fries, her eyes wide with hurt. “No way!”
Now I felt guilty. “Sorry. It’s just . . . he’s never acted like he likes me.”
“So what? You’ve never acted like you cared about any of the guys you’ve liked. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as cruel as when you were crushing on Mike Shore. You totally ignored him.”
It was true. I wasn’t good with liking someone. My instinct was total self-preservation; show no sign of weakness. This was my pathetic way of being shy.
“Isn’t he worried about David Kaufman and me?” I said sarcastically. “I mean, hasn’t he heard the buzz?”
Meg looked down and her shoulders sagged. “Laurel, you need to get over that. Anyone with half a brain or who knows you at all knows it’s BS.”
“This is great,” I said. “Now I’m going to be walking around every day, wondering when it’s coming . . . if it’s coming.”
Meg raised her head hopefully. “If it is, what will you say?”
From Meg’s face, I could tell that this was very important to her. It made sense. Me saying yes to the prom meant it was okay for her to say yes to it too.
“I don’t know what I would say. Joe Lasky, huh?” I drew out the moment, taking a bite of my burger. Something about this piece of news made me feel strangely hopeful. Just like the SATs, here was something that would carry me through the next few weeks.
Looming up ahead and blocking everything that came after it, there it was: PROM.
Chapter Seven
L ike an idiot, I waited all night for the phone to ring, not even sure I wanted it to. I was thinking that if asked, I would go to the prom. I would do it to show how resilient I was.
But the next day, Joe Lasky managed to surprise me. I was in the north stairway en route from history class to French on the second floor, thinking about the assignment I’d barely finished, when someone called my name. It echoed against the brick and metal and was followed by the clank clank of steps being taken too fast.
Joe. Bouncing that lanky body up the stairs. He was wearing a vintage Who T-shirt and baggy jeans, his books hooked under one arm.
“Hey,” he said, arriving on the landing where I had frozen.
“Hi, Joe,” I said. When I talked to guys, my big-sister-ness tended to come out. Too much sarcasm, that urge to prove how much smarter I was than they were. I totally sucked at flirting.
“Listen, I haven’t really seen you this week, but I wanted a chance to say how sorry I am. How has it been so far, back at school?”
He stooped a bit as he talked, but his eyes were wide, deep, sincere. I’d heard this type of line so much recently, and noticed how different people delivered it. What Joe Lasky seemed to be forgetting—or hoped I was forgetting— was the fact that he hadn’t said a word to me in almost three years.
“It’s been okay. The cliché is true. One day at a time.” I paused, reminding myself to be nice, just be nice! So I added, “Thanks for asking. That’s sweet.”
Joe shrugged and reached into his pocket, pulled out a CD. “Listen, Laurel, when my grandfather died last year—and I know that it’s not in the same ballpark—this album helped me. It’s this really obscure band nobody’s ever heard of, but they totally rock, and I think you’ll like it. I burned a copy for you.”
He held out the CD and I looked at it, tears suddenly welling up in my eyes. No, no, no, Laurel. It’s one thing to be less sarcastic, but do not cry in front of Joe Lasky on the north stairway.
“Thank you,” I choked out, taking the CD. We both stared at it for another moment, not wanting to look at each other, and suddenly the class bell sounded.
“Gotta go, Laurel,” he said, glancing over my shoulder now. “Let me know what you think of the band.”
Then he was gone, and I started walking toward French, fingering the plastic corners of the CD case as I went.
“Did he write anything on the inside?” asked Meg when I showed it to her at
Now I felt guilty. “Sorry. It’s just . . . he’s never acted like he likes me.”
“So what? You’ve never acted like you cared about any of the guys you’ve liked. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as cruel as when you were crushing on Mike Shore. You totally ignored him.”
It was true. I wasn’t good with liking someone. My instinct was total self-preservation; show no sign of weakness. This was my pathetic way of being shy.
“Isn’t he worried about David Kaufman and me?” I said sarcastically. “I mean, hasn’t he heard the buzz?”
Meg looked down and her shoulders sagged. “Laurel, you need to get over that. Anyone with half a brain or who knows you at all knows it’s BS.”
“This is great,” I said. “Now I’m going to be walking around every day, wondering when it’s coming . . . if it’s coming.”
Meg raised her head hopefully. “If it is, what will you say?”
From Meg’s face, I could tell that this was very important to her. It made sense. Me saying yes to the prom meant it was okay for her to say yes to it too.
“I don’t know what I would say. Joe Lasky, huh?” I drew out the moment, taking a bite of my burger. Something about this piece of news made me feel strangely hopeful. Just like the SATs, here was something that would carry me through the next few weeks.
Looming up ahead and blocking everything that came after it, there it was: PROM.
Chapter Seven
L ike an idiot, I waited all night for the phone to ring, not even sure I wanted it to. I was thinking that if asked, I would go to the prom. I would do it to show how resilient I was.
But the next day, Joe Lasky managed to surprise me. I was in the north stairway en route from history class to French on the second floor, thinking about the assignment I’d barely finished, when someone called my name. It echoed against the brick and metal and was followed by the clank clank of steps being taken too fast.
Joe. Bouncing that lanky body up the stairs. He was wearing a vintage Who T-shirt and baggy jeans, his books hooked under one arm.
“Hey,” he said, arriving on the landing where I had frozen.
“Hi, Joe,” I said. When I talked to guys, my big-sister-ness tended to come out. Too much sarcasm, that urge to prove how much smarter I was than they were. I totally sucked at flirting.
“Listen, I haven’t really seen you this week, but I wanted a chance to say how sorry I am. How has it been so far, back at school?”
He stooped a bit as he talked, but his eyes were wide, deep, sincere. I’d heard this type of line so much recently, and noticed how different people delivered it. What Joe Lasky seemed to be forgetting—or hoped I was forgetting— was the fact that he hadn’t said a word to me in almost three years.
“It’s been okay. The cliché is true. One day at a time.” I paused, reminding myself to be nice, just be nice! So I added, “Thanks for asking. That’s sweet.”
Joe shrugged and reached into his pocket, pulled out a CD. “Listen, Laurel, when my grandfather died last year—and I know that it’s not in the same ballpark—this album helped me. It’s this really obscure band nobody’s ever heard of, but they totally rock, and I think you’ll like it. I burned a copy for you.”
He held out the CD and I looked at it, tears suddenly welling up in my eyes. No, no, no, Laurel. It’s one thing to be less sarcastic, but do not cry in front of Joe Lasky on the north stairway.
“Thank you,” I choked out, taking the CD. We both stared at it for another moment, not wanting to look at each other, and suddenly the class bell sounded.
“Gotta go, Laurel,” he said, glancing over my shoulder now. “Let me know what you think of the band.”
Then he was gone, and I started walking toward French, fingering the plastic corners of the CD case as I went.
“Did he write anything on the inside?” asked Meg when I showed it to her at
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