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  “I pay attention