What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?
I twist around to find Andy and Noah. Andy’s staring at the stage, wide-eyed and gob smacked, while Noah just grins his doped-out smile. And then, snapping out of it, Andy stands and maneuvers the wheelchair to the front of the gym, the crowd parting to make a pathway. Brendon hops off the stage and places the crown on top of Noah’s head, hands him the stupid plastic shiny staff, and he says something, too, but the microphone is away from his mouth so I don’t hear. He squeezes Noah’s shoulder with a smile, and everyone is just staring.
Everyone still stares, even after Mr. Fenton ends this weird little interlude by announcing the rest of the upperclassman court. Everyone still stares when the music kicks on again, a slow pop ballad, the dance reserved for the Court winners. Everyone stares as Andy slowly, slowly helps Noah stand.
They don’t really dance—they just hold each other, swaying from side to side, Noah’s face buried in Andy’s chest, Andy holding him up, their arms encircled so tightly around each other.
No one is looking at Kristen. But I am. I stare across the room at her, her rose bunch clutched in one limp hand, her mouth slack as she gawks at Andy and Noah, the Snow Princes, the belles of the ball, the center of attention. I wonder if she’s thinking what I am. How it seems so impossible that someone could look at them, see how plainly they care for each other, and find anything ugly or shameful or worthy of hatred in it, when all I see is something beautiful.
I can’t tell. I hope she is. I hope that’s what she sees.
* * *
“Best. Winter. Formal. Ever.”
This has to be at least the eighteenth time Asha has made this same declaration in the past hour.
“It was your first Winter Formal,” I point out. I lean against the counter as Sam rummages around for an extra colander. We’re having some serious tuna melt cravings.
“I don’t care. Nothing can top tonight’s.” Asha does a giddy twirl on her toes.