roster of male names, their mouths moving rapid-fire.
“Chris Tomlinson?”
“Taking Sienna.”
“Andy Hilton?”
“Taking June Woods.”
“Steve Abbott?”
“Going with George Massey.”
“Wait. What about Ryan Snyder?”
“Bringing that slut from St. Mary’s.”
“Damnit.”
They persevere, running through practically every boy in our class. All of them already have dates or are deemed too weird to take me.
“It’s okay, guys, really,” I assure them, flinching as another car zips past us with an angry beep. “Forget about this. We should just go to the game—”
Odette’s expression has grown dark. “Don’t worry, Valentine. It’s short notice, but between our connections at St. John’s and Deerfield….”
“And Pingree!” Ophelia interjects.
“Mmm. Pingree, too.” Odette smiles reassuringly. “We’ll find you someone hot and hunky, who fills out a suit like Brad Pitt at The Oscars. Don’t worry. You can even ride in our limo! There’s plenty of room. We rented a stretch.”
Ophelia leans forward. “A pink one, obviously.”
They both giggle.
I swallow another sip of my lemonade to quell the nervous butterflies swarming in my stomach. “Look… it’s super sweet of you guys to offer, but I’m not even sure I want to go to prom.”
The silence is deafening.
“You have to go to prom.” Odette sounds more serious than I’ve ever heard. “It’s, like, the pinnacle of your senior year experience. A night you’ll always remember. You can’t just skip it.”
“Non-negotiable,” Ophelia agrees.
Looking at them, I realize this is a fight I’m not going to win. More surprisingly, it’s a fight I don’t desire to win.
I’ve never had female friends before. Ever. And the thought of doing stereotypical girly things — getting ready together, styling our hair, sharing makeup, gossiping over our dates — actually sounds rather…
Lovely.
I’ve spent all six years at Exeter terrified to be myself around my peers. Especially the female ones. I always felt somehow insignificant next to them. An ugly duckling, masquerading amidst a flock of perfect swans. But as I stare at the Wadell twins, who’ve now gone out of their way to include me in their plans on more than one occasion… I begin to wonder if most of that insignificance was a figment of my imagination.
Maybe the popular kids didn’t exile me to the bottom of the social totem pole; maybe I exiled myself, rather than risk letting anyone besides Archer get to know the real me.
“Well?” Odette prompts.
“What’s it gonna be?” Ophelia nudges.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll go to the stupid prom.”
They both scream so loud, it makes my eardrums ache. Turning back to face the steering wheel, Ophelia resumes driving toward Exeter. Odette and I finish our lemonades, exchanging our empty bottles for full ones. We dance in our seats to the beat of a new Ellie Goulding song blasting from the speakers.
“Tonight is going to be so much fun!” Odette yells over the music, rolling down her window and howling like a wolf. “Ahh-woooooo! Ah-wooooooo! Go Wolfpack!”
“Stop it, O!” her sister chides. “You’re gonna get me pulled over!”
But Odette is on a roll. “Ah-wooo! Ah-wooooo! Come on, guys! Howl with me!”
I shake my head, laughing at her ridiculousness.
The stadium lights come into view in the distance; we’re nearly there. When we pull into the parking lot, every square foot is jammed full of excited Exeter fans in green and black attire, tailgating in their truck beds with coolers, lawn chairs, and portable grills. We roll slowly down the rows, looking for a free spot.
Odette howls out her window at a cluster of freshman boys.“Ah-woooo!”
They howl right back at her, even louder. The group beside them soon joins in. And then the group beside them adds their voices to the braying chorus. Howls spread across the entire parking lot in a domino effect, until the sky is a vibration of lupine enthusiasm.
“Ah-woooo!”
“Ah-wooooo!”
“Go Wolfpack!”
Ophelia and I roll down our windows.
“AH-WOOOO!”
I scream as loud as I can, my howls harmonizing with hundreds of excited Exeter fans. By the time we locate an empty spot, I’m having so much fun, I’ve almost forgotten why I was dreading coming to this game in the first place.
Almost.
Chapter Fourteen
ARCHER
“Get your head out of the clouds, Reyes!” Coach yells from the dugout as we run back onto the field to finish the final inning. “Let’s show these boys that fastball you’ve been working on all season long! No more free passes!”
He sounds frustrated.
Hell, I’m frustrated. I’m playing like a Little Leaguer instead of a future MLB rookie. My pitches are uneven. My pacing is off. I’ve let more batters hit tonight than any other game of the season.
The