I smile at the thought, but then it hits me. “A club! Oh my God! Amanda, you’re a genius!”
“Well, that’s news to exactly no one, but explain yourself,” she demands in a British accent as she holds her pencil up like a sword.
“Hang on.” I pull my cell phone out of my backpack, which has been emblazoned with all kinds of stitchwork, including flowers, clouds, stars, a few emojis I tried my hand at, and even a little fat mini me on the very bottom of the front pocket. I fire off a quick text to Amanda, El, Will, and Hannah.
Amanda’s phone immediately dings. “You didn’t haveto text me, too. I’m sitting right here.” She rolls her eyes before reading the message out loud. “MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MEET ME IN THE COURTYARD AFTER SCHOOL AT 3:15!”
The first bell for next period rings. My phone dings in rapid succession as I get two responses.
ELLEN: I’ll be there.
WILLOWDEAN: DITTO! Plus El and Tim are my ride home.
HANNAH: I’ll be there but only because I don’t have anything else to do.
I drop my phone into my bag and pour my leftover soup back into my thermos.
“Are you even going to tell me what your idea is?” asks Amanda.
“You’ll see at three fifteen.” The second bell rings. “Oh, darn. I gotta go.”
Amanda waves me off, and I dash over to my next class. Anyone with short legs knows the value of speed walking, and with my AP Psychology class clear on the other side of the school in the temporary buildings, I barely make it before Mr. Prater locks the door.
Mr. Prater doesn’t mess around with his attendance policy, and tardiness is not tolerated. He’s a very serious guy who is also guilty of making seriously bad jokes.
“Okay, last one,” Mr. Prater says as he shuts the door behind me. “Why was Pavlov’s hair so soft?”
The only response he gets as I walk to my desk is a few groans.
“Come on, y’all!” he says. “Classical conditioning!”
I chuckle as I sit down at the back of the class next to Malik at the fat-kid table. (Well, it’s not just for fat kids. A few kids in wheelchairs use them too, but I lovingly think of it as the fat-kid table. Amanda prefers cool-kid table. She’s not wrong.) Everyone else has those little desks you slide into, but I don’t quite fit—at least not comfortably. I guess it used to bother me to be singled out, but one size doesn’t actually fit all. (Oh my gosh. That is totally my next cross-stitch.)
Malik isn’t fat, but I am, and he’s my go-to partner on group projects. He is also my crush. In fact, I think he might be THE CRUSH TO END ALL CRUSHES. So, yeah, I like him. But the better news is he might like me. I think. Amanda says yes, definitely. He went with me to Sadie Hawkins last fall. We even held hands. But no kiss. To say he’s sending mixed signals would be the understatement of the year.
My hopes were all but deflated until he volunteered to be my escort for the pageant. I thought maybe then, after seeing me win runner-up, that it just might be the night our lips locked. But instead I got a hug, a pat on the back, and a yellow rose. Nothing says “just friends” like a yellow rose. (And nothing’s wrong with being friends, but what I feel for him is different than friendship.) Not only that, but we have these wonderful hours-long conversations every night via chat or sometimes text. And then I show up to school and I’m lucky if he says more than fifteen words to me.
“Hey,” I say, catching my breath for a moment before adding, “Almost didn’t make it.”
Malik shakes his head. “Explain to me how Clover City can afford to build an indoor training facility for their mediocre football team, but the AP Psych class has to meet in a temporary building that can barely withstand a windstorm, let alone a tornado, and has no windows.”
My cheeks warm. My stomach tingles. That was a lot of words. From his mouth. Using his talky lips that also double as kissy lips. “I swear you should run for city council.”
Malik turns to me, his face a little flushed, like he’s just realized that whole rant was said out loud and not in his head. Or online.
I feel like my insides are glowing, and if I’m not careful, they’ll glow so bright everyone will be able to see.
There may or may not be a small notebook in my room with a furry seafoam cover that is dedicated to all the reasons I find Malik crush-worthy. (I like organizing things, okay? Including my feelings.) There are lots of things I might put on those pages in list form.
His thick, commanding eyebrows that perfectly match his shiny black Fonzie-like hair.
His square tortoiseshell glasses that perfectly complement his deep brown skin and the fact that he keeps a dustcloth folded in his wallet to clean them off a couple times a day.
The way he wears penny loafers and puts real,shiny pennies inside them.
How he rolls his jeans at the bottom and always wears subtle but seasonally appropriate socks.
The way he irons his T-shirts and always wears them tucked in with a cardigan in the fall and a leather bomber jacket in the winter, like a hot South Asian greaser with a little bit of dad sensibility mixed in.
