Except that I didn’t even want to see him. If I had to look at him day after day, I could never hope to forget about him. I could never hope to move on. For this situation, I did need a plan, and I had one all lined up.
Step one: keep distracted in the hallway in case he passed me.
Step two: stay busy in English and never look over at his side of the classroom.
Step three: speed out of the parking lot in the afternoon so I didn’t run into him.
Dad made step three possible by fixing my car Sunday, so I was sure I could keep from seeing Wesley. In a matter of weeks, I’d be able to put our relationship-or lack thereof-out of my mind. If not, well, we’d graduate in May and I’d never have to look at that cocky smirk ever again.
That was the theory, anyway.
But by the time the final bell rang on Monday, I knew my plan sucked ass. Not looking at Wesley didn’t necessarily equal not thinking of Wesley. In fact, I spent most of my day thinking about not looking at him. Then I just thought about all the reasons I shouldn’t be thinking of him. It never freaking ended! Nothing seemed to distract me.
Until Tuesday afternoon.
I was on my way to lunch after an unbearably long AP government class when something happened that gave me just the distraction I needed. Something unbelievable and shocking. Something pretty damn awesome.
Toby fell into step with me in the hallway. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi.” I did my best to sound at least halfway pleasant. “What’s up, Harvard Boy?”
Toby grinned and looked down, shuffling his feet. “Not much,” he said. “Just trying to decide what to write about for the editorial assignment. Mr. Chaucer wasn’t very specific. What are you going to write yours about?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I’m thinking of doing it on gay marriage.”
“Supporting or opposing?”
“Oh, definitely supporting. I mean, the government has no right to dictate who can and can’t publicly declare their love for each other.”
“How romantic of you,” Toby said.
I snorted. “Hardly. I’m not romantic at all, but it’s basic logic. Denying homosexuals the right to marriage infringes on their liberty and equality. Pretty screwed up.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Toby agreed. “It seems we have a lot in common.”
“I guess we do.”
We walked for a couple of seconds in silence before he asked, “So, do you have any plans for prom?”
“No,” I told him. “I’m not going. Why pay two hundred bucks for a dress, thirty for a ticket, forty for hair and makeup, and a handful more for dinner, where all you can have is a salad with no dressing because you have to avoid getting gunk on the poufy dress? It’s kind of ridiculous.”
“I see,” Toby said. “That’s a little unfortunate… I was kind of hoping you’d go with me.”
Okay, so I hadn’t seen that coming. At all. Ever. Toby Tucker, the boy I’d crushed on for years, wanted to ask me to prom? Oh my God. Oh my God. And I’d totally bashed the whole institution of high school dances like an opinionated idiot. I’d practically rejected him without even meaning to. Oh, shit. I was a moron. A complete moron. And now I was at a loss for words. What did I say? Did I apologize or take it back or-
“But it’s fine if you feel that way,” Toby said. “I’ve always thought prom was a pointless rite of passage, so we’re on the same page.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said lamely.
Oh, someone fucking shoot me right now!
“But,” Toby pressed, “are you opposed to regular dates? Ones without poufy dresses or crappy salads?”
“No. I don’t have a problem with those.”
My head was spinning. Toby wanted me to go on a date with him. A date! I hadn’t been on a real date since… Hell, I’d never been on a real date. Unless you counted making out with Jake in the back of a movie theater a date.
I didn’t.
But why? Why would Toby want to go on a date with me? I was the Duff. Duffs don’t get dates. Not real ones. Yet Toby was defying the odds. Maybe he was a bigger man than most. Just like how I’d always imagined him in my stupid, girly, midclass daydreams. Not shallow. Not conceited. Not cocky or vain. A perfect gentleman.
“That’s good,” he said. “In that case…” I could tell he was nervous. His cheeks were turning pink, and he was staring at his shoes and playing with his glasses. “Friday? Would you like to go out with me on Friday night?”
“I’d like…”
Then the inevitable happened. I thought of the douche bag. The playboy. The womanizer. The one person who could ruin this moment for me. Yes, I had a crush on Toby Tucker. How could I not? He was sweet and charming and smart… but my feelings for Wesley were way beyond that. I’d skipped the crush kiddie pool and jumped right into the deep, shark-infested ocean of emotions. And, if you’ll forgive the dramatic metaphor, I was a lousy swimmer.
But Casey had told me to move on, and here Toby was, tossing me a float and offering to save me from drowning. I’d be stupid not to accept. God only knew how long it might be before another rescue party came along.
And, come on, Toby was adorable.
“I’d like that,” I said, hoping my pause hadn’t freaked him out too much.
“Great.” He sounded relieved. “I’ll pick you up at seven Friday night.”
“Cool.”
We separated in the cafeteria, and I think I skipped-yeah, skipped like a little kid-to the lunch table, my bad mood totally forgotten.
And it stayed forgotten.
For the rest of that week, I didn’t think about how I shouldn’t be thinking of Wesley. I didn’t think of Wesley at all. Not once. My brain was too full of things like What should I wear? and How should I fix my hair? All the stuff I’d never worried about before. Talk about surreal.
But those were the things that Casey and Jessica were experts on, so they came home with me on Friday afternoon, and they were eager to make me their own personal Barbie doll. If I hadn’t been so nervous about this date, I would have been horrified, my feminist sensibilities offended at their preening and squealing.
They forced me into, like, twenty different outfits (all of which I hated) before deciding on one. I wound up in a knee-length black skirt and a low-cut turquoise blouse, cut just low enough that you could make out the curve of my tiny boobs. Then they spent the rest of the time using a flatiron on my unwilling hair. It took them two hours-that’s no exaggeration, by the way-to get it all straight.
It was already six-fifty when they placed me in front of the mirror to examine their work.
“Perfect,” Casey announced.
“Cute!” Jessica agreed.
“See, B,” Casey said. “All of that Duff shit is ridiculous. You look freaking smoking right now.”
“What Duff shi-uh, stuff?” Jessica asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“B thinks she’s the ugly one.”
“What?” Jessica cried. “Bianca, do you really think that?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“She does,” Casey said. “She told me so.”
“But you’re not, Bianca,” Jessica insisted. “How could you think that?”
“Jessica, don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s no big-”
“I know,” Casey said. “Isn’t it stupid? Isn’t she hot, Jess?”
“She’s super-hot.”
“See, B. You’re super-hot.”
I sighed. “Thanks, guys.” Time for a subject change. “So, um, how are you getting home? I can’t take you if Toby is picking me up in ten minutes. Are your parents coming to get you?”
“Oh, no,” Jessica said. “We aren’t leaving.”
“What?”