me, or not? I’ve got to make up the final in one hour.”
Josh says something, but I don’t hear him. I don’t hear him because there’s a roaring sound in my ears. There’s a roaring sound in my ears because standing behind Justin is Michael. Michael Moscovitz.
And in his hand is a yellow rose.
Friday, December 19, Winter Carnival
Oh, God.
I am in so much trouble.
Again.
And it isn’t even my fault this time. I mean, I couldn’t help myself. It just happened, you know? And it doesn’t mean anything. It was just, you know, one of those things.
And besides, it’s not what Kenny thinks. Not even. I mean, if you think about it, it is a complete and total letdown. For me, anyway.
Because of course the first thing Michael says, when he sees me standing there gaping at him while he is holding that flower, is, “Here. This just fell out of your locker.”
I took it from him in a complete daze. I swear to God my heart was beating so hard, I thought I was going to pass out.
Because I thought they’d been from him. The roses, I mean. For a minute there, I really did think Michael Moscovitz had been leaving me roses.
But of course this time, there’s a note attached to the rose. It says:
Good luck on your trip to Genovia! See you when you get back!
Your Secret Snowflake,
Boris Pelkowski
Boris Pelkowski. Boris Pelkowski is the one who’s been leaving those roses. Boris Pelkowski is my Secret Snowflake.
Of course Boris wouldn’t know that a yellow rose represents love everlasting. Boris doesn’t even know not to tuck his sweater into his pants. How would he know the secret language of flowers?
I don’t know which was actually stronger, my feeling of relief that it wasn’t Justin Baxendale leaving those roses after all . . .
. . . or my feeling of disappointment that it wasn’t Michael.
Then Michael went, “Well? What’s the verdict?”
To which I responded by staring at him blankly. I still hadn’t quite gotten over it. You know, those brief few seconds when I’d thought—I’d actually thought, fool that I am—that he loved me.
“What did you get in Algebra?” he asked, slowly, as if I were dense.
Which, of course, I am. So dense that I never realized how much in love with Michael Moscovitz I was until Judith Gershner came along and swept him right out from under my nose.
Anyway, so I opened the computer printout containing my grades, and would you believe that I had raised my F in Algebra all the way up to a B minus?
