CHAPTER 22

I woke up smiling. Things were looking up for ol’ Alison. I hummed as I brushed my teeth and even let Annie use the toaster before me. I wasn’t usually a morning person, but this day was different. Becca was talking to me again, Charlotte was flirting with me, and I knew the essay I’d written on King Lear was good enough to reassure Ms. Merriam that I was back to my old self. Yes, things were looking up.

I practically floated through all my Friday classes. I multitasked at lunch, eating my sandwich while I prepped a review sheet for a history test the next week. I’d been sitting alone at lunch since the Fake Date Incident, but today was different. I knew Becca had an appointment with the guidance counselor at lunch to go over some university application stuff. How did I know this? Because she’d texted me to say so. She’d added that she’d give me a drive home after school. Communication had progressed to texts.

The drive home was mostly silent again, but the music wasn’t quite as aggressively loud today, and after I asked, Becca told me her meeting with the guidance counselor went well. Things weren’t normal, but the silence didn’t feel as oppressive today. When she stopped to drop me off, Becca put Harvey in park instead of just braking long enough for me to get out the door. I took this as a sign and sat still after I unbuckled my seatbelt.

“Want to come over tomorrow to watch a scary movie?” Becca asked. She was a horror movie aficionado. I wasn’t into scary movies, but I recognized the peace offering for what it was.

“Sounds great. I’ll bring some kettle corn.” I grinned at Becca, and she gave me a half smile. More progress.

Walking in the front door, I felt so good, so on top of things that I decided this was the weekend I was going to tackle some of the scholarship essays I’d been putting off. I was like an athlete on a winning streak: There was no stopping me now!

At supper, Annie talked about an open mic night she was planning to play next Saturday. She was thinking about performing one of her own songs, something she’d never done in public before. Our parents were both appropriately supportive and made a point of taking out their phones and marking the date and time in their calendars. Annie then turned to me. “Are you going to come?” I was surprised Annie wanted us there, but if that’s what she wanted, I was happy to oblige.

“Count me in!” I said, and Annie rolled her eyes at my enthusiasm, but I could tell she was pleased we were all making a fuss.

Before bed, I organized myself so I’d be ready to start writing the essays the next morning. I printed out all the instructions and arranged the applications according to due date. Pleased with myself, I was about to head to bed early when a sudden urge stopped me. I sat on the corner of my bed and pulled out my phone. I hadn’t heard anything from Charlotte since last night. Maybe it was my move. Before I could overthink things, I decided to send a pic of a sloth snuggled in a fuzzy blanket and hugging a teddy bear. I followed up with goodnight. Only a few seconds later, she sent me a pic of a corgi sleeping on its back, legs splayed. It was a good day.

When I woke up the next morning, I could remember snippets of my dreams. They featured Charlotte in her fairy queen costume, though there was much less of it than I recalled from Zach’s sketches. I checked my phone. No more messages from Charlotte. I wasn’t surprised; our texts from the night before had been just to say good night, but it was still a bit of a letdown. I shook the feeling, reminding myself that she had asked for my number. She wasn’t playing hard to get.

I reached the kitchen in time to ask Dad to double his smoothie recipe. Full glass in hand, I returned to my room and opened my laptop to start my first essay. Question: Give an example of a time you took on a leadership role. Were you successful in the role? If you were, why? If you weren’t, why not?

This was going to be easy. I started my essay: This year, I volunteered to produce our school play. (No need to tell a scholarship committee that I’d been tricked into “volunteering.”) The role required me to organize a team of weirdos and outcasts. (Too honest. Would have to change that wording later.) I liaised between the play’s director and the production team. (I didn’t have to mention that my liaising was often ineffective, did I?) As to whether I was successful in this role or not, the jury is still out. Our goth scene-painter may be planning to sabotage the whole thing from the inside. I still haven’t figured out how to organize ticket sales, and I’m afraid of all the tech work coming up. I do not have a good track record with power tools, as the birds who survived the great birdhouse disaster of Grade 8 can attest to. I mean, the play is still weeks away, so there’s time to get things done. But not that much.

Maybe this wasn’t the right question to answer first. I could feel my old friend Anxiety setting in. I remembered my good mood from yesterday and rolled my neck a few times. I decided to move on to the next essay. Question: What is your biggest weakness?

I am a perfectionist. I don’t mean this in the way that most people do, as an attempt to sneak in a strength in the guise of a weakness. My perfectionism has cost me in big ways. I may have the chance to date the girl of my dreams, but I have to ace all my classes and produce the school play and write these ridiculous essays, so I’m probably going to screw things up. What kind of question is this anyway? Why would knowing my greatest weakness help you decide if I’m a good candidate for your scholarship? Don’t you remember what it’s like to be a teenager? Asking us to think of our weaknesses is like asking a cat to lick its butt. We’re going to do it anyway, so why go out of your way to get us to do it?

This was not good. These essays were not going to win me any scholarships. But more worrying was the feeling that none of this mattered. I didn’t want to write essays, no matter how important they had seemed just a few days ago. I wanted to text Charlotte. I wondered briefly if the Red Binder had any tips about romances between actors and producers. I shook my head. I had to be desperate if I was considering consulting the binder.

I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I had another flashback to my dreams of the night before. I snapped closed my laptop cover and took out my phone.

So I was kinda thinking about how useless corgis are. Their legs are so disproportionate. Just think of all the photos on the Internet of corgis falling over. They are an evolutionary aberration. I pressed send, even though I knew I was taking a chance by making fun of corgis. Maybe they were her favorite animals, which is why she kept sending me pictures of them. But Charlotte seemed like a girl with a sense of humor, so I felt the risk was calculated. I waited, even though I knew it was only eleven o’clock on a Saturday and plenty of my peers would still be in bed.

i was hoping id hear from u today.

I was floating again, the scholarship essays forgotten. We texted back and forth for hours. I thought about suggesting an actual phone call, but I felt safer with typed words. As fast as we texted, I always had time to think about what I was “saying.” Real conversations didn’t have that editorial moment; I got into trouble when I had to converse in real life. Plus, texting had the advantage of gifs, which were great conversation pieces and helped express things words alone could not convey. When she sent me a gif of Lily Tomlin saying “I’m engaging with all the people in Internet-land,” I knew I was in love. What other person my age appreciated Lily Tomlin? My guess was only a fellow lesbian. I felt pretty certain at this point that Charlotte was into girls—was into me, in fact. Of course, neither of us had come out to the other, but maybe it went without saying. I felt relieved to think that might be the case. Maybe not every new friend or crush meant I had to declare my sexual preference.

Just before suppertime, Charlotte sent me a text telling me she had to meet some friends. The sad-face emoji at the end of the message gave me the confidence to respond: We should get together some time. I didn’t think Charlotte would be so quick to take up the suggestion, but I shouldn’t have been surprised given how open and self-assured she’d been since we first met. how about next sat? I didn’t even pause before replying: It’s a date.