IF A WHALE LEAVES THE DOCK AT 8 A.M.,
TRAVELING 12 MILES PER HOUR, THEN WHAT
IS THE THEME OF THE SPRING DANCE?

Tuesday, 10:40 A.M.

The next morning, my Giddy-Over-Zander-to-Guilty-Over-Molly ratios were still fluctuating wildly. As I sat in third-period Marine Bio, failing to focus on the pop quiz I was probably bombing, a just-chased-a-double-shot-of-espresso-with-an-extra-large-hot-chocolate sensation sloshed around in the pit of my stomach.

I turned around and checked the clock at the back of the classroom. More than four hours until rehearsal. More than four hours until Zander’s big reveal.

Torture.

“Question number six,” droned our teacher Miss Finnster—or Spinster Finnster, as she’d been known since the dawn of time—from her desk at the front. Next to her were giant yellowed mason jars inhabited by pickled sea creatures as old and wrinkled as she was.

Paige and I sat at a scuffed black lab table at the back of the room. Molly and Liv sat to my right, and Nessa Beckett was camped out at the far end of our row. My ex-crush, Quinn Wilder, and his friends Jake Fields and Aaron Peterman sat in the row ahead of us, while Zander slouched in the second row. His head bobbed in time to the ticking clock by the door.

As we waited for Finnster to continue, I looked over at Nessa, the overachiever of our group. Her slick, dark pixie cut gleamed with confidence, and her spring-green cowl-neck sweater accentuated her flawless dark skin. Stacked spiral notebooks bordered her paper like a barbed-wire fence around a prison yard. She stared down at her quiz without blinking.

After a full minute of silence, Jilly Lindstrom lifted her hand in the first row. “Um… Spin—Miss Finnster?” she chirped. “Is there a… question six?”

The folds of Finnster’s neck were tucked into her chunky knit cardigan, making her look like a resting turtle. Her eyelids were so wrinkled that it was hard to tell if they were closed, but the gentle snore that escaped her nostrils was a dead giveaway.

“OMG,” Molly hissed. “She’s totes napping. No fair.” Technically she didn’t have to whisper. It was a well-known fact that Finnster was legally deaf in one ear. During a fire drill last year, she’d woken from a nap after all the kids had evacuated, thought school was out, and gone home for the weekend. It was a Tuesday.

“At least her spirit hasn’t crossed over to the other side.” Liv twirled her jet-black ringlets into a messy bun on top of her head and secured them with a cotton ikat-print head wrap she’d made from one of her Italian grandma’s old-lady skirts. “Yet.”

“Shhhh.” Nessa glared at us from her pop-quiz fortress.

Twirling one of the vintage brass button earrings Liv had given me as a make-up gift, I tore a fresh page out of my notebook and scribbled a quick note to Molly.

Guess who’s the new Party Planning Committee chair for the dance next Friday??

A.) You, B.) You, or C.) YOU, BABY!

P.S. You’re welcome, Madame Chairperson.

Molly squealed, and Finnster let out a loud snort, jerking upright in her seat. “Question six,” she trilled, not missing a beat. “How many blowholes does a baleen whale have?”

“Blowhole.” Quinn snickered, then fist-bumped Jake Fields. Ugh. Why had I ever crushed on him? I refocused on Zander, who was now tapping out a rhythm on the edge of his desk.

“A.) One, B.) Two, C.) Three, or D.) Four.”

“You got me the job?” Molly leaned in and squeezed me in a side hug. “You’re the best.”

I wrote B on my quiz and hugged her back. “Now you can tell Phoenix you totally have a thing.”

Molly breathed a grateful sigh.

“And the last question. How long can a sperm whale stay underwater?” Finnster trilled the r on sperm, which made everyone, Zander included, burst out laughing.

“Well! I’m glad to see that you all have so much enthusiasm for marine biology.” Finnster scrunched her face in pleasure, looking the way Nessa’s pug puppy, Chunk, did just after he relieved himself on the entrance hall rug. “I hope you’ll show this degree of interest on Monday’s field trip to Shedd Aquarium.”

“If I was in charge around here, we’d take a trip to Wrigley Field.” Quinn raked a tanned hand authoritatively through his sandy hair. “Every Friday.”

Jake hooted his approval. Aaron Peterman balled up a piece of paper and pitched it to Quinn, who whacked at it with his pencil.

“If he was in charge around here, the average IQ in student government would take a nosedive,” Paige muttered under her breath. Then she looked at me. “No offense.”

“I’d just gotten braces and glasses, which is tantamount to being traumatized. I can’t be held responsible for my crushes.” I poked the brackets on my front teeth with my tongue.

“You should run for eighth-grade president, bro,” Jake suggested as everyone passed their quizzes to the end of their row. “Like, for real.”

“Please. Can he even spell ‘executive branch’?” Paige’s neck was turning bright red above the collar of the frumpy, faded black cardigan I’d advised against.

“He’ll forget about it by lunch,” I reassured her.

“For the remainder of class, we’ll be discussing Echinoidea, more commonly known as sea urchins.” Finnster rubbed her veiny hands together and turned toward the board, sketching out a detailed diagram.

