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“I do,” I agree, admitting it to myself and to Betsey at the same time.
“Wow.”
We sit, staring at nothing for a moment, both of us probably wondering what it would be like to actually date someone. Betsey’s the one who mentions it.
“We should ask again,” she says. “I think it’s time. Elizabeth Best is the only girl in school who doesn’t date. It’s weird.”
“She’ll say no,” I say, remembering the last time. At South, a guy named Shane Williams asked Betsey to Homecoming after their social studies class one day (Betsey did second half last year). Mom said no before the question was even out of Bet’s mouth.
“Yeah, but we were only fifteen then, and you know how overprotective she is,” Bet says. “Plus she was freaked out because she thought our next-door neighbor was spying on us. I get it. I mean, she could go to jail if anyone knew about us. But it’s different now. We’re more careful. We’re seventeen.”
“Not until January,” I say, giving her a funny look, then refocusing on the TV. “And I don’t know, Bet. I don’t think she’ll go for it.”
“I’m doing it,” Betsey says. “I’m bringing it up.”
After not even ibuprofen works, Betsey goes to bed early. I turn off the TV and lazily drag myself to my room with the cozy throw blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. I decide to check our Facebook—the Facebook that we had to beg Mom to let us have, the Facebook that she only consented to because one of our teachers at South posted extra-credit assignments there sometimes.
Of course, it’s only one account.
I log on and check the notifications, knowing well that I can’t reply to any of the comments since Ella’s the one “on” tonight, but at least I can troll the pages and kill some time before bed. I make sure that I’m hidden from view in case people know that Elizabeth Best takes a college course right now, then I scan the updates. Ella posted to the page five minutes before class.
Elizabeth Best is admiring the amazing moon on the way to night class.
Just as I’m silently cursing Ella for rubbing it in, a little alert in the upper left corner catches my eye: We have a friend request. It could be anyone, so I’m unsuspecting when I click on the link and see who it’s from.
Sean Kelly.
I suck in my breath and hold it as I click to accept the request, then I go to his page and look around. He has 530 friends; I try not to feel inadequate. His status updates are frequent and funny, and I’m not surprised to find quite a few photo albums.
I click through his pictures and notice two things: He’s photogenic, and a lot of his pictures feature him and other girls. A pit forms in my stomach at the sight of Sean dressed for a dance with Grayson Jennings next to him. He’s so magnetic; of course he dated the sweet, beautiful, all-around-perfect captain of the cheerleading squad.
Just, of course.
Another of his photo albums shows off his photography. There are expertly framed landscapes, funky old trains, elderly people in rockers, and shots of kids at a carnival taken from odd angles with vintage filters. Halfway through the album, I click Next and find a Seventeen magazine–worthy close-up of Grayson. She is freckle-faced and smiling in the sunshine with a flower in her hair. It almost makes me want to die until I remember that at practice yesterday, she talked about how she’s dating Cooper someone. But still, how can a third of a person compete with one whole Grayson?
A little flag appears in the corner of my screen, telling me that I have a new personal message. Adrenaline shoots through me when I see that it’s from Sean.
Sean Kelly
About 1 minute ago
Hi Elizabeth,
Wow, your name is long. You are in mad need of a nickname.
What’s going on? I see that you’re at night class.
What are you taking? Write back if you can.
My heart is thump, thump, thumping under my ribcage and it won’t stop. I stare at the empty box awaiting my reply, unsure what to do. I can’t reply… or can I? He might think that it’s just me, Elizabeth, replying from class. But what if Ella logs on and posts something contradictory? No, she won’t. She’s too studious.
Undecided, I shove back from the computer and leave the room. I go downstairs, mostly to buy myself some thinking time. Directionless, I head to the kitchen and open the fridge. I grab a soda and then hit the cupboard for some chips, which I start nervously crunching by the handful.
Back in my room, I sit down and reread his note. I wipe my salty chip hands on my pants, then, impulsively, I type.
Elizabeth Best
5 minutes ago
