It isn’t my imagination that he holds eye contact as he passes by. And I’m certainly not imagining his cheeky over-the-shoulder look my way before he stops to chat with Joey Mathison.
This is it. This is my moment. It’s now or never.
I start to devise a plan: I’ll grab my books and backpack, then approach cool and casual, like I’m just heading to class, even though calculus is in the opposite direction.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I elbow Renner’s legs out of the way to grab my bag.
He gapes down at me. “Jeez. Your elbows are bony. I bruise easily, you know.”
“Didn’t realize you’re such a delicate little peach,” I say, pulling the door as far as it’ll open against Renner’s shin. The thunk gives me a momentary high. I don’t make a habit of reveling in the pain of my adversaries, but he makes it so darn easy. Like the dirtbag he is, he widens his stance farther, leaving the narrowest space to pull out my backpack and toss my heels in.
“Renner, seriously. Stop being a dingus for two seconds and move,” I demand.
“Dingus. That’s a new one. More original than donkey, at least.”
“There’s a lot more where that came from.” I run through the catalog of vicious insults I’ve banked for moments such as this. But as usual, I fail to come up with anything else under pressure. I settle for a growl. “Move. Now.”
His face twists with confusion. “Chill. I’m not even blocking you.”
And that’s when I see it. The thin fabric of the front pocket of my bag has snagged on a jagged piece of metal in the door.
Evidently annoyed that I’m breathing down his neck, Renner yanks my bag free. With one swift movement, the threadbare fabric rips like tissue paper. My spare tampons, all ten （yes, ten, I like to be prepared）， stream out like an avalanche, sprinkling onto the hallway floor. I’m frozen in blatant horror as they roll in all directions at people’s feet like a spilled container of marbles.
At that exact moment, the rowdy group of freshman boys stampeding by quite literally screech at the sight. They dramatically jump out of the way, body-slamming into lockers, dodging them like an active land mine site.
Even Renner is speechless for once, probably committing my humiliation to memory for future use.
I have half a mind to pull a Forrest Gump and run, barefoot. Out of the school, out of Maplewood entirely. I could adopt a whole new identity, even get a wig. I’ve always wanted blonde hair. But because I’m me, I’m compelled to clean my mess. At least, I try to.
I drop to my hands and knees, scrambling between people’s legs in a sad attempt to retrieve the tampons before anyone else sees. It’s like a sick version of Frogger （which, by the way, is an awful game for children）， trying to cross the road without being flattened by traffic. No wonder I don’t drive. I yelp when Sylvester Brock’s chunky running shoe crushes my hand in the process. And again, when I almost get kicked in the forehead by a freshman running at full tilt. I start to wonder what I did to deserve such a harsh fate. I must have done something really egregious in a past life. At least, that’s what Nori would say.
By the time I pop back to my feet, crimson faced, I’ve collected exactly eight tampons. Everyone—even Judy Holloway, the girl who wears cat ears and hisses at her enemies—is judging me. Clay and Joey are gawking, mouths hanging open. And worse, one rogue tampon is rolling directly toward Clay’s shoes.
“Um. Hi. Hello. Sorry about that,” I word vomit, busting out a graceless wave. Unlike the cute, shy-girl wave I’d imagined, I’m wielding eight tampons between my fingers like Edward Scissorhands.
Clay is stone-faced, evidently appalled. I didn’t think there could be anything more ego-crushing than the prospect of him turning me down for prom. I was dead wrong.
He kicks the rogue tampon toward me like it’s a live grenade. Then he turns away and heads in the opposite direction with Joey. I bend down to collect it—and will myself to disintegrate into the floor. Goodbye, cruel world. At least I had a semidecent run.
Renner is leaning against the lockers when I return, the tenth tampon pinched between his fingers.
I take a sharp breath, bracing for his taunting. But when he hands it over, I catch a brief flash of what looks like pity in his expression. Even worse.
By the time I zip my torn bag and close my locker, Clay is long gone, as is the prospect of asking him to prom.
SIX
Three days until prom
Renner is late. Shocker.
We made special arrangements to pick up the decor at 6:00 a.m. for prom decorating. It’s now 6:05.