by Zoe Evans
“I’ll talk to you later,” I said, hoping Evan would get the hint. I wanted to get out of there, and fast—before anyone else I knew saw Port Angeles’s newest lovebirds.
Luckily, he did get the hint, and waved bye. It’s nice when you’ve known someone so long that you don’t even need words to communicate.
Mom looked from me to Mr. Datner. “Well, are we all ready?”
We?
“I’m ready,” I said, grabbing my bag and hoisting it over my shoulder. Some days it feels like I’m dragging a body in there—it’s so full of books, cheer stuff, and who knows what else.
“Here, Madison, let me get that for you,” said Mr. Datner.
Excuse me? Is this the same Mr. Datner who orders me to do five laps around the gym for not wearing the right shorts to class? Or the same Mr. Datner who makes us drag punching bags across the floor “for stamina and endurance”? Plus, I wouldn’t be caught DEAD letting people see him carrying my bag. Barf.
“No, I’m okay. But thanks.”
Mr. Datner looked at my mom, and they made goo-goo eyes at each other. So gross.
The car ride home was almost unbearable. Welcome to Awkward City, population three. Was it really necessary for them to hold hands the entire car ride and giggle like two teenagers IN FRONT OF YOURS TRULY? I really could have lived without it. What has happened to my normal mom? The one who doesn’t fall for gym teachers and just stays at home, NOT dating, and NOT grossing me out? I miss her dearly .
When we got home, Mom announced that we’d be doing takeout tonight. “Oh, good,” I said. “Then can I eat in my room?” I could tell she was a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be joining them. She sometimes does this thing where she frowns and rakes her fingers through her ponytail when she’s a little upset. But whatever. She’s the one who decided to date my gym teacher. I know I said I was happy for her, and I am. But it’s complicated. I can’t just all of a sudden be BFFs with my gym teacher and want to eat dinner with him and watch movies like we’re pals. Weird! She’s just going to have to deal with my uneasiness.
I checked my phone to see if anyone had called and realized I’d missed three calls from Lanes. Usually Lanie just calls and leaves a message and waits for me to call her back. Sometimes she’ll send a follow-up text. But three calls? Something was up. I hoped it was something good. I needed a little distraction from the blossoming love happening in my kitchen.
“Hey, Lanes, where’s the fire?” I asked her.
“Where have you been all my life? I haven’t seen you all day!”
“I know, guess we must have missed each other. I’ve been in a bit of a fog. And I’m still recovering from being in the car with a very scary version of my mom. Sorry, I wasn’t checking my phone.”
I could hear Lanie rolling her eyes on the other end of the line.
“So?” I asked.
“Are you ready for this?” asked Lanie. I could hear the excitement mounting in her voice.
“I think so,” I said.
“Okay. Your best friend Lanie Marks is going to the dance. Officially! Date and all!” Lanie was in hyper-girlie-girl mode, which I knew wouldn’t last long. She hates acting like the teenybopper-type popular girls in our school, who squeal at the sight of a cool skirt. “I mean, it’s kind of cool, right?” she said in a more controlled, underwhelmed tone.
“Lanes, it’s okay to be excited about this.”
“I’m not excited,” she said defensively. “I’m just, like, you know, glad that you don’t have to worry about me being a dateless loser at the dance.”
“Fine, whatever, Lanes. So ‘pretend’ you’re excited, and tell me how it all went down.”
“Okay,” said Lanie giddily. “We were working after school, and everyone else had already gone home. But Marc and I both had a deadline today, so he was like, ‘Are you sticking around a little longer?’ and I was like, ‘Sure, why not?’ I could have finished the paper at home, but . . .”
“Duh, why would you after that?”
“Exactly. So we were both working, and after a while I got up to go get a soda from the machine. And Marc was like, ‘Do you mind if I tag along?’ It was funny. I mean, the machine is literally around the corner. It’s not like a mile away, you know?”
“Uh, totally!”
“So there I was, waiting for my Dr Pepper to finally roll down to the slot thingy, when Marc just blurted out all at once, ‘Are-you-going-with-anyone-to-the-dance?’ Like it was one word. Isn’t that cute?”
