For a while.
“Why not? Emily likes to run. She’s captain of the cross-country team. It seems perfect for a prom-posal,” Oliver said, being all boy-logical as he rose to join Logan at the table.
But boy logic didn’t always sway teenage girls.
Phoebe turned to me. The look in her crystal blue eyes said, Boys. You can’t train them to do anything. “What are we supposed to do with him, Summer? He’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”
“It’s a condition of being male,” I agreed dryly.
Oliver lifted his chin, standing his ground. “I think it’s brilliant.”
“You would,” Phoebe said, reaching for some popcorn and tossing it at her brother. The kernels landed a few feet from Oliver. Her strength was waning.
He bent to pick them up, but their corgi mix, Gloria, raised her snout from the floor and gamely trotted over to hoover up the spill as Logan served the white ball across the table.
Oliver darted up in time to smack it back, and the rhythmic sound of the plastic ball hitting the table punctuated our romantic war room machinations.
“Anyway,” Phoebe added in her best arch I’m your older sister and I know better voice, “I would strongly suggest something a bit more creative. Right, Summer?”
“Perhaps balloons spelling out PROM,” I offered. “Or get a T-shirt for Gloria to wear with Will you go to prom with my person? written on it.”
“Excellent idea. Dogs are perfect wingmen. Or wingwomen, in Gloria’s case. Another option is to rent the marquee at the local cinema and put a sign up there asking her.”
Logan slammed a ball across the table. “No way. That’s megabucks. We don’t even know if Emily likes him.”
Phoebe stroked her chin, brow furrowed. “Fair point. It’s hard to imagine anyone would, truly.”
I held up a hand to high-five her.
“You’re a little stinker,” Oliver said to her as he backhanded a ball. “But I’ve no doubt she’s into me. She has excellent taste.”
“Then I bet she’ll go for that bloke who looks like Jude Law,” Phoebe offered.
My gaze snapped in her direction. “You mean Colton Davis? The guy who plays guitar? Senior? He’s yummy.”
“So yummy,” Phoebe said dreamily. It was the first thing that had come out of her mouth that afternoon that wasn’t laced with sarcasm or sass.
Logan missed the shot, Oliver lowered his paddle, and I simply stared at her. Phoebe rarely talked about boys. With a determined look, Oliver walked over to his sister, sat next to her, and took her hand. “Do you want to go with him? We could ask him to go with you.”
The sound that emanated from Phoebe was the most derisive snort to emanate from any person ever.
“No!”
Instinctively, I turned to the door, looking for Oliver’s parents to come running to see if she’d fallen, to see if she was okay. But she was more than fine, and they were out, their dad at work, their mom running to the pharmacy to pick up meds for Phoebe.
She jerked her hand away from Oliver and pointed a stern finger at him. “Do not ever do that. Do not do something because you feel sorry for me. I mean it. I don’t want to get dressed up. I don’t want to wear stupid makeup, and I definitely don’t want to wear a hideous fucking wig. No, thank you. I’d rather stay home with Gloria than have everyone stare at me because I finally got to go to prom.” For a second, her voice trembled, but she swallowed and raised her chin. “Besides,” she said, collecting herself, a twinkle in her eyes, “I’d rather help Summer get ready, do her hair, and snap the photos when she has to take you as a pity date after Emily turns you down.”
Her smile was slow to spread, mischievous and thoroughly Machiavellian.
Logan mimed shooting a slam dunk. “Ohhh! You’ve just been burned.”
We all laughed. Phoebe was still Phoebe—always finding ways to poke fun at her little brother.
I joined in the laughter, knowing full well Phoebe’s prediction would never come true.
Emily would say yes, Oliver would take her to prom, and I’d go with . . . well, a group of friends.
Which would be fine.
I liked my girlfriends.
I didn’t have a crush on the handsome British boy next door.
I didn’t long for my brother’s best friend.
For my good friend.
Not at all.
At least, not very much most of the time.
* * *
But enough, apparently, that butterflies flickered through my chest two days later when Oliver pulled me aside after fifth-period calculus, scratched his jaw, and said, “Listen. Turns out Emily’s involved. Dating some wanker in community college who’s taking her to prom.”
“He’s definitely a wanker if he’s dating a high school student,” I said, quickly concurring. “What kind of college student dates a high schooler?”
“The wanker kind.” His grin faded, his expression turning serious. “But I was thinking about what Phoebe said.”
