“Students, quiet down!” the principal says, but it’s useless. When an assembly has a hitch, chaos inevitably follows.
Val nudges my elbow. “What do you think that was all about?”
“I have no idea.”
Students are about to make a mass exodus, but Steve Overland jumps up to the stage. He gets much more applause than the principal.
“Hey, guys, what’s up?” Steve asks with his boyish, dimpled smile, the carefree grin of someone who has no real problems in his life. The principal taps him on the shoulder and points back to Steve’s seat.
“I just need one minute, sir. Sixty seconds.”
The principal feigns annoyance and backs away, but we all know it’s merely an act. It’s no secret that he got a serious bonus when the football team won the state championship. The principal wouldn’t dare anger his prized possession.
“So, let me tell you the real reason we’re up in this assembly,” Steve says.
Val and I trade looks—hers excited, mine confused.
“It’s somebody’s birthday in this room,” Steve coos into the mic. “Will the real Huxley Mapother please stand up?”
Huxley complies. She hides her head in faux embarrassment, a look she seems to have down pat. I slouch back in my chair.
Steve takes a deep breath. “I’m a little nervous.”
A random gaggle of girls in front cheer him on. He winks at them.
“Here goes nothing.” Steve takes his sweet time, but he can, because he’s Steve Overland, and who’s going to tell him to get off the stage? He begins singing some Frank Sinatra song that I’m sure gets played at every wedding in America.
My classmates go wild: standing up and whooping, clapping to the nonexistent beat. There’s at least one aww every five seconds. Steve’s a decent singer, but it’s just a stupid song. Huxley probably came up with this whole “spontaneous” scheme herself.
“Happy birthday, Hux,” he says in between breaths.
Now I feel like a POW.
8
People don’t shut up about Steve’s American Idol audition all morning. I hope they filled their Sweeping Fauxmantic Gesture quota for the day and will spare us any theatrics during lunch. I wait for Val outside the cafeteria, farther down the hall from the rush of students so she can actually find me. We usually walk over together, and I wonder what’s keeping her busy. I lean against a glass case holding Ashland High’s cherished football memorabilia. Some of the players in the black-and-white photos are cute, which is creepy since they’re grandpas now. I guess since the case didn’t feel all-American enough, the school put a photo of Huxley and Steve being crowned at homecoming in the center of the display. He wore his muddy football uniform to the dance. Everyone thought he would continue playing football in college, but he’s giving it up next year to attend Vermilion, a nearby university, to stay close to Huxley, who’s only a junior. Girls think he’s such a doting boyfriend; I think he’s beyond whipped.
Through the clutter of scurrying underclassmen, Val approaches. She’s not alone, though. An unmistakable puff of black hair peeks out over the crowd.
“Hey,” Val says.
“Hi,” I say back, my eyes darting between her and Ezra.
“Um, this is Ezra.”
He releases his hand from hers and shakes mine. “How goes it?”
“Good,” I say again, realizing that I’m being totally awkward, but not at all adorable.
I watch Val give Ezra the “hang test”: How long will he let her hand hang next to his before he holds it?
Ezra passes with flying colors. When he grabs her hand, she has to work overtime to restrain the joy gushing out of her. I’ve never seen her so happy.
I can’t believe it worked. I feel a pit of dread form in my stomach.
“When did this...?” I gesture at their hands.
“Between third and fourth period,” Val and Ezra say at the same time.
“Whoa,” he says. “That was kinda weird.”
Kinda? I wonder if they practiced this meeting with me to make sure their coupledom was extra gagworthy.
“Ezra came up behind me at the Coke machine after third period.”
“I had to meet this funny, awesome girl who loved movies as much as I do.”
“And then he bought me a Diet Coke!”
“You’re telling it wrong. I bought you the Diet Coke while we were talking. I didn’t have champagne on me, so I had to use an alternative carbonated beverage to woo you.”
Val beams with pride.
“So you guys are official. Already. After one Diet Coke.”
“I don’t live my life by labels,” Ezra says. He brushes a strand of hair out of Val’s face. “You make me want to be a better man.”
“I do?”
“That was from As Good as It Gets.”
“It’s my favorite,” Val says.
“You’re my favorite.”
I roll my eyes. Is he for real? If only Ezra knew how much romance was actually involved. How her movie knowledge was taken from the internet, condensed into a cogent outline and written by me. How he is just the closest available option who happened to have some spare change handy.
“Let’s eat. I’m starving!” I signal for the cafeteria.
Neither of them move. The pit of dread expands.
“What?” I ask.
Val scrunches her eyebrows together. “I’m going to eat with Ezra today.” She leans against his shoulder. Their PDA level is rapidly escalating.
“We have some catching up to do,” he says. His eyes go up and to the left. Val’s right. It’s both awkward and adorable.
“Oh.”
She gives me a look only I can read, silently pleading with me to go with it.
“Okay.” I manage my best fake smile. I tell myself that this is what Val wants, and that I’m happy she’s happy.
“It was good seeing you,” Ezra says. They walk into the cafeteria holding hands.
And so it begins. Val’s march toward the dark side.
I follow behind them, a commoner scrambling to her table. Across the cafeteria, Huxley’s laughter takes over the room, all attention drawn to her corner table, just as she prefers. She giggles into Steve’s broad chest, reacting to something probably not that funny. For a second, I think she’s laughing at me.
Steve pulls her in close and lights a candle atop a cupcake.
“I’ll talk to you later!” Val says to me, but I don’t believe it.
I come home to find my mom and dad in their usual positions in the living room: she’s watching TV on her overstuffed chair we call the Throne, and he’s reading the newspaper on the couch. They make great roommates.
My mom waves me over to the Throne. Once she settles in, she won’t leave it until dinnertime. “Can you see how Diane is doing?”
“Did something happen?”
“Open up the paper on the dining table. To the engagement section.”
I scan the page of announcements. In the top right corner, I find the article in question. Sankresh Ramamurty, 25, engaged to Priya Ghosh, 25. I get a lump in my throat. My mom reads my next thought.
“Diane saw it this morning.”
I remember Sankresh’s brown skin next to Diane’s pale complexion, a Williamson genetic quality. I once joked that they would have the cutest butterscotch babies. “Sounds delicious!” Sankresh had said back, and then he pretended to take a bite out of Diane’s arm. They reminded me of Steve and Huxley, except they weren’t showing off for anyone. They were just being themselves.
I tiptoe to Diane’s room, my feet getting heavier with each step. I tap at her door with my index finger. No answer. I tap again.