Speechless(180)

                I wave him off midsentence. “It’s good that you didn’t.”

                “It is?” He frowns.

                I could tell Brendon all the reasons why—that I’ve realized he                     doesn’t know me at all, and I don’t really know him, either, and that I don’t                     think he’s my type anyway. My type has brown hair and glasses and a crooked                     smile and a dorky sense of humor and can cook the best damn tuna melt I’ve ever                     tasted.

                I could tell Brendon all of these things, but some things are                     better left unsaid.

                Instead I just smile and say, “Good luck with the Snow Prince                     thing,” and waltz back into the gym.

                I find Asha and Sam on the floor again just as the music dies                     down. People groan with disappointment, and a spotlight appears on the front                     stage. Mr. Fenton hops up the steps and grabs the microphone, a stack of                     envelopes in hand.

                “Good evening,” he says. “I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves                     tonight.”

                Someone yells, “TURN THE MUSIC BACK ON, DICKFACE,” and people                     look around and laugh.

                Mr. Fenton ignores the disruption and clears his throat. “I                     know you all want to get back to your dancing, so I’ll make this quick. I have                     the pleasure of announcing your elected Winter Formal Court.” He doesn’t sound very pleased about it.

                “Oh, goody,” Asha mutters under her breath, and I grin at                     her.

                “What?” Sam teases. “You’re not quivering from the anticipation?”

                I’m not quivering, but I do want to                     hear this. First, Mr. Fenton calls out the freshmen Prince and Princess; a                     beaming brunette with boobs half spilling out of her tight strapless dress                     prances onto the stage, accompanied by a tall boy with a long face. Some junior                     from the dance committee hands out the awards: a tiara and roses for the girl, a                     crown and staff for the boy. When Mr. Fenton turns his back, the boy holds the                     staff between his legs and thrusts his hips in a seriously perverse juvenile                     display, and everyone cracks up.