“Supercute. So what did you say?”
“At first I was shocked. No one has asked me to a dance since Mike Pellie the Smellie asked me to be his partner in ring-around-the-rosy in first grade. Then I pulled myself together and said, ‘Nah, not really.’”
“You said, ‘Nah’?” I repeated, letting her hear the revulsion in my voice.
“Yes. But I followed it up quickly with, ‘Are you?’ Then he shook his head. And then we stared at each other for a few moments, and then I opened the lid of my soda, which made him finally say, ‘Do you want to go together?’ And I was like, ‘Yes!’”
“Aw, Lanes, he sounds so cute. I love when guys are nervous.”
“I know!” Lanie squealed. “Okay, that’s the last you’ll ever see of ‘Excited Lanie.’ I hope you enjoyed the show.”
“Oh, I sure did,” I said, smiling.
“Was Bevan nervous when he asked you?”
“Yeah, he was, just a little. But I don’t know, Lanes. He’s been MIA since our date on Tuesday. Literally, not a peep.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. And I’m not going to call him or text him or anything. I’m so tired of it. Why even ask me to the dance if he’s planning on ignoring me anyway?” I hadn’t realized until just then, as I was talking to Lanie, how upset this has made me. The second I realized it, the rage just grew. “Oh, wait. I just remembered. Yesterday at three thirty he passed me in the hall and punched my shoulder, and then said, ‘Later.’ Let’s set aside the fact that I’m actually not a member of his soccer team and therefore should not be greeted caveman-style—the bigger problem is, there never actually is a later!”
“Oh, Mads. I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, thanks. At least I’m still going to the dance with a date. Even if it’s a date who will ignore me.”
“Don’t sweat it,” said Lanie. “You can chill with Marc and me.”
“Ooh, gotta love being the third wheel.”
I glanced at the clock and realized it was getting pretty late. “I gotta go, Lanes. Speaking of the dance, if I don’t spend some major time on this dress, I’ll be dateless and dressless.”
“Well you can only hang with me and Marc if you’re wearing clothes,” she replied, in all seriousness. “Just giving you fair warning.”
“Ha-ha.”
One of the things I love about sewing and designing clothes is that it really clears my head. I get into this zone where I just get to focus on the design, and the rest of the stuff in my life fades into the distance. Which was ÜBER nice, while it lasted.
And now that I have to come back to reality, I’m realizing I really need to get my head back into tryouts. It’s really happening, and I told Katie I’m going to go for it. Just thinking about what the day will be like makes me feel like I’m on the part of a roller coaster ride where it just keeps inching higher and higher. You know in a few seconds you’re going to be free-falling down, but the climbing is so much worse. Because the higher you go, and the closer you get to the fall, the more you can anticipate how it is going to feel. As the day of tryouts gets closer and closer, I can’t help but feel terrified at how things might go down.
Anyway, after like half an hour of sewing, I must have passed out, because before I knew it I was knee-deep in a horrible nightmare. I’d shown up to tryouts wearing, hands down, the UGLIEST dress EVER. It was like one of those prom nightmare dresses from Mom’s eighties movies—the kind in neon colors with ruffles all over and gian
t pouffy sleeves. And everyone was cracking up, laughing at me. Clementine shouted, “Nice dress!” Even Coach Whipley was clutching her stomach, she was laughing so hard. And Mr. Datner and Mom were both there, and Mr. D told me to do ten laps around the gym for showing up in a dress.
If I tried to do any kind of jump or kick, everyone would see my undies! So I ran to my gym bag and started looking for my shorts and shirt. There was so much in there, but I couldn’t find my clothes. It was like digging through the world’s biggest laundry pile. But instead of gym clothes, there were just scraps and scraps of fabric.
I woke up with my heart beating a million times a minute and a button in one hand and a needle in the other. I nearly poked myself in the eye with the needle.
“Phew, close one,” I said out loud.
I guess I’m more nervous than I thought.
Saturday, February 26
Nighttime, in my kitchen, drowning my sorrows in sugar
Song Level:
I Want Candy (and Hot Fudge, and Whipped Cream)!
When I walked into Just Desserts, I couldn’t find Evan at first. I saw this cute guy sitting in a booth at the far end of the restaurant, but his back was to me. His hair was perfectly styled, and he had a cute sweater on. He looked like he COULD be Evan, but, like, in a parallel universe where Evan dressed cooler and styled his hair. But then the guy turned around and saw me, and waved. It WAS Evan! A super-adorable, showered Evan. Maddy LIKE! When I sat down across from him, I detected the faint smell of something citrusy. Cologne? I was like, “Who is this guy?”
“Hey, Maddy.” He did one of those looking-me-up-and-down things, and I immediately wished I had put a little more effort into my ensemble as well. I mean, I looked fine and all. I was wearing a long knitted sweater over skinny jeans with knee-high boots, and I’d actually curled my hair earlier today so it was still a little wavy. But still . . . if I had known we were playing dress-up, I would have gotten fancier. Hmph.
“Hi,” I said. I suddenly felt nervous.
Long, awkward pause.
“So,” I said. “How was your day?”
“Good!” he said cheerfully. “How was yours?”
I shrugged. “Looooong day of cheer stuff.” I spent the day practicing the moves Katie and I have been doing lately for hours on my lawn when Mom was out doing errands.
“Cool,” he said.
A waitress came by wearing an old-fashioned diner uniform: pink collared shirt, little black apron, and her hair in curls. So retro.
“Hey, lovebirds,” she said with a wink.
Both of us blushed uncontrollably. I wanted to say, “No, we’re not lovebirds, we’re just friends,” but she didn’t give me the chance.
“You want to do the fixed-price menu or à la carte?” She was smacking her gum super loudly.
Evan spoke first. “We’ll do the fixed price,” he said automatically. Then he looked at me and smiled nervously.
“Uh, sounds good to me,” I said, even though Evan ordering for me is just another step on the weird ladder we seemed to be climbing.
“I recommend picking different things and then sharing,” she said. And then she winked at us!
Utter MORTIFICATION! Was this woman trying to ruin my life? I mean, sure I’ve been a little squirmy and smiley around E lately, but I’ve been flying under the radar. THIS? Is NOT under the radar.
We quickly changed the subject. Evan told me that his SuperBoy is almost done.
“Does Cupid get his butt kicked in the end?”
Evan shook his head and made the “zip the lips” motion. “You’ll just have to read it, like I said. When it’s ready.”
“Fine,” I said, smiling.
Our plates arrived, and we were completely overcome by the sugar fantasy that lay before us. There was a double chocolate fudge brownie, a raspberry parfait, a giant peanut butter chocolate chip cookie, angel food cake with strawberry sauce, a plate of bonbons, and a banana split.
Our absolute fave was the banana split. It had chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream in it. Yummers! When we were down to our last bite of the chocolate (the best flavor), Evan was like, “You should have it.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I went to shovel it onto my spoon, but I guess I used too much force (who knew I had such brute strength?), because I watched in slow-motion HORROR as the chocolate blob landed right in Evan’s lap.
“Ohmigod, I’m so sorry!” I leaned across the table to see the damage. It was a big brown blob right on his khaki pants, and it kind of looked like something I don’t want to name here. (Hint: rhymes with “moo.”)
Evan was dabbing his napkin into water. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a laugh. “It happens.”
He tried to clean it up, but the stain just spread and looked even worse.
I felt awful. I felt worse than the word that rhymes with moo. “I’m really sorry,” I said.
“Seriously, it’s fine,” he said. I could tell he meant it. I love that Evan doesn’t freak out about stuff like this.
“Oh, I have an idea! I’ll put some on my lap, and then we’ll both look ridiculous.” I reached over to grab the napkin he’d grabbed to clean his pants, where inside, the chocolate blob was now totally melted.
Evan grabbed my wrist to stop me. “No, please, don’t ruin your outfit. You look so pretty.”
Our eyes met, and his hand still held on to my wrist. He was looking at me totally serious now. I felt like he was going to say something else, and little flutters started shooting around in my belly.
But he didn’t say anything.
“Thanks,” I said. He released his grip from my wrist.
I kept on thinking, “Why is this so weird? We’re just hanging out, like we’ve done a thousand times.” Except this time he was all dressed up and ordering for me and staring into my eyes. Then it hit me: WAS THIS A DATE? I couldn’t believe it. Was that even possible? And how could I have possibly been on a date with my oldest friend and NOT KNOWN?! I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, that I was just hallucinating from all the sugar in my system. But that look on his face—I knew that it meant something more. My stomach fluttered. And yeah, I kind of freaked out.
Then suddenly something shifted, and we were back to just being Evan and Maddy, the BFF version. Maybe he noticed the look on my face and knew the wheels inside my head were turning. Either way, I was a little relieved. Those fluttery feelings are NOT fun—especially when you’ve just eaten five tons of dessert and you feel like you might barf it all up.
Later, as Evan and I walked back toward our neighborhood, it got quiet again. Evan’s hands were in his pockets, and he was staring at the ground.
“I don’t know what your deal is or anything, but I was thinking, if you don’t have a date to the dance, which I don’t think you do—”
And I was like, OH NO.
“Wait,” I said. I stopped walking and reached out to touch his shoulder. “Evan, I’m really sorry. But I’m going with Bevan.”
His eyes widened in surprise, and then he started walking at a fast pace.
“Evan!” I called out, trying to catch up.
He turned to me, an angry look on his face. “I thought you and Bevan were over.” He fumbled with the chain that hung from his belt loop to his pocket. “I mean, you haven’t mentioned him in, like, a month. And a couple of weeks ago, when we were talking about the dance at lunch, you sounded all bummed about going alone. I just assumed . . . but I guess I was wrong.”
He scuffed his shoes against the pavement.
I didn’t know what to say. He was totally right. I hardly talk about Bevan at all with Evan. I used to, but then something changed with us, and it just didn’t feel right.
“I’m sorry, Evan. If I wasn’t going with Bevan, I’d go with you.”
“Gee, thanks,” Evan huffed.
The whole rest of the way home I could literally feel the anger rolling off his body. He hardly spoke to me. I felt terrible. When we got to my
house, he just did this “salute” thing and walked away.
I guess I should have told Evan about Bevan. But I also wanted to tell him that I wasn’t really sure I felt anything for Bevan anymore. That I was feeling something . . . for him instead. I almost shouted after him, but the words got caught in my throat. Then it was too late. He disappeared into the night.
Sometimes life is SO unfair.
I went right to my sewing supplies and pulled out my work in progress. I’d taken a break from cheer stuff earlier in the day and gone to Sew What to pick out the perfect fabric. This dress might just come along after all. But when I pictured myself wearing it, the guy I was standing next to in my head wasn’t Bevan. Yup, that’s right. Go ahead and drop that B.
Give me a D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R!
What does it spell? My life.
Monday, February 28
Late afternoon, in the lovely Lounge
Song Level:
Dress You Up
This morning I was rummaging through my locker, when I heard someone pounding down the hallways. I turned and saw it was Tabitha Sue. And she didn’t look happy. She practically had to throw herself against the locker next to mine to slow herself down.
“Whoa, Tabitha Sue, where’s the fire?”
She took a few deep breaths. “I had the worst weekend,” she moaned. “It was the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me.”
“Wait, back up. What was the most embarrassing thing?”
“Okay,” said Tabitha Sue. “Sorry. I’ll start from the beginning. Do you have a sec?”
I looked at my watch. Ten minutes till class. “Walk with me.”
“My family likes to go to the Pancake House on Sundays. It’s, like, a family tradition,” she said with an eye roll. “And my baby brother was being so annoying.”
“All right. So your brother was embarrassing?”
“He’s always embarrassing. That’s not the point. The point is, Ricky was there!”
It took me a moment to process. “Ricky?”
“Diane’s friend! From the bleachers. Remember?” said Tabitha Sue exasperatedly.
