gut with a dodge ball. “You know, I just remembered I’ve got that junior counseling appointment thing right now, so I’ll have to catch up with you later. Good luck with your speech.”
I know right away it’s a lie. Not only because Owen does this strange squinty thing with his eyes whenever he lies, but also because I’ve lived this day four times now and this is the first time he’s had a counseling appointment.
But before I have a chance to argue Owen darts off, leaving Tristan and me alone at the foot of the stairs. And leaving me wondering why, for the first time in our seven-year friendship, Owen felt the need to lie to me.
Time Is on My Side
1:34 p.m.
The common misconception about high school election speeches is that you actually have to give a speech. It turns out, standing up there and telling dirty jokes for three minutes works just as well, if not even better.
By the time Principal Yates physically rips the microphone from my hand, I have the entire student body in stitches. They’re cheering and catcalling and pumping fists in the air.
When I get back to homeroom and fill in the little bubble next to my name on the ballot, I’m feeling pretty good about my chances.
1:57 p.m.
“Hello! You must be…” Mr. Goodman’s voice trails off when I strut into his office and he gets an eyeful of my outfit.
“Ellison, yes. That’s me.”
He clears his throat as I sit down, sounding like a wild boar snorting. “Uh … right. Pleased to meet you.” But he doesn’t exactly sound pleased to meet me. Or look it. He looks like he was just thrown into a snake pit. Is that sweat beading on his forehead?
He stands up from his desk and walks over to the door I closed. “I’m just gonna…” But he doesn’t finish. He cracks the door open. “There we go.”
He sits back down and wipes the sweat from his face. Good. That was really going to bug me.
“So, um, where were we?”
“You were about to tell me that junior year is a toughie.”
He gives me a blank look. “Right you are. Right you are. A real toughie.”
“And then you were going to say, ‘And don’t forget about those colleges!’” I do my best Mr. Goodman impression, complete with clownlike grin and finger pistols. “‘It’s time to start thinking about my future! Pow! Pow!’”
He sits speechless in his chair, staring at me.
But I really don’t have all day. So if he’s not going to get this thing moving along, then I better just finish her up.
“You’ve been assigned to meet with every student in the junior class to talk about the next two years.” I recite the speech I’ve heard three times now. “Have I given any thought to where I want to apply? No? Well, ticktock, ticktock! Time’s a runnin’ out.”
Mr. Goodman rubs his mouth with his hand, tugging down on the corners of his lips.
“Now this is the part where you tell me I’m living my life wrong and give me one of those pamphlets behind you.”
Dazedly, he spins in his chair and practically startles at the sight of the pamphlets. As if he forgot they were there. He plucks a red one from the rack and slides it over to me.
I eye the brochure. It has a picture of a girl sitting on the edge of a bed, holding her head in her hands. A boy is out of focus in the background. Across the top it says:
Making the Right Choices About Sex
I force a smile. “Great!” I scoop up the pamphlet and give it a brusque tap with the back of my hand. “Thanks for this. I can’t wait to dive in. Super-duper helpful!”
As I leave Mr. Goodman’s office and approach the receptionist for a pass back to class, I eye the digital clock on the wall. It’s 2:08 p.m. I’m suddenly struck with an idea.
I turn toward a nearby bulletin board and pretend to be very interested in the colorful display about self-esteem, keeping one eye on the clock. As soon as it clicks over to 2:10, I approach the desk.
“Hi!” I say brightly. “I need a pass back to class.”
The receptionist smiles at me. “Of course.” She glances up to check the time.
“2:10,” I say way too urgently. “It’s 2:10.”
She gives me a strange look, but writes 2:10 in the time slot and hands me the pink slip.
I thank her and duck out of the office. As soon