“What if I wanted to dance to my door instead?”
“Then I’m your man.”
Are you? Is this what this means? My heart goes hopscotching out of the room and down the hall and out the door and into the street.
“But after I danced you to the door, I’d want to kiss you.”
“You would?”
“I would.”
And now my heart is nowhere on earth to be found. I can see it as it bypasses the moon and the stars and goes blasting into another galaxy.
“Hypothetically.”
“Well then, I would let you kiss me.”
“Hypothetically?”
“No. Definitely.”
By the time we hang up two hours later, it’s 1:46 a.m. I lie there for the rest of the night waiting for my heart to return to my chest.
THE NEXT EIGHT DAYS
* * *
At lunch on Monday, I sit across the table from Kam and Seth, who are elbow to elbow. I’m sketching design ideas for Dusty’s robot, and I’m pretty much on fire for the first time, and I can see it, as in I finally know what I’m doing, and my blood is pumping and my heart is pumping like I’ve just run a marathon and sprinted all the way to the finish. Nothing, as in nothing, can stop the flow of these ideas, until Seth goes, “You know, Kam and me, we’ve got something that can help you out in your situation.”
I look up, a little foggy, because my head is on the paper in front of me, not in the MVB cafeteria. Seth is grinning like a jackal, and whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.
But I say, wary as hell, “What situation is that?”
Seth elbows Kam hard, which makes Kam drop the three dozen french fries he was about to stuff down his throat. “Goddammit, Powell.”
Seth keeps right on. “I did some research last night.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket.
“Jesus. Porn?” I should have known. I go back to sketching.
“Not porn. God.” He actually has the nerve to sound offended, even though as far as I know Seth thinks the Internet was invented for two purposes: porn and poker. “Number one. They’re easy to talk to.”
“Who’s easy to talk to?” I’m still making notes.
“Fat girls.” My head snaps up so hard I probably give myself whiplash. He’s trying to keep a straight face, but he can’t help himself—he’s snickering already.
“Two. ‘Pretty women aren’t always nice.’ ”
Kam goes, “That one’s true.”
I say, “What is it you’re reading to me?”
“ ‘Top Ten Reasons to Date a Fat Girl.’ I found it online.” He waves the paper, and then holds it up to his face again, reads something to himself, and starts howling. I make a grab for it, but he holds it out of reach, over his head. “Three …”
Kam rips the paper out of his hands and hands it to me. I crush it into a ball and get ready to launch it across the cafeteria into the trash, but I don’t want anyone digging it out of there, so I stuff it into my back pocket instead. I lean over the table and whack Seth in the head.
He just keeps laughing. Kam says, “Moron.” And crams the rest of the french fries into his mouth.
I know Seth thinks he’s being funny, but my insides are burning, like I’ve inhaled an entire forest fire.
“Lay off her, man. I’m serious.”
“Wow. Sure, sure, Mass. Whatever.” He’s wiping the tears away and trying to catch his breath. He sits quietly for a minute, and then, with one snicker, he launches into another laughing fit.
I try not to let it bother me. Who cares what they think? I tell myself it’s not that she’s fat. That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m not worried at all. I just want them to leave me alone. Leave us alone. But part of me is going, What if you’re just shallow? What if that’s your identifier?
“You’re a fucking idiot, Seth Powell.” And I gather up my ideas and what’s left of my lunch and walk away.
The Damsels Drill Team auditions sign-up sheet hangs on Heather Alpern’s door. So far seven girls have signed up. I’m number eight. Jayvee hands me a pen, and I lean in and write my name. Behind me I hear, “Oh my God, you’re trying out?”
Caroline Lushamp looks down at me with this weird pretend smile that makes her look like some sort of beauty queen serial killer.
I say, “Oh my God, how did you know?”
She blinks at me, blinks at my name on the sheet, blinks at Jayvee, blinks at me.
I say, “Just imagine it—we could be teammates.” And then I squeeze her into the tightest hug. “See you at auditions!”
Jayvee can barely walk for laughing. She weaves like a drunk person through the halls. Finally, she straightens up and stops laughing long enough to say, “So what did you do about the Atticus situation? Test or no test?”
“No test. I decided he knew best after all.”
“He usually does.”
In driver’s ed, we’re assigned three to a car, and since the rest of the class is made up of sophomores, the lone juniors are lumped together: Bailey, Travis Kearns, and me.
I’m pretty sure Travis is stoned. He carries on a commentary in the backseat that goes something like: “Floor it, big girl … Go like the mother-effing wind … Open her up … Show this world what you can do … Take that beautiful big leg of yours and slam that gas pedal … Take us to the moon, sister … or at least to Indy … Take us to Indy … Take us to Indy … Indy … Indy … Indy …” (Several indecipherable words followed by mad laughter.)