closed. Let’s go.”
“C’mon,” Owen pleads to Daphne. “One more sale. It’ll help you earn enough money to”—he squints at the small printed sign on the table—“buy new pom-poms.”
I fight back a groan.
Owen is completely oblivious to the battle waging between Daphne and me. Why are boys so clueless when it comes to girl drama?
Daphne sighs. “Fine. What do you want?”
“What looks good, Ellie?”
I scan the table. “Does the banana bread have almonds in it? I’m allergic.”
“Not like deathly allergic,” Owen adds. “Her lips just get all swollen and apelike. It’s pretty funny actually.”
Daphne doesn’t look amused. “No.”
Owen snatches up a piece of banana bread. “Great. We’ll take it.” He hands her a dollar and unwraps the bread, stuffing a piece into my mouth.
“Oweh,” I complain as I chew and swallow. “I can feed myself, thank you very much.”
He hands me the bread and I take another small bite. I admit I do feel better with something in my stomach. As we walk across the hallway to the gym, I peer hesitantly through the open doors. The bleachers are almost full. I can feel the banana bread rising back up in my throat.
“I can’t do this,” I tell Owen, shoving the bread back into his hand. “I’m gonna throw up.”
A moment later, I feel a hand on my arm. “There you are!” Rhiannon says in her usual clipped, imperious voice. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She drags me into the center of the gym, and I turn back to see Owen taking a seat in the front row of the bleachers.
“Did you practice your speech?” she asks.
I falter and then ultimately decide that with Rhiannon, it’s easier if I just lie. “Yup.”
We position ourselves next to the other candidates and I scan the crowd for a friendly face.
Why does everyone look like they’re scowling at me?
My gaze lands on Tristan. He gives me an encouraging smile and I feel my stomach settle.
Talk to him, I tell myself. Give the speech to him. Forget about every other face in this room.
“Calm down, everyone!” Principal Yates, a plump woman with an unfortunate unibrow, booms over the speaker system. “Calm down.”
A hush falls over the room. It’s punctuated by sporadic coughs and the sound of students fidgeting on the uncomfortable wooden bleachers.
“We’re excited for this year’s class election speeches!” Principal Yates says, with such fervor it’s clear she’s expecting a burst of raucous applause to follow, but it’s like crickets chirping out there.
She clears her throat. “We’ll hear a short speech from each vice presidential and presidential candidate, starting with the freshmen and ending with the seniors.”
I find Tristan in the audience again, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring down at his phone. So I glance at Owen in the front row. When I catch his gaze, I notice he looks panicked. His eyes are open much wider than usual and he’s staring slack-jawed back at me.
I make a “What?” gesture with my hands. He responds by slowly pointing at his mouth.
Oh crap, do I have something stuck in my teeth?
Trying to be stealthy, I reach up and touch my lips, hoping to subtly rub my finger against my gums. But as soon as my hand makes contact with my mouth, I understand what Owen is trying to tell me.
I don’t know how I didn’t feel it coming on. The numbness. The tingles. The pressure of the skin filling with excess blood.
My lips. They’re swelling.
Horrified, I look to Owen, who peers down at the half-eaten banana bread sitting in his lap, then back at me. He mouths one word. I don’t need to read lips to understand. It’s the same word that’s flashing in my mind like a NORAD alarm.
ALMONDS.
I Fall to Pieces
There are really only two possible explanations here:
1) Daphne lied to my face about the almonds in order to see me humiliated in front of the entire school.
2) Daphne didn’t know about the almonds.
As I stand in front of an entire gym of restless teenagers and try to block out the sounds of the final sophomore candidate’s speech, I scan the crowd for Daphne. Maybe I can deduce her motives (or lack thereof) by the smug (or clueless) expression on her face, but I can’t seem to find her. Instead, my eyes fall back on Owen, who’s pantomiming dramatically to get my attention. I squint, trying to decipher his movements. But, to be honest, they have more resemblance to some interpretive modern dance than actual sign language.
He’s either miming