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“My friends think I’m obsessed with you!”
This sends us into a fit of laughter for a solid couple minutes.
Neil recovers first. “I really thought romance novels were just…” He waves his hand. “Sex.” Though he says it a little less awkwardly this time, he still leaves plenty of space around the word.
“Well. That’s often part of it, but not all the time. And… I definitely don’t hate that part. But they’re so much more than that. They’re about the characters and their relationships. How they complement and challenge each other, how they overcome something together.” I break off, then add: “Although they did lead me to believe my first kiss would be more magical than it actually was.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“Gavin Hawley. Seventh grade. We both had braces. We were doomed.”
“I’ll do you one better. You know how I get nosebleeds in the winter?”
“Oh. Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he says. “Chloe Lim, eighth grade. In the cafeteria, which in hindsight was absolutely the worst idea I’ve ever had. Everyone called it the Red Necking.” This makes me snort-laugh, and he shakes his head. “I was traumatized. I didn’t kiss another girl for two years after that.”
But he’s laughing too. I love the sound of his laugh, and the way he looks when he’s laughing. It’s like he lets himself go, forgets that he’s supposed to be stiff and smug. I don’t think I’d ever really seen it until today.
“Will you finally sign my yearbook now?” he asks when we quiet down. “I have to have a Rowan Roth autograph for when you get famous.”
A waterfall of relief. “I’ve been feeling like garbage ever since I said no.”
I write the nicest message I can muster, one that recounts some of our past rivalries and wishes him all the best next year. Neil takes his time. The pen stops and starts, and he taps it on his chin, smudges his hand with ink.
When we swap back, I make a move to open mine up, but he lunges for it.
“Don’t read it until tomorrow,” he says.
“It’s almost tomorrow.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just don’t read it while I’m here, okay?”
Naturally, it makes me more curious, but given that I only just let someone read my writing, I can’t blame him. It can be awkward to read a yearbook message in front of the person who wrote it.
“Fine. Then don’t read mine, either.” I tuck the yearbook into my backpack. “We should go. Unless there are any clues we could find here?”
“Oh—a floppy disk!” I’m positive it’s the most enthusiastic anyone’s been about a floppy disk in at least two decades. “This is exactly where we’d find one, right? I’ll check the resource room.” He jumps to his feet, but before he leaves our aisle, he kneels back down as though he forgot something. “The one down the hall. Next to the science wing. I just want to be really clear about where I’m going this time. I know you get freaked out when I leave.”
* * *
When he comes back five minutes later, he’s holding a floppy disk, a roll of streamers, and a pack of Skittles.
“I assume that doesn’t have anything to do with the mysterious Mr. Cooper,” I say, gesturing to the streamers and the Skittles.
“I had this idea.” He places everything on the circulation desk, spending an inordinate amount of time arranging each object, as though mulling what he’s going to say next. “You didn’t go to prom. We’ve been talking so much about high school ending, and it seems to be this quintessential high school experience, at least if movies and TV are to be believed.”
“Right…”
“Well, the food was pretty mediocre.” He holds up the Skittles. “And here’s an appropriately cheesy song.” He scrolls through his phone, then hits play on an old song from High School Musical, and I snort because it really is cheesy. “My sister just discovered it. I will graciously accept your condolences.” Then he makes his face serious, sliding his phone onto the circulation desk and holding out his hand. “It won’t be the perfect prom from your success guide, but… will you go to prom with me?”
I stop laughing because while part of me finds this corny as hell, it’s also incredibly sweet. My heart is in my throat. I can’t remember the last time someone did something this nice for me.
Behind his glasses, his gaze is steady. Unwavering. It makes me even more aware of how wobbly I’ve suddenly become.
“We should leave” is what comes out instead of yes. Clearly, my brain-to-mouth connection is broken when it comes to him.
His expression doesn’t falter. “One dance?”
