at what a witty bastard I am.
Question number four:
Do I know you?
Yes. And no. Kind of. I wouldn’t say we’re friends, but we’re not not friends. But I guess we’re closer to not friends than friends. But not in a bad way. I’m certainly hoping that we can move past this whole crazy incident and get to know each other better.
Question number five:
Tell me something about that night only you and I would know.
This is a tricky one. I wrestle with how to answer it. Should I tell her how pretty she looked that night? Or what the weather was? Or how fast the fire department responded? How will what I say stand out from all the other entries? I go for humor.
If you want to ask someone out, lighting sparklers in a pile of mulch is a surefire way to get their attention. We can honestly say our friendship started with a spark.
Question number five:
Describe our perfect prom night.
Technically, this is not a question, it’s a short-answer essay, and I’m not much for essays. I opt for the truth since, ironically, I’m likely out of the game anyway.
You have an adventurous spirit, right? Well, if I take you to prom, I’d roll up on my bike and prop you on the handlebars. I promise to try like hell to avoid potholes. (My dad has a car, but the odds of me coming down with Legionnaires’ disease are higher than him handing over the keys.) I’d probably pick you up early so we could grab a bite to eat first. I guess it’s safe to say that if I pick you up on a bike, it’s pretty much a given I can’t take you somewhere with fancy napkins and candles. But Ziggy’s makes a great burger. Unless you’re a vegetarian. It’s totally cool if you are. I’m pretty sure they have salads there too.
We’d eventually go to the dance and might stay for a while, if that’s your thing. But I’m guessing as soon as you see my mad dance moves you’ll be much happier with Plan B, which is to catch a movie at the dollar theater on the other side of town. After that we’d head over to the park with a fresh bag of chips (your choice of flavor, of course) and two Cokes (Unless you prefer Pepsi. I can be down with that too.) and lie back to watch the stars and talk about the mysteries of the universe. Once we’ve answered life’s greatest questions, we’d hop back on my bike and pick up some ice cream before I take you home. So, in closing, if you choose me, it would be cool if you remember to bring a helmet.
And last but not least, question number 7:
Do you have any proof that it was you?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I think about what Peyton said to me in the cafeteria. This is the one question that could swing my entry from a maybe to a yes. What do I have to lose? I smile and type:
I have a witness.
I hit Submit, and the following screen notifies me that I am entry number 456 and to remember my entry number. Unbelievable. Four hundred and fifty-five people are willing to risk a brush with the law for a chance to take Amanda to prom. This is so out of hand. A new screen pops up asking if I want to edit my current entry or finish and return to the main screen. I hesitate for a moment; then I press the Finish button. A spinning rainbow cursor appears, indicating the website is processing my entry.
After the fourth revolution, I close my eyes and try to imagine Amanda reading my answers and contacting me, letting me know she wants to meet to me in person.
I start to feel queasy, but not because I ate the leftover chicken wings and washed them down with three-days-past-expiration milk straight from the carton. No, it’s the queasiness that comes with leaving your comfort zone, then wishing you could go back because you’re not ready for this kind of change. It’s the intestinal twisting that follows stepping into the spotlight when you are much happier being backstage—if not under the stage, let alone anywhere near the frickin’ stage. The light-headed, contents-of-your-dinner-rising-in-your-throat, pukish sensation of being given a second chance to make an important decision and screwing that up too.
Sometimes, the best course of action is inaction. Even though answering seven stupid questions may