I can say with utter confidence that I learned absolutely nothing in math class today. Every time I started to write an equation, I’d remember Joe’s bright-green eyes or his warm, strong hands and by the time I’d broken out of my reverie, Ms. Dotson had already moved on to a new problem. Fortunately, I sit next to Bill Danner, who is a math genius—I manage to copy most of his notes, despite his nearly illegible handwriting.

By the time the bell rings for second period, I’ve started considering other possible ways to run into Joe Lombardi again. It’s not like I could just randomly just show up at the motocross course—how totally awkward would that be?

Hey Joe . . . those are some really round tires you got there.

So, you ride here often?

What’s your sign, baby? Besides, you know, street signs . . .

I. Am. So. LAME.

Groaning aloud, I turn the corner toward my journalism class. Immediately, I’m assaulted by dozens of balloons.

“What the hell?” I say, batting the ribbon tails away from my face.

A glance around shows me a handful of other bewildered students are doing the same thing. Then I see Sam Peterson standing at one end of the hall and his new girlfriend, Layla, at the other. Layla’s mouth has dropped open and I can’t really blame her; her boyfriend is standing fifty feet away from her wearing a full suit of armor. I don’t know where someone even gets one of those.

I watch along with everyone else as Sam clomps toward Layla, clumsily maneuvering around the balloons. Some of their tails catch on his chain mail. As he gets closer, I see a red rose in one of his metal-clad hands. In the other, he’s holding a shield with the words, I’LL BE YOUR KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR IF YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME.

Aw, hell. I should have known. Prom proposals are easily the best and worst part of a girl’s senior year.

I don’t know when the prom proposals started. What happened to guys and girls just asking each other to dances? In the past few years, though, no one is satisfied with a simple phone call. Now, all the guys are expected to make a grand gesture. Hence the suit of armor and balloons.

Although, as I watch Layla nod at her boyfriend before throwing her arms awkwardly around him, I feel an unwelcome twinge of envy. When I think about that kind of chutzpah, the guts it takes for a guy to announce his intentions in the middle of the school day . . . well, it’s pretty admirable. Even a cynic like me can admit that.

Sam struggles to remove his helmet, and I turn away when Layla launches herself at his face. I don’t know what it is about kissing—whether it’s my mom and one of her many dud-dudes or two classmates or even strangers, there is little that makes me feel more wistful than a true, honest, no-holds-barred kiss. I can’t think of anything I’d rather have or anything that feels more impossible to get.

All right, Lily. Buck up. Get past the balloons and the bluster and you’ve got a jackass wearing the contents of a recycling bin.

As I walk into journalism, I see Tricia Michaels, the editor in chief, leaning over a mock-up of next week’s paper. She glances up at me, then rolls her eyes.

“You see that out there?” she sort of sneers, jerking her head at the doorway. I nod.

“Yeah.”

“Whatever. I mean, I had Donavan take pictures of it and stuff. But I mean, talk about lame prom proposals. My boyfriend better think of something way more creative.”

I don’t say anything as I walk to my desk. Tricia is not exactly my favorite person—she’s super-judgmental and says nasty things about the rest of the newspaper staff when they aren’t around—but she’s on SGA with me and heads up the National Honors Society. So she’s not someone I want to piss off before graduation—not if I want to graduate with one of those NHS cords draped over my gown. And let’s face it, of course I want that.

I start rummaging through the stacks of paper on my desk. This spring, I’m in charge of the Senior Sections—it’s a tradition that the seniors get a special feature in each edition until graduation. We’ve done Superlatives and Sports Spotlights already. Now I’m working on the Senior Wills, and that means I’ve got about three hundred submissions to sort through. Not every senior participates in every section—but Senior Wills? No one misses out on that one. We do a double issue just to fit everyone in, and each application has a word limit.

“I bequeath my soccer ball to the girls on JV, my jersey to Coach Bruin, and my cleats to my girl, Josie. You girls are gonna rock next season,” says Missy Gunner, the girls’ soccer captain and all-around jock.

“To my boyfriend, Hanson, I leave all our letters, the rose petals I’ve saved, the pictures from the photo booth, and a thousand kisses. I will always love you, boo-bear!” says Heidi Ponce, who’s been dating her boyfriend, Hanson, for, oh, maybe a month. I have a feeling Senior Wills are kind of like tattoos—easy ways to doom relationships. But who am I to judge? I haven’t even written one yet. Not that I even know what I’d say . . .

I bequeath my undying love and affection to Joe Lombardi, who knocks me off my feet in the stairwell and in life. Let’s “motor” our way to the future. Vroom-vroom, baby.

Ugh. Yeah, I might skip out on this altogether.

“Hey Lily?” Gina Holt walks toward me holding a folder and wearing a determined expression. “I need you to take over this story for me.”

I want to sigh in relief. Anything to take me away from the Senior Will purgatory I’m in.

“Sure,” I say, reaching for the folder. “What’s it about?”

“Prom proposals,” she says before turning around. “You have to summarize the ones that have happened so far and rate them on a romance meter.”

“Rate them on a what?”

“A romance meter,” she says over her shoulder. “One kiss for ‘just friends,’ two for ‘fun and flirty,’ etc. It goes up to five—‘hot ’n’ heavy’ or something like that.”

This is what I get for complaining about Senior Wills—a prom proposal exposé complete with a rating system?

I force myself not to gag. Here it is—hard-hitting journalism at its best, folks. I’m sure my Pulitzer is already on its way.