and I’m pushed out the door in a current of students. I can hear Bo talking back and forth with José Herrera about calculus and then about a party.
In the hallway, a wall of girls stops us. They stand with their hands joined, like a game of Red Rover.
“Sorry for the delay,” one of them says.
“This will only take a minute,” adds another.
Bekah Cotter stands behind the row of girls in a pair of tiny denim shorts, gold flats, and an oversized white T-shirt that’s been tied into a knot at the small of her back. In iron-on letters the shirt reads Go to Sadie Hawkins with me . . . She spins a baton between her fingers, waiting for the crowd to settle.
Amanda stands behind me, bouncing on her toes. “Just looking at those shorts gives me a wedgie.”
Bekah takes one deep breath and, without announcing herself, she spins the baton in the air, throwing it over her shoulder and catching it as she does gymnastics so sharp and quick you can barely keep up with her. It’s amazing, and still, it’s nothing nearly as involved as I’ve seen her do at football games. Her pageant talent is going to kill.
She throws the baton in the air and does some sort of crazy spinning flip, then she lands with her back to us and catches the baton as it’s about to hit the floor. With her ass in the air, it’s clear who she’s asking to the dance. On each pocket of her denim shorts, in glitter paint, are the letters B and O.
The guys from World History push him up to the front of the crowd. He smirks and I can barely watch him as Bekah takes his hand. Bo glances to his side, and I know he sees me. But there’s no second for decision or thought. He nods. And now they’re Bekah and Bo. Bo and Bekah.
I push Amanda out of the way and move against the flow of students heading for the parking lot. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I watch the sea of feet until I’ve found a bathroom. I sink down to my knees and dig through my backpack, looking for something. My phone? A grenade?
At the bottom of my bag is a permanent marker. I uncap it, turn to the mirror, and, like the totally sane person I am, begin to write on my face.
I didn’t actually consider the logistics of getting from point A to point B when I was scribbling across my face. After looking myself over in the mirror, I realize that there is no turning back. Even if I want to. I guess it’s called permanent marker for a reason.
Walking to the parking lot as quickly as I can, I flip my hair over my head like Cousin Itt and rely on whatever sight I have through the strands, praying to Baby Jesus that I don’t get hit by a car.
And there he is. Walking to his car.
“Mitch!” I yell. “Mitch!”
This is a bad idea. I think it’s actually safe to say that all my ideas are bad ideas.
He turns. “Will?” Deep concern lines his face. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
When I’m within a few steps, I flip my hair back, letting him see my face.
His concern fades into confusion. “snikwaH eidaS ot oG?”
“Shit,” I say. “I wrote it in the mirror.”
He glances down, trying to hide his smile from me as he twists his toe in the gravel.
“So you wanna?” I ask. “Go to Sadie Hawkins?”
“I don’t know.” His cheeks swell. He’s a boy struck with relief because I haven’t forgotten his birthday. I am a hideous person. “Are you gonna wear a dress?”
“Are you?”
He slips his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” He reaches forward and rubs my forehead with his thumb. “That’s permanent, isn’t it?”
“Forever,” I say.
His eyes flood with light.
I should’ve added, “As friends.” Go to Sadie Hawkins as friends? But it’s too late now. I won’t ruin this for him, though I worry I might have only done it for me.
THIRTY-SIX
It’s Friday night and I’m spread out on the couch watching a daytime talk show I’d recorded about second cousins claiming to be telepathic.
Mom’s in the kitchen dyeing a tablecloth for the judges’ table.
The announcer on the television show gives the cousins some kind of test, asking them questions they should be able to answer with their “abilities.” The first twin goes fifty-fifty and blames it on the