“Uh, okay.” He sets the iPad down on the table and turns it to me to cast my vote.
“I just feel really strongly about… boobs,” I explain through a mouthful of chips.
Abigail throws an anemic tomato at me. “You’re being so weird.”
I eat another three chips. Maybe if my breath smells enough like corn and taco onion, no one will get close enough to talk to me. Ever. “Am I being weird?” I ask innocently. “I mean, I’m always weird, so it’d kind of be weird if I wasn’t being weird, right? Right?”
“Okay, now will you two fill out the survey?” Brendan asks Hilary and Abigail. He points to the remaining tables: two by the snack bar, one by the three bins for trash, recycling, and compost. “I still have a lot of people to ask.”
“Sure,” Abigail says, leaning over the iPad. “But can’t we vote for both? It’s not like there’s a limit on how much the senior class can volunteer.”
“They’re on the same day,” he says, and I commandeer the iPad.
“God hates suck-ups, Abigail,” I say, filling out the survey with a few finger taps. “We’re all set, Brendan. Breast Cancer Polar Plunge it is.”
He lingers over us and our trays and our pile of napkins. “Uh, okay, well, thanks for supporting Student Council.”
“And boobs,” I say. “I love me a good pair of boobs!”
Abigail laughs and shakes her head. “Good for you for embracing your boobs, Cham. Gene can’t be the only one giving them some love.”
“That’s my cue to leave,” Brendan says.
Once he’s out of earshot, Abigail whispers, “Did you notice Brendan got cute this year? I mean, besides being annoying AF.”
Hilary nods. “Puberty did a good job with him.”
I look down at my chest. “Now if only puberty would come back for me.”
{FEBRUARY}
Days ’til prom: 83
For the last couple of weekends, Gene has had a lot of away track meets, which has reduced our hookups to ten minutes of making out after lunch, with or without leftover food particles in our mouths. Also, because he’s been away so much, he hasn’t had time to ask me to prom. Not that I need him to ask me to prom to know that we’re going to prom together. It’s just that the way you get asked to prom says a lot about how much the other person likes you. Does he like me a random-text-with-no-emojis amount or a seven-hundred-balloons-in-the-sky amount?
Dear Universe,
What if my insides have kidnapped a feminist and they’re holding her hostage? Not to be paranoid, but sometimes I hear this voice of unknown origin and it’s hollering, Ask Gene to prom yourself, you freaking 1950s idiot!
Text exchange between me, Hilary, and Abigail when another weekend comes and goes and I still have not been asked:
A I think you should just ask him.
H Seriously, what year is it that you’re waiting for a guy to ask you?
I JUST WANT HIM TO ASK ME C
A Where has he been anyway?
H Ya. Haven’t seen him at school at all
Away track meets then visiting college. So lame. C
A How dare he have a future
My boobs are too small for dresses. What if I wear cling wrap to prom? C
A No.
A Speaking of futures how’s the college essay Cham?
Oops. C
A CHAM!
time is infinite C
H You have to take this stuff seriously!
You guys have essay brains. I have gaze-at-stars brain C
A *a gaze-at-stars brain
See? C
A So you haven’t applied to college yet?
Define apply C
H It’s okay, we’ll sneak you in the trunk of my car
Well you don’t know if you got into State right Hil? C
A She’s gonna get in
yeah but Abigail you’re waiting to hear from other places too right? C
A Ya but probs won’t get any money. State’s where it’s at.
H don’t worry you can go to community college for a year and transfer
A Ya. Get your grades up
K mom C
A Well someone has to take care of your shit
No I meant to send that to my mom. She texted me that dinner’s ready. C
I roll off the couch with a heavy sigh. Why does everyone have such a large scrunchie lodged up their butt? This is the time of our lives! We are graduating from high school, it is finally happening to us, and it is a big freaking deal!
“Answer the question, Cham,” my mom says when I join her and my dad at the table. “Have you gotten your applications in?” She’s attacking an unidentifiable morsel by the candle with a paper towel, and every so often it squeaks for its life.
“Well,” I say, resting my head on the table, “I’m definitely moving in that direction.”
“You really should get those in,” my dad scolds, arranging and rearranging his silverware. “Your mom and I worked hard so you could go to the Gill School after public school didn’t work out.” That’s one way to look at it. “You have to take it seriously,” he says. “I would’ve loved to have had the opportunity. Not everyone gets to go to college.”
“I know, Dad,” I mumble. “And I’m really grateful, I promise, but I have so much time. Rolling admission is a real-life example of infinity. It just keeps going and going.”
He’s looking at me with clear eyes, but his face has the stony quality to it. I really hope it’s not one of the lucid, angry days where the cheerful denial and confusion lift and the elephant in the room catches up with him. Selfishly I just want to bring the maple syrup to the table, which I always did when he made pancakes for dinner. I want him and Mom to talk about work and where to plant the tomatoes this year. What I really want is for everything to be boring again.
“Cham, don’t joke about this,” my mom starts.
“I don’t want to think about it yet, okay?” I fold my napkin into a deranged bird that has to sit on my lap because it can’t fly away. “There are so many other things to think about, like prom and Senior Volunteer Trip and—”
“Speaking of Senior Volunteer Trip, don’t you have papers for us to sign?” my mom asks. “And have you been paying attention during the assemblies? I know you’re excited to be in another country with your friends, but there’s a lot of preparation involved. You need to contact your host family and—”
“I still think it’s too dangerous,” my dad says, and I realize I should abort this mission. I pick up my spoon and ignore the chin zit reflected in its imperfect mirror.
“That smells delicious, Mom,” I say loudly as she comes over with the pot.
“What is it?” my dad asks, looking down into his bowl as she fills it. His voice has that edge to it, and I know my mom senses it.
“Split pea,” she says carefully. “I think you’ll like—”
“Mom, can you pass the salad?” I interrupt, pointing to the big glass bowl of spring mix. “And the balsamic?”
My dad looks at the table. “It’s right in front of me,” he says. “I’ll do it.”
“That’s okay,” my mom says quickly, knocking the salt-shaker over. “I’ve got it.” She reaches over my dad. Her sleeve is precariously close to the candle, with its orangey-yellow fire tongue.