And at first it was. The cafeteria had been transformed into a winter wonderland of fake, fluffy snow. Great music, decent eats, a packed dance floor. Val loved dances because they had this anything-could-happen aura, and as the music blared, I could feel it, too.

But during the last hour of the dance, kids went from having fun to having a mission: hooking up. All school dances must be sealed with a kiss, apparently. The dance became a game of tag, but neither Val nor I were it. Nearly every song played was a ballad and the circles of dancers morphed into couples swaying to the music. And one by one, they began making out for everyone to see. I probably sound like some eighty-year-old nun, but in my experience, kissing is fun to do, but not to watch.

Val and I were relegated to the far reaches of the dance floor, next to the stack of unused cafeteria chairs. Val’s face drooped into this despondent, dejected look. It was like I’d never left the house. And to top it off, before the final song, the principal announced Huxley and Steve as the Snowbirds—the dance’s version of king and queen chosen by the planning committee. (They are like the Meryl Streep of dance royalty elections. Spread the wealth, people!) We had to stand in a circle and watch them slow dance and stare into each other’s emotionally vacant eyes before other pairs joined in. The night was everything my life wasn’t, and I left the dance so ready for a new day.

That Monday at school, I realized I was not alone. I overheard different girls in different groups—girls who usually would never say two words to each other—complaining about the same problem: couples. One girl bitched about the friends who abandoned her at the dance to hang out with their boyfriends. Another claimed her friend turned into a demon monster whenever her boyfriend was around. I was not alone.

Hearing the discontent simmering in the halls and between desks gave me the assurance I needed that this school could use someone to level the playing field. A relationship Robin Hood. A week later, I scribbled my ad on a bathroom stall.

I had my first client forty-eight hours later.

Long story short, that’s how at six forty-five in the morning, I find myself walking down the deserted halls of school, gripping the modified binder in my hand. I scan my surroundings when I reach Derek’s locker. Just the hum of the heating vent and the stiff smell of the floor buffer accompany me. Diane had given me a master key for all V56 locks she received when she was a camp counselor, and it has been the greatest gift. All locks used on school grounds must be V56, in case the principal ever wants to do a locker search. I empty out Derek’s folder labeled “SGA” and replace the papers with what’s in the wedding binder. For the cherry on top, I pull out a crisp, white envelope from my pocket, tape it to the binder’s inside sleeve and shove everything back inside.


Dear Derek,


I did some brainstorming. What can I say? I’m a planner. Why wait for tomorrow when you know what you want today :) I can’t wait to see you at the assembly!


Love, Bari


My footsteps echo in the hallway, and I just keep wondering if all people enjoy their jobs as much as I do.

* * *

I don’t know why the principal doesn’t see it. Assemblies are a waste of time. It takes the school twenty minutes to file in and sit down for a fifteen-minute assembly that only delivers three minutes’ worth of useful information. Val wanders away from her class to sit next to me. She looks at her phone, trying to will an email to populate.

“No response yet?” I ask. We both know the answer, but it’s an excuse to let her talk about Ezra some more.

Val shakes her head no. I want to smack Ezra for not instantly asking Val out.

“What’s my percentage?” she asks.

“What?”

“What’s the percentage chance of Ezra responding?”

“I don’t know. Twenty-five?”

Val’s face drops. “Twenty-five?”

“Or thirty-one.”

Her eyes expand even farther. Two gumballs gawking at me. “That’s all? Not even above fifty?”

I can’t tell if she wants me to be honest. But as my friend, she deserves my moderated gut reaction. I want to cushion the blow in case Ezra doesn’t pan out. “Well, it’s more like twenty-one. You haven’t spoken in person yet.”

“Right, right,” she says, uninterested in cold, hard facts.

“I’m not saying that twenty-one can’t change.”

She appreciates the encouragement, but she remains serious. “Beck, I think I may actually break through with this one. I think there could be something here. I feel it in my bones.”

“Maybe that’s just osteoporosis.”

One of the French teachers shushes me. The principal takes the mic.

“Students, thank you all for coming today. We have an exciting announcement. We received some incremental funds from the school board, a nice figure. And after meetings with the SGA, we’ve created a plan for using these funds to benefit Ashland in the best way possible.” He waits for applause that doesn’t come. It’s not like we’re getting the money personally. “Your SGA president Derek Kelley will walk everyone through the exciting features coming your way over the next year!”

“Thank you,” Derek says, all power and poise on stage. He rests his accordion folder on the podium. “My fellow students, as a result of these funds, we will be building a brand-new, state-of-the-art TV studio and launching a morning news show anchored and run entirely by students. The feed will be hooked up to all classroom TVs.”

Silence. I may have just heard a pin drop one town over.

“Welcome to the nineties,” I whisper to Val.

“Pretty cool, right?” Derek unwinds the cord around the accordion folder and reaches inside. “We anticipate the project will be completed by early May, so even though I’m headed for Princeton—early decision—this fall, I and my fellow seniors can experience this new step forward for Ashland High. I have all the details in this binder.”

In a miracle of obedience, the auditorium remains quiet while Derek opens his binder. I watch closely as he reads the letter taped inside, then flips through the pages.

“Come on!” a kid shouts, but Derek ignores him. He keeps flipping.

Whiteness drains his face of color. By the look in his eyes, you’d think he was looking at photos of POWs—not matrimonial bliss.

“Derek?” The principal motions him to keep talking, and for probably the first time in his life, Mr. Future Politician is completely speechless. He throws the binder in his book bag and runs into the wings. Everyone goes back to talking at full level.

“Students, quiet down!” the principal says, but it’s useless. When an assembly has a hitch, chaos inevitably follows.

Val nudges my elbow. “What do you think that was all about?”

“I have no idea.”

Students are about to make a mass exodus, but Steve Overland jumps up to the stage. He gets much more applause than the principal.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” Steve asks with his boyish, dimpled smile, the carefree grin of someone who has no real problems in his life. The principal taps him on the shoulder and points back to Steve’s seat.

“I just need one minute, sir. Sixty seconds.”

The principal feigns annoyance and backs away, but we all know it’s merely an act. It’s no secret that he got a serious bonus when the football team won the state championship. The principal wouldn’t dare anger his prized possession.

“So, let me tell you the real reason we’re up in this assembly,” Steve says.

Val and I trade looks—hers excited, mine confused.

“It’s somebody’s birthday in this room,” Steve coos into the mic. “Will the real Huxley Mapother please stand up?”

Huxley complies. She hides her head in faux embarrassment, a look she seems to have down pat. I slouch back in my chair.

Steve takes a deep breath. “I’m a little nervous.”

A random gaggle of girls in front cheer him on. He winks at them.

“Here goes nothing.” Steve takes his sweet time, but he can, because he’s Steve Overland, and who’s going to tell him to get off the stage? He begins singing some Frank Sinatra song that I’m sure gets played at every wedding in America.

My classmates go wild: standing up and whooping, clapping to the nonexistent beat. There’s at least one aww every five seconds. Steve’s a decent singer, but it’s just a stupid song. Huxley probably came up with this whole “spontaneous” scheme herself.

“Happy birthday, Hux,” he says in between breaths.

Now I feel like a POW.

8

People don’t shut up about Steve’s American Idol audition all morning. I hope they filled their Sweeping Fauxmantic Gesture quota for the day and will spare us any theatrics during lunch. I wait for Val outside the cafeteria, farther down the hall from the rush of students so she can actually find me. We usually walk over together, and I wonder what’s keeping her busy. I lean against a glass case holding Ashland High’s cherished football memorabilia. Some of the players in the black-and-white photos are cute, which is creepy since they’re grandpas now. I guess since the case didn’t feel all-American enough, the school put a photo of Huxley and Steve being crowned at homecoming in the center of the display. He wore his muddy football uniform to the dance. Everyone thought he would continue playing football in college, but he’s giving it up next year to attend Vermilion, a nearby university, to stay close to Huxley, who’s only a junior. Girls think he’s such a doting boyfriend; I think he’s beyond whipped.

Through the clutter of scurrying underclassmen, Val approaches. She’s not alone, though. An unmistakable puff of black hair peeks out over the crowd.

“Hey,” Val says.

“Hi,” I say back, my eyes darting between her and Ezra.

“Um, this is Ezra.”

He releases his hand from hers and shakes mine. “How goes it?”

“Good,” I say again, realizing that I’m being totally awkward, but not at all adorable.

I watch Val give Ezra the “hang test”: How long will he let her hand hang next to his before he holds it?

Ezra passes with flying colors. When he grabs her hand, she has to work overtime to restrain the joy gushing out of her. I’ve never seen her so happy.

I can’t believe it worked. I feel a pit of dread form in my stomach.

“When did this...?” I gesture at their hands.

“Between third and fourth period,” Val and Ezra say at the same time.

“Whoa,” he says. “That was kinda weird.”

Kinda? I wonder if they practiced this meeting with me to make sure their coupledom was extra gagworthy.

“Ezra came up behind me at the Coke machine after third period.”

“I had to meet this funny, awesome girl who loved movies as much as I do.”

“And then he bought me a Diet Coke!”

“You’re telling it wrong. I bought you the Diet Coke while we were talking. I didn’t have champagne on me, so I had to use an alternative carbonated beverage to woo you.”

Val beams with pride.

“So you guys are official. Already. After one Diet Coke.”

“I don’t live my life by labels,” Ezra says. He brushes a strand of hair out of Val’s face. “You make me want to be a better man.”

“I do?”

“That was from As Good as It Gets.”

“It’s my favorite,” Val says.

“You’re my favorite.”

I roll my eyes. Is he for real? If only Ezra knew how much romance was actually involved. How her movie knowledge was taken from the internet, condensed into a cogent outline and written by me. How he is just the closest available option who happened to have some spare change handy.

“Let’s eat. I’m starving!” I signal for the cafeteria.

Neither of them move. The pit of dread expands.

“What?” I ask.

Val scrunches her eyebrows together. “I’m going to eat with Ezra today.” She leans against his shoulder. Their PDA level is rapidly escalating.

“We have some catching up to do,” he says. His eyes go up and to the left. Val’s right. It’s both awkward and adorable.

“Oh.”

She gives me a look only I can read, silently pleading with me to go with it.

“Okay.” I manage my best fake smile. I tell myself that this is what Val wants, and that I’m happy she’s happy.

“It was good seeing you,” Ezra says. They walk into the cafeteria holding hands.