9781250209153

“Darius Hart … Michael Lottke…,” he reads in his nasally voice.
“Charlotte Pascal…”
There’s a surge of applause from half the people in the room. Charlotte
smiles and tries to look demure, but to me she looks like a deranged
sociopath. I hold my breath, pleading for Irene’s name.
“Irene Abraham…,” our principal drones.
“YES!” I shout, pounding my fist on the desk. My face flushes red, but
it doesn’t matter: There’s enough noise from the rest of the classroom to
cover up my outburst. Half my classmates are shouting some variation of
“What? She’s a cheerleader!” while the other half are falling all over
themselves to hug Irene. I forget myself and stand up to get a better look at
her. She’s beaming, her smile radiant, her eyes as joyful as the old school
picture on her Christmas tree.
“And, lastly, with a record number of write-in votes … Danielle
Zander.”
Time freezes. My heart explodes in my chest. One fragile millisecond of
silence—Danielle’s jaw falling open, her eyes wide and disbelieving—and
then a roar of sound. People are shouting so loud my eardrums could burst.
I’m wrapped around my best friend before I even realize it, and I’m
squeezing her hands and yelling “You’re nominated! You’re nominated!”
More people rush over to hug her—band kids and theater kids and every
type of average kid—and when it finally hits her, she shines like a goddamn
star.
The classroom is absolute chaos, people running to Charlotte or Irene or
Danielle—or sometimes all three—while Mrs. Scuttlebaum yells in vain for
us to sit down. Our principal is still talking on the intercom, but he’s
nothing more than fuzzy white noise. And in the middle of the ruckus, in
one lightning-hot moment, Irene meets my eyes and winks.
Later that day, after practice, the parking lot is rife with SAOY gossip. It’s
unseasonably warm for February, and people are using the opportunity to
hang out by their cars. Music streams across the lot, courtesy of the baseball
team celebrating Darius Hart’s nomination. The soccer girls, fresh from