He stepped closer to me and rested his hands on my chest. I let go of my tie and leaned down to kiss him.
“Hey,” I said.
His hands slid down to my waist.
“You smell nice.”
“Thanks.” I’d borrowed some of Dad’s cologne, a woodsy one—juniper and sage—that he always wore in the fall. “So do you.”
He smelled like honeysuckle and citrus peel.
“Come on. Tie your tie. We don’t wanna miss dinner.”
“I’ll make sure not to order onions this time.”
“Good. I’ve got plans for us.”
I gulped.
“Okay.”
Mom went Full Persian Mother on me and Landon: It took at least twenty minutes to get through all the photographs she wanted. Shots of each of us by ourselves, so she could get our outfits from pretty much every angle; and then a whole seriesof us together, though she had us stand rigid with our arms by our sides for the first couple, until Landon asked if she wanted us to hold hands.
“Oh,” she said. “Sure.”
Grandma and Oma were in the kitchen, mostly ignoring us and playing Monopoly with Laleh, though I thought I saw Oma look in and nod once.
Finally, I said, “Mom. We’re going to be late.”
“Just one more,” she said. “Do a fun one.”
Landon said, “Got it.” He pulled me in and kissed me. Right in front of my mom.
I heard the click from Mom’s phone, and then she said, her voice kind of pinched, “Great.” She wiped away a tear. “Great. Okay.”
I kissed Mom’s cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re so handsome,” she whispered to me. “Have fun.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Like I said, I had never been to a homecoming dance before. Or any dance at Chapel Hill High School, really.
The bleachers were pushed up against the walls of the Main Gym, and huge banners hung from the rails with images of palm trees and beaches and sunshine and all the “Fun in the Sun” imagery the homecoming committee could come up with.
I held Landon’s hand as I led him around. We said hi to Gabe and Jaden and their dates: Samantha and Claire, both seniors on the varsity women’s soccer team.
“Looking good,” Jaden said. He fist-bumped Landon andthen turned to me. His eyes narrowed and he grabbed my hand to examine my nails. “Nice!”
My ears burned. “Thanks. You’re looking sharp.” He was in a burgundy suit with a bright white shirt and sneakers.
The DJ was blasting Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” over the crappy speakers built into the ceiling, the ones that were dented from basketball impacts.
It was hard to believe I wasn’t in some sort of Teen Television Drama.
Guys like me didn’t get to be in Teen Television Dramas.
