Woke Up Like This(9)

“Yup. He changed his display pic on all his accounts,” Nori informs, even though I already knew that.



If there’s one thing Kassie and Nori agree on, it’s that I should ask Clay to prom (because screw gender norms). Normally I’d agree. I don’t want to sit around like a demure little daisy waiting for Clay to look in my direction. But how am I supposed to ask him to prom when he makes me forget my own name? I’ve put serious thought into asking him in a handwritten letter, dropping it in his lap, and running away. But apparently my inability to communicate with him isn’t just oral—every time I try to write that letter, my mind blanks.

“FYI, Mercury is in retrograde. I’d be careful how you approach it,” Nori adds.

“It’s fine. I’ve accepted my fate as the thirteenth wheel.” I slouch, wincing at the prospect of being the only single one in the limo.

Kassie rolls her eyes. “Stop it. You’re asking him today.” She says it like it’s so easy. Then again, it is for her. Even without Ollie, she’d have a line of guys who’d jump at the chance to take her to prom.

“I’m too busy to face rejection this week,” I whine. It’s Senior Week, after all. And as VP, I’m overseeing all the activities. Most notable is the Senior Sleepover, where all the seniors bring their sleeping bags and spend the night in the gym. Then there’s Beach Day—where we skip class Friday to hit the beach the day before prom. The lead-up week is one of epic pranks, both on faculty and fellow students. Last year, the hallways were filled with approximately 3,493,483 red Solo Cups, balloons, and “napping” seniors.

It’s only Tuesday and pranks have already begun. Yesterday, during the track meet, three students in Gollum masks ran nude across the field. Their antics are now forever preserved on YouTube.

Kassie levels me with a look. “All I’m hearing are excuses. Come on. Imagine you two, side by side in your prom photos. He looks like that telenovela star, doesn’t he? With the shaggy hair? He’s sort of sexy, in a hipster, I-love-obscure-bands kinda way.” She casts an admiring look at him over her shoulder.

An obnoxious voice sounds nearby: “Who’s sexy?”



Midbite of my sandwich, I clamp my eyes shut, hoping that Renner sliding into the next seat is but a nightmarish mirage.

His lemony scent confirms it is not.

“None of your business,” I snap, too flustered to verbally roast his essence. I shoot Kassie and Nori a look, silently warning them not to mention Clay in front of Renner, of all people. He is not to be trusted with such top-secret intelligence.

“Anyone want an extra fry?” he asks, holding up a second cardboard container overflowing with salty fries.

“Why do you have two?” Nori asks, plucking a fry. She’s the vulture of our group, always poised to polish off our leftovers.

“The lunch lady loves me,” he says with a casual shrug, despite the known fact that crotchety Lunch Lady Libby despises all living beings, especially humans. She’s known for muttering vague insults under her breath as kids roll through with their trays.

“Anyway, we’re trying to find Charlotte a prom date,” Kassie says, like I’m a pitiful charity case.

Renner’s face lights up as he slides the extra fries across the table. “Ha! That’s a task. You sure you wanna take that on pro bono?”

“Anyone would be lucky to go with a hot piece of ass like Char,” Nori retorts, not-so-discreetly jabbing her thumb in Clay’s direction.

Renner is unfortunately more observant than he looks, eyes tracing Nori’s thumb. He raises his brow. “Clay Diaz? That’s who you wanna go with?”

Before I can deny it, Kassie jumps in. “If Clay doesn’t pan out, I started a list of other possibilities. I know you like your Plan B’s,” she adds, eyeing me knowingly.

Renner’s eyes light up.

Prickles of heat crest my cheeks. So much for keeping my crush on Clay on the DL. I begrudgingly lean in to peer at the list of more realistic options, hoping this will distract Renner.

Kassie clears her throat. “Curtis Carlson?”



“Nope. Jasmine will cut me.” Curtis is my friend Jasmine’s most recent ex. And after spending the better part of a sleepover performing a ceremonial exorcism wherein we burned Curtis’s hoodie, slippers, photos, and all the gifts he ever gave Jasmine in a firepit, going to prom with him just wouldn’t sit right with my soul.

“Moe Khalifa?”

I tilt my head. “I did a group project with him in Law. He’s a decent guy. Did his portion of the work. Made me somewhat regain my trust in humanity. Unlike some people.” I flash Renner a pointed look.

He grins like a deranged clown from that Stephen King book. “Khalifa is asking Naomi. I heard him bragging about it in the locker room.”

Kassie continues down her dwindling list of potentials. “Okay, how about Kiefer Barry?”

Before I can decline, Renner snorts. “Barry? Dude’s a snooze. Next.”

Sadly, Renner is right. Barry is one of those guys who tries to impress people by bringing up Nietzsche and Voltaire in casual conversation. My dryer lint trap is probably more interesting than him.

“Damian Mackey?”

I shush Kassie. Damian is sitting a mere three tables away. “Too immature,” I whisper at the precise moment he launches a spitball through a plastic straw.