Still clutching the orange sweater in my hand, I tease, “I’m looking for an appropriate mini-skirt right now.”
“Not only do I support that, I’m fully committed to being the best Shaggy there is.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“I’m talking scruffy green shirt that looks like it was designed by a doctor and questionable brown pants.”
“Good. Because, in case you didn’t realize it, Velma does not half-ass things.”
“I’ve noticed. It’s only part of why she’s my favorite. What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“Seven?”
“Sounds perfect, my queen.”
I blurt out, “I’m so excited you’re coming with me—that you want to.”
“Amy?”
“Yes?”
“I always want to be there for you.”
My throat tightens, just a little. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
“If not before then.”
“Bye,Shaggy.”
“Later,Velma.”
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot. Telling him about the costumes didn’t even phase him.
He seems excited.
And that—somehow—makes me more excited for the party.
31
CONTROLLED ZONE ENTRY: ENTERING THE OFFENSIVE ZONE WHILE KEEPING POSSESSION
Iknow I’m overthinking this.
I know it in the same way I know my left knee is going to ache when the weather turns or that I shouldn’t drink coffee after six p.m. It’s knowledge earned the hard way—and still, here I am, pacing my living room in brown corduroy pants and a scruffy green T-shirt, tugging at the hem like it might suddenly reveal some catastrophic flaw.
“It’s a Halloween party,” I mutter to myself. “Not a job interview.”
My phone buzzes on the counter, a response to a message I sent out in my brooding earlier.
Dr. Halvorsen:
Everything okay?
I stare at the message, then type back.
Me:
I think I’m spiraling about a party.