Translation: Enjoy your free period, boys and girls.

As the guys in the third row divided into teams for paper football, Nessa slid her belongings down the row and rejoined our group.

“So. Breaking news.” I let my eyes flicker over each of my best friends. “Molly’s gonna head up the Party Planning Committee for the spring dance!” Under the table, I squeezed Paige’s arm, begging her not to pull a presidential power play. “It’s official!”

“Thanks to Kacey.” Molly’s cheekbones flushed a shade almost identical to that of her slinky peach pullover.

“You’re welcome!” Paige coughed.

“Ew.” Molly glared at Paige, then lifted the hem of her sweater and dabbed at her cheek in slo-mo. “Cover your mouth!”

“Oh, please.” Matching Molly’s dramatic flair, Paige rolled her eyes in a full circle. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure I want you planning the dance. As president of the seventh grade, it’s my duty to—”

“To what?” Molly sneered. But she tucked and retucked her hair behind her ears and kept glancing at me nervously. “Change out the good stuff in the vending machines for rabbit food? Act like you’re smarter than everybody else?”

“Time!” Quinn paused the football game in the third row and turned around in his seat. “Catfight.”

“Girls!” I hissed, gripping Molly’s wrist with one hand and Paige’s with the other. “Chill out.”

I had never been friends with both girls at the exact same time before. It was great for me, but they were acting more territorial than my old pet ferret, Oprah Winfurry, when Ella brought home a guinea pig and insisted they were going to get married. Mom said there was only room for one diva in Oprah’s cage, so Enrique Piglesias had to go back to the pet store.

“I’m just saying,” Paige huffed. “If I wanted to veto her appointment, I totally could. She doesn’t just automatically get to plan the dance.”

Quinn perked up again. “You guys are planning the dance?” He looked at me when he said it. “Cool. Can there be, like, no chaperones?”

“Ask Molly.” I shrugged. “She’s in charge.”

Molly’s face flushed like she was about to explode with power. “I’ll think about it,” she said, with forced nonchalance. Milliseconds later, her right eye started to twitch.

“Sick.” Quinn gave me a hair toss and turned around again.

Molly yanked her notebook out of her backpack and flipped to a new page. “Okay. So who’s gonna do what for the committee? Liv, you’ll be my creative consultant. And Nessa? You’ll be in charge of lists and things. Okay?” She started scribbling furiously with her purple glitter pen. “And Kace—”

“Wait. Lists and things?” Nessa tightened her cognac leather corset belt two notches.

“It’ll look good on your transcript,” I offered. “Like you’re a team player.”

“Deal.” Nessa fished around her bag and unearthed an electronic organizer.

“Okay, so we have to come up with a theme first,” Liv started. “What about—”

“No. Wait!” Molly slapped the table with her palm, then swiveled her stool toward me. “Kace? Are you in?” Her Burt’s Bees–waxed lower lip protruded slightly. “Pretty please? I really feel like this is my calling, like, in life. And I can’t do it if you won’t—”

“I’m in, I’m in.” I squeezed her hand. “Whatever you need.” In the second row, Zander ducked to fish something out of his backpack. His blue streak lulled me into a comatose state for just a second.

“Awesome.” Molly settled back in her chair and gave her hair a satisfied shake. Maybe it was the new cut, but her face-framing layers made her seem way older than she had over the weekend. I wondered if it had anything to do with Phoenix from ninth. “So now all we have to do is decide who we’re taking to the dance. Me first. I’m taking the person I like more than I’ve liked anybody else, ever—”

“Yourself?” Paige sulked.

“—my BOYFRIEND, Phoenix.” Mols straightened up a little in her chair, probably so the word boyfriend would find its way to the second row. But if he heard her, Zander didn’t look up. I swallowed the stampede of butterflies in my throat.

“Ummm…” Liv twirled the ends of her scarf and lowered her voice to a whisper. “There’s this cute guy from my early-morning meditation class.”

“Maybe I’ll bring that French exchange student I told you guys about? Mattieu?” Nessa’s long, dark lashes fluttered. “Not that I need a guy to validate me.”

“Definitely not,” I said. With her shrink mom and professor dad, Nessa had been all over the world. But despite hanging with boys in at least six different time zones, she had even less boy experience than I did. Only Molly, Liv, and I knew she’d never even come close to kissing a boy. That was because her super-strict parents set her curfew at 8 P.M. According to Molly, most boys didn’t even get warmed up until eight thirty.

Suddenly, I realized that all the girls were staring at me.

“Kacey?” Nessa’s almond-shaped eyes were wide, hopeful. Begging me to take back the spotlight. “Who’s the lucky dude?”

All the girls glanced meaningfully at the back of Quinn’s head.

Well, all the girls with the exception of Paige, who pinched me under the table. Hard.

“Ow!” I squeaked, slapping her hand away. Half the class turned to look at me. This time, Zander did look up and smile. His eyes were like mercury: a silvery gray color that was different every time you looked. Even if you looked as often as humanly possible.

“Well?” Molly hissed excitedly. “Who’s it gonna be?”

“I’ll figure it out,” I murmured, without taking my eyes off of Zander. And I would.

Eventually.