“Come on, Collins,” he says. “I’m in love with Danielle.”
TWENTY-THREE
I TURN AWAY so he can’t see my face. I shouldn’t be surprised, and I’m not, really. I should have known better. Andrew doesn’t love me—why would he when he has a parade of beautiful girls at his disposal? And Danielle is the most beautiful, the most confident, the most powerful—everything Cecilia, Abby, Sophie, and all the rest of Andrew’s castoffs have ever wanted to be. Why wouldn’t he be drawn to that power?
I shake my head, trying to clear away the thoughts tumbling around inside. It’s stupid to feel upset; I don’t want Andrew in that way. I have James Dean. It’s just that it felt nice for a moment to believe he could see me as one of those girls too, one of the girls like Danielle, who wears her skin like a fashionable coat instead of something that doesn’t quite fit.
When Andrew first started dating Sophie Piznarski, he shared everything with me—that he thought she looked best in her sweater with the pink and blue stripes; how she hated spicy food but loved anything with peanut butter; how sometimes they made out on the couch in the living room while her parents worked late. He complained to me about having to attend her dance recitals, dragged me along to a few of them so we could whisper to each other behind a raised program.
And then after Sophie, I got used to hearing details about the girls he liked, watching as he walked hand in hand with a girl up the stairs, pulling her into a bedroom, or a bathroom, or a closet, their laughter loud and drunk and happy.
But he’s kept Danielle from me. That means she’s special. She wasn’t someone to talk about the next morning over pancakes at Jan’s. She was someone to keep tucked away, someone secret and meaningful.
“You’re in love with her?” I ask, picking at a string that’s come loose from the cushion of the seat. I look up at him and he looks away.
“Yeah.”
“I had no idea.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m . . .” He pauses, running a hand through his hair so it’s standing straight up, like he’s been electrified. I feel just like that hair, shocked and alert, like I’ve been electrified too.
“You could have told me. I mean, before now. You didn’t have to keep it a secret. I get it.” I try to laugh, but it gets stuck in the back of my throat. “She’s Danielle Oliver.”
“Do you think . . .” He trails off.
I fill in the rest of his question in my head. Do you think I have a chance? Do you think she likes me back? Do you think we’ll still be friends after all of this?
“Yeah.” I open the door to the truck. “You’ll be fine, Drew. Like I said, you should tell her. You’re going to prom with her, right? That’ll be the perfect time. You can do something big for her. Really make it count.”
“Yeah.”
I climb out of the truck and walk up the dark driveway and into the house. Then I watch through the window as his truck backs up and pulls away.
It looks like we’re both getting the perfect prom, getting everything we want at just the right time, like the end of some teen movie. But if everything is so perfect, then why does it feel so wrong?
Hannah and I have plans to go prom dress shopping the next morning, so she picks me up in the Jeep and takes us on the long drive to the mall. She’s promised to buy me a Cinnabon if I have a good attitude, so I’m trying to be cooperative, but I don’t think I’ve worn a dress since I was the flower girl in my aunt’s wedding in third grade. Secretly, I’m actually a little excited about everything, even though I have no idea what I’m doing. Luckily Hannah has dutifully taken on the role of my fairy godmother, picking out different styles and colors and holding them up in front of me, pleading with big eyes for me to try something on.