Jimmie’s is a roadside stand that’s known for hot-dog-eating contests and the best chocolate shakes around. Joe didn’t even have to ask what flavor I wanted when we got there—the chocolate malted is the only kind of milk shake Jimmie’s makes. And yes, they’re that good.
“To great ideas,” Joe says, bumping his Styrofoam cup against mine. I grin over at him as we pull out of the drive-through lane and back out onto the road.
“And to the prom,” I add. “Without it, there’s no way you would have raised so much for Bikes for Tykes.”
“We—we raised so much money.”
“Okay, we,” I agree.
He nods and takes a long sip through his straw.
“They’re just such a pain in the ass. God, I know how I felt about it—I couldn’t wait until I got mine out of the way.”
“Your what out of the way?” I ask, confused.
“My prom proposal. I felt like a total douche the entire time. At least she said yes, or I’d be really up the creek.”
I open my mouth, then close it. The chill from the surface of my cup begins to transfer down my arm and I hold it hard enough that my fingers begin to dent the white foam.
Joe has a date for the prom.
Well, of course he does, moron. Prom’s in two freaking weeks.
“I—uh—I didn’t hear about that one,” I stutter, fiddling with my straw. “Who did you ask?”
Joe stretches a long arm over the bench seat and leans back a bit. The brim of his cap is shading his eyes, so I can’t really see his expression.
“Barbara Marconi. My proposal was totally lame too. I did a scavenger hunt thing in the park—she had to follow hints I wrote in chalk on the paths. Then she found me at the end holding a sign.”
He shrugs.
“Not my most creative idea, but it worked out in the end.”
Blinking, I put the straw of my drink to my lips, but I don’t take another sip. The milk shake that was once so delicious suddenly tastes just like liquid chalk.
“That sounds nice,” I say finally, because it does sound nice. To have Joe go out of his way to do anything like that for me sounds more than nice. It also sounds impossible.
“So, are you and Barbara dating?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
He cracks a grin. “Nah, I’m buddies with her brother, Matt. He told me she had a crush on me and she didn’t have a date for prom. Their family just moved here last year and I know she doesn’t know a lot of people. I felt like it was the right thing to do, you know?”
I consider my options. I could let this all go with a smile and not say anything. Or I could grow some balls and say how I feel. I try to consider my options.
What would Josie Geller do?
What would Olive Penderghast do?
What would sarcastic, witty, turned-over-a-new-leaf-and-wearing-skirts Lily Spencer do?
As Joe pulls into the school parking lot, I suck in a deep breath and then shift in my seat. Suddenly, it’s like someone flips a switch in me. Or, more accurately, like someone presses play. I know I have to do this now, or I’ll never do it at all. Especially now that I know that his prom date is just a favor to a friend.
“So, listen,” I begin, already talking way too fast, “I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime.”
Joe glances over at me, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Out? You mean, like, on a date?”
I shrug, but I force myself to meet his gaze.
“Yeah. Like a date. Or something.”
“Wow, Lily,” he begins. “I—uh—I don’t know what to say.”
He blinks a few times, then shakes his head. “You know you are totally great. I’ve had a blast hanging out with you over the last week. But—”
But.
But.
Who knew a word could actually cause physical pain? Out of self-preservation, I grab the handle and heave the heavy truck door open.
“Never mind. Just forget it,” I manage to mumble. I start to slide out when Joe grabs my arm gently.
“No, wait. Seriously, I think you are totally awesome and you’ve been such a great help and everything . . .”
He trails off and I feel an inexplicable shot of fury blaze through me. I don’t know who I’m angry at. Probably myself.
Joe scrubs a hand over his face, the other hand still on my wrist. He pulls his hat off and his dark hair is a little matted. Still, I swear he could model razors or deodorant or something equally as masculine.
“I just feel like—I mean, there’s so much going on right now,” Joe is saying, “what with Bikes for Tykes and prom and graduation . . .”
He trails off again, and I swallow hard.
“I’m just not looking to start anything serious,” he says, his voice low. “You are an amazing girl and any guy would be lucky to be with you . . .”
And I hear it—right away, I hear it. It’s a tone impossible to mistake for anything but what it is.
It’s pity.
He feels sorry for me.
I don’t say anything else. I don’t look at him. Instead, I grab my bag from the floor of the cab and slide back to the door.
“Wait,” Joe says.
But I can’t. I can’t sit here and wait any longer.
“I gotta go,” I mutter as I push open the door, then slam it shut behind me. I glance back at him like a reflex, but I can’t see him through the glass. All I can see is my reflection. Just me, standing alone.
Somehow, it seems totally appropriate.