He said that I wasn’t the Winnie he thought I was. The brave girl he knew from childhood, the vulnerable one he’s reconnected with these last weeks. By all outward appearances, he’s moved on, to Delilah of the perfect skin. It may already be too late.
But still, I have to try. I want to fight for him.
Mataline’s costume isn’t enough. Words speak loudest when they’re combined with actions, and I want to shout to him—to the rest of the world—that I care. That I’m not content to linger in the shadows anymore. That I’m willing to turn the spotlight on myself, in the most public way possible.
Matt’s Jeep is parked in the third row of the school’s front lot, and I’m hanging out by the headlights, again with their long, curly lashes (not technically representative of our relationship, but I couldn’t resist).
The final bell rang a few minutes ago, and I squint at the front entrance of the school. Watching. Waiting. Students pour out of the building only to get snagged by the crowd that’s forming around me. I can hardly blame them. I’m nothing short of a spectacle.
“Whatcha doing, Winnie?” Julia from trig asks.
“That’s Mat’s car,” says Aziel, one of his friends. “You were the one behind the costumes? He never let on who it was.”
“Are you and Mat together?” Lily, a particularly shrieky girl, shrieks. “Like, together-together?”
“Whatever is about to happen, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” J.D. claims. “Don’t care if Coach makes me run extra laps. Where’s the popcorn?”
I tune them out as well as I can, rising onto my tiptoes to peer over the crowd. My eyes are trained on one spot and one spot alone: the front door. What if he left school early? Or took another exit? Chib-peng, what if he and Delilah found an empty classroom and are making out?
My stomach executes a front handspring. No. I can’t think that way. I can’t even allow that image to enter my mind or I’ll tear into the streets, screaming.
Besides, I’m standing next to his car. He has to show up sometime. And I’m willing to wait. The crowd, however, may not. And I need them for my plan to achieve the full effect.
Just when I’m beginning to despair, the glass door swings open, and there he is. Tall, lanky. Black hair that falls into his eyes. A heart that may not be solid gold—but glittery enough to capture mine.
I push a button. Music streams out of the speakers I hooked up to Kavya’s car, parked next to his. The karaoke machine throws lyrics on the screen, and I begin to sing.
Okay, to be fair, I screech more than sing. My pitch is only a tiny bit better than Cameron Diaz’s in the iconic scene of My Best Friend’s Wedding. I’m singing the same song. My voice warbles in a similar way. And I’m humiliating myself, just like her.
As if on cue, the crowd cheers. I don’t know if they’ve all seen the movie or if they just enjoy seeing someone make an epic fool of themselves.
Because I’m a fool, all right. My voice cracks on the high notes, and the crowd laughs, not necessarily with me. Adorable Cameron, I am not.
But that’s a good thing. The only person I’m trying to be is me. Winnie Techavachara and no one else.
Still, I can’t stop the doubts from sneaking in. Oy tai. What if this doesn’t work? What if Mat doesn’t forgive me and I’ve embarrassed myself for no reason?
I tighten my grip on the microphone. Stay positive. Even if I don’t get the guy, I will have been true to myself. To my feelings. I have to hold on to that.
I mangle the song, keeping one eye on the lyrics and the other eye on Mat. Halfway across the lawn, he stops. He must’ve just caught sight of the crowd surrounding his Jeep. He looks around, as though he might bolt, but then—to my immense relief—he continues his approach.
Whispers zip through the onlookers, faster and more frantic with each of Mat’s steps. And then the crowd parts to let him through.
When he’s five feet away, I shut down the music, even though I am mid-lyric, and turn off the microphone. We stare at each other silently, and my mouth goes dry. How do we start? What do I say? How long will we stand here—?
“Hi,” he says.
I laugh a little wildly. His greeting strikes me as hilarious, when I’ve clearly spent hours planning