I open the box. It’s a yellow rose corsage.
“I’m no Marc Jacobs—” he starts, and when I raise my eyebrows, he says “—and yes, I may have done a search for ‘famous fashion designers’ earlier solely so I could make that reference and impress you—but I figured the yellow would look okay with green. It does, right?”
“It’s perfect,” I assure him, sliding it over my wrist. I kiss him on the cheek and ignore Dex’s whistling behind us.
“So where’s Andy?” asks Asha.
“He said he’d meet us at the school. Some kind of a surprise?” Sam shrugs. “It’s Andy, so who knows what he’s up to.”
“You know,” Lou says, leaning against the counter, “I don’t remember anything about my prom, except that I woke up the next morning on someone’s bathroom floor with a tiara in my hair, my shoes on backward and the words GLITTER WINNERS were written on the mirror in purple lipstick.”
“And, kids, that’s the story of how Lou learned tripping on acid is bad,” Dex jokes. Lou smacks him with her empty tray.
“I see Dex is on a roll,” I say to Sam. “I think that’s our cue to leave.”
“I heard that!” Dex shouts, but then Lou wraps a hand around his neck and yanks him into a kiss, and he’s otherwise distracted from his indignation.
* * *
It seems the whole school has decided to attend Winter Formal this year. The parking lot is packed full, and we have to park in a far corner and walk over icy pavement. Asha and I clutch each other’s arms and try not to fall.
“That’s what you get for wearing insane shoes,” Sam says, and then slides over an ice patch. Ha.
Whatever. Impossibly high heels are designed for formals.
Around us, everyone is heading toward the school the way Muslims travel toward Mecca (metaphor courtesy of me paying attention in Comparative World Religions for once, thank you very much). Everyone is dressed up, girls in glamorous snazzy dresses, boys in clean suits, all of them looking a little uncomfortable and out of sorts but also a little giddy. The girls are probably excited-slash-nervous at the prospect of intimate slow dances and the boys are probably excited-slash-nervous at the prospect of getting laid.