I’m shocked that he’s even picked up on my issues with Kassie. I never complain to anyone about her, not even Nori.
“Ollie ditches you all the time too?” I ask.
He arrows a hard stare at his lock. “Sure does. It’s really freakin’ annoying, actually. Sometimes it feels like they just don’t care about anyone but themselves.” He pauses for a moment as he finally opens the lock and resets, like he regrets talking badly about them. “Anyway, wanna come? The last thing I need is you on my ass about something dumb like the napkin color.”
I try to hide my smile. This is his backward way of asking for help because, in the depths of his pea brain, he knows he’s clueless. “Napkin color is important. The last thing we need is that tacky blue color messing up the look.”
“May I ask what tacky blue is?”
I snap my fingers, fumbling for the words. “That ugly bright blue. Like the Facebook logo.”
He takes a sharp breath, looking offended. “What do you have against Facebook blue?”
“It’s the color of depression.”
“Good to know. I’ll put in a rush order for a bulk pack of Depression Blue napkins.”
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. “Actually, don’t worry about it. I’ll just go alone,” I say, waving him off.
He gives me a lingering stare. “As president, I should be there to supervise.”
“That would be a first,” I sneer. “Trust, I’ve planned many a school dance without you. I’m fine to take over.”
“How are you going to transport all the decor on your own? Your bike basket ain’t gonna cut it.”
I glare at him. He has a point. And my bike is out of commission.
He sees the gears turning in my head and pounces. “Meet me on the steps after fourth period.”
“I have the Katrina Zellars Foundation scholarship interview. Tomorrow after school?”
“Nope. I have plans,” he brags.
“Shotgunning beers behind the Sundown Diner with Pete? Please. You can reschedule.” Something about his statement digs at me. I’m suspicious that the group is hanging out without me, again. Just last week, I found out they’d all had a barbecue at Andie’s. Kassie ignored my text earlier that day asking what she was up to.
Sometimes it feels like our group is like a jawbreaker. There’s the core—Kassie, Ollie, and Renner. Then there are the outer layers. The people who are progressively less and less integral to the greater group, like Andie and Pete, then Nori and me.
I wonder if I’d be friends with them at all if it weren’t for Kassie （not that I’m “friends” with Renner）。 Probably not. They’re all jocks, and I can’t even dribble a basketball without it nearly breaking my nose. （Don’t ask.） The only reason I ever got a decent grade in PE was because of the health portion.
His jaw tightens. “No, actually. Real plans. I can’t cancel them.”
I don’t have the energy to guess, so I just shrug. “How about Friday morning?”
“Not gonna work. That’s Beach Day.”
I sigh. He has a point. It’s tradition to complete prom setup in advance of the sleepover and the beach. No one wants to be stuck on decor duty while everyone else is soaking up the sun.
“Fine. I can ask the rental person if we can come early tomorrow morning before class?” he offers. “We both have spare first period anyway. We can start decorating early.”
The mere thought of spending all morning with Renner makes me want to stress clean. But I also don’t trust him anywhere near the napkin colors. “Fine.”
I lean against the next locker, heels in hand, watching as students hustle in from lunch break. “Accidentally in Love” by Counting Crows blasts over the PA. It’s one of twelve ancient tunes the teachers play between periods to signal that it’s time for class.
Meanwhile, Renner just stands there, idly texting in front of his open locker. I take great pains to regulate my breathing. I will not choose violence today. I will not choose violence today.
“Ticktock, Renner,” I warn, voice trailing as I spot Clay’s mop of hair coming around the corner. He’s striding toward me, looking far too fine for my mere mortal eyes. Our gazes lock from a distance and I remember what Kassie said in the cafeteria. Put on your big-girl panties.
What’s the worst that can happen if I ask him to prom? Even if he says no, I won’t see him after graduation anyways. He’s moving across the country for Stanford, after all. I’d be in no worse position than I am right now （aside from the cold wrath of humiliation, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves）。