Ugh. I feel like an absolute idiot.

I tug at the hem of Marijke’s ruffled skirt. I can’t believe she convinced me to wear something this short. And this tank top? It’s tighter than anything I’ve ever put on, including bathing suits. I’ve never felt more self-conscious. And yet, here I am, standing in the parking lot at school, trying to muster up the courage to walk inside for my SGA meeting.

“Lily?”

I turn to see Courtney behind me. She’s positively gawking at my outfit.

“I—” She blinks at me, then shakes her head. “I didn’t think it was you at first, but then I saw your car. You look . . . different.”

I look down again at my skirt. “Bad different?”

Courtney laughs. “No, not at all. I’ve just never seen you dress like this.”

I shrug. “I guess I just wanted to try something new.”

But when we reach the Student Activities office, Courtney’s reaction is magnified by two.

“Holy hell, Lily!”

Meagan’s face is agog as she stares at my skirt. I feel the red flush spread over my face again.

“Jeez, it’s just an outfit,” I mutter.

Ms. Vincent, our advisor, is sitting at the long meeting table. She just raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah. A hot outfit.” Meagan is shaking her head. “Well, someone is clearly trying to tempt a member of the student body. Who’s the guy?”

I shake my head. “No one. I just figured I’d—I don’t know . . . Can we just start talking about prom planning?”

Our meeting is short, considering most of the details are fairly surface level—the junior class has volunteered to organize the refreshments and the decorations are pretty standard: streamers, strobe lights, the works. I remember the Bikes for Tykes raffle at the very end, but I wait for Ms. Vincent to head back to her office before I mention it to the other girls.

“So by the way, Joe Lombardi is having this motocross fund-raiser—have you guys heard about it?”

Courtney nods. “Yeah, someone said something about it yesterday. Apparently they wouldn’t let him hold it on school grounds.”

“Right. The event’s gonna be at the MotoTrak across town. Anyway, listen, there’s this raffle . . .”

I explain the prom proposal plan and watch as eyes begin to light up around me. The class secretary, LeeAnn Gardin, is grinning and nodding emphatically.

“That is an AMAZING idea—and I know so many guys who will totally go for that. I mean, I’m waiting and waiting and waiting for Denny to ask me to prom. If someone took the work out of it, I might not be waiting anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s the worst thing about prom proposals,” Courtney says, nodding. “So many guys wait until the last minute to pull off something totally awesome. Either that or they can’t think of something cool enough to do on their own.”

“Exactly,” I say, shuffling my feet and moving toward the door, “so we’re going to sell tickets after school on Monday in the student parking lot.”

“What about at lunch?”

I shake my head. “No dice—there are too many teachers around. I don’t know if they’d approve or stop us, but considering their feelings about motocross, I figure we should keep this under wraps.”

“Sure.” Courtney’s nodding and heaves her backpack on her shoulder. “Hey, speaking of lunch, why don’t you come sit with us today? We can decide whether we want to get a band or a DJ for prom?”

I blink at her.

Could this friendly attitude really be because of an outfit change? Are girls really that shallow?

“Maybe,” I say, trying to sound noncommittal. “I’ve probably got to catch up with Marijke. We’ve got a . . . project we’ve been working on.”

“You two are like peas and carrots lately,” Meagan observes. I pull the door open and give her a backward glance. I can see Courtney frowning behind her.

“You know how school projects are—time-consuming. They take total commitment. And I really want to ace this one.”

* * *

At the end of the day, I duck into the journalism room and hurry toward my desk. We’ve all promised to put in some after-school hours to try to finalize our last senior issue. I flop down in my chair and I dig into the pile of Senior Wills that are threatening to swallow my desk whole.

Well, I made it. A new look and a lot of double-takes and turned heads, but I didn’t change into the jeans I’d stashed in my backpack. I would never admit it to Marijke, but I’m feeling pretty proud of myself.

The only thing is, well, I never saw Joe today. Considering the school day is just about over, the chances are pretty slim that I will.

Not that it matters or anything . . . I guess. But I mean, if I’m gonna wear a skirt the size of a dish towel, I should at least get to impress the guy I’m interested in.

I shake my head. What am I becoming? When did I get to be so blatantly boy crazy?

I’ve almost managed to forget my Joe focus and immerse myself in my task when I hear a muffled boom coming from outside in the courtyard. Everyone around me looks up and a few people run to the window.

“No. Freaking. WAY,” I hear someone say. I stand up, hastily tugging my skirt into place, and move across the room to look outside.

Marijke’s grin is the first thing I see, probably because it’s so wide and bright that it’s impossible to miss. Then I take in the fifty or so dancers moving in perfect synchronization and the gathering crowd of people that are lining up along the fringes.

I can’t believe it.

She actually pulled off a flash mob.

When I glance around, I notice that most of the room has cleared out—most likely to join the rest of the students who are spilling out into the courtyard. I move quickly, hoping to make it out there before the crowd gets too dense to push through.

Marijke’s standing in the same place when I finally make it to her. She’s still smiling, but I can see her eyes flicking over the crowd. I don’t have to ask who she’s looking for.

“Not here?” I ask her. Her smile begins to falter. Around her, the dancers spin and leap along to a bass-heavy Nicki Minaj track.

“I told him this morning to meet me here. I don’t know where . . .” She trails off, reaching into her pocket for her phone. She peers at the screen, then groans.

“I can’t believe this.”

“What is it?”

Her face morphs into a combination of frustration and fury.

“He went freaking paintballing with his friends. Jesus, all I want is for him to show up for one of my plans.”

Suddenly, Marijke begins to melt. Literally, it’s like all the air leaves her body and the tears begin to pour down her cheeks. I haven’t seen her like this since the night at the movies when we’d come up with this crazy idea in the first place. Looking at her now, I’m starting to wonder if this was all a big mistake.

“Come with me.”

I grab her hand and yank her through the crowd, ignoring the stares that follow us as we push between bodies.

“I really thought most people would be gone by now,” she chokes out. “I didn’t think I’d cause this big of a scene.”

“Don’t worry about it. We can say it was a performance to drum up interest for the state meet or something.” I hope that will calm her down. But she shakes her head, the tears continuing to stream over her face.

“And I did all of this—made this huge scene—for nothing. He’s not even here.”

The school hallways are completely desolate now. I lead Marijke into the journalism room and then farther back to the editor in chief’s office. I close the door behind us and gesture to a chair next to the wide wooden desk. She drops into it without a word, sniffling and wiping her eyes.

“Look,” I say, leaning up against the desk and facing her, “we knew this whole thing would be a risk, you know? Don’t let this get you down—we’ll find the right game plan. The perfect one.”

But Marijke looks totally defeated. She raises her gaze to meet mine.

“I’m starting to think this was a huge mistake. I mean, I just keep putting myself out there. And it hasn’t paid off once.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “So maybe you should just abandon the strategies for now and just tell him the truth. Tell him you love him. Tell him what you want from him. Maybe that’s all you really need to do—be honest.”

She looks at me for a long time, then surprises me by standing up.

“Can you take me to the paintball arena? It’s over by the mall.”

“I—uh, sure. Let me just grab my bag.”

I know Tricia will be pissed, but screw it. I can deal with her wrath later. The least I can do for Marijke right now is take her to see Tommy. Especially since her movie plans have turned out to be such a complete disaster.

Mine, on the other hand?

Well . . . I think they’re actually working.