Chapter 15

WHAT NOT TO WEAR

When I get home, I spend three hours trying to decide what to wear. If it’s a date, I should look kind of nice. A skirt? But if it’s not a date and I show up in a skirt, maybe Tebow will think that I thought it was a date. And then maybe things will get weird and awkward.

So then I think that maybe I should just wear what I already have on. But will that make Tebow think that I don’t realize we’re on a date?

I need help. Clearly. I start to dial Brainzilla, but I know that she’ll want to come over with a bunch of different outfit options. Flatso will want to give me a full makeover. Eggy will offer to lend me her Cowboy Bebop T-shirt. And Zitsy? I don’t see any possibility of help there.

So I decide to do a mental check-in with my other BFFs—imagine what they might think.

Right. This is great advice… as long as it is translated into “wear something that Cuckoo would wear.” Which is black cords, my softest green sweater, and a swipe of pale pink lipstick.

“Perfect,” Laurence tells me. “You look neat and clean and elegant in a simple, understated way.”

Nicki Minaj just shrugs, which I guess means that she’s not impressed.

Tebow picks me up at exactly 7:13 PM. Mrs. Morris chirps out, “Have fun, sweetie!” as I climb into the front seat of Tebow’s dad’s very roomy Oldsmobile.

American cars of the 1980s: large and in charge.

And here is the weird thing—I’m sitting here with Tebow, who I see every day and frequently call on the phone at night, but I can’t think of anything to talk about. I’m still obsessing over whether this is a date, which is complicated by the fact that I don’t even know if I want this to be a date or not. Do I? Maybe. Tebow is insanely good looking. And sweet. But he’s also Tebow. I’ve never thought of him that way, and I need a little time for my brain to try out the idea and see if I can get used to it.

That’s when I notice that Tebow isn’t talking, either. After a while, I decide I’m okay with quiet. And the minute I decide that, I remember something I wanted to tell him.

“Oh!” I pull my journal out of the messenger bag that I always carry around. “I made up a movie for us to star in.”

(Don’t worry—it’s not the Hunger Games one.)

“You have a great imagination, Kooks,” Tebow says. That makes me happy, even though I’m not really sure he gets my sense of humor. But it’s okay. He doesn’t have to get everything.

Eggy was right. It’s just Tebow.

There’s no need to overthink it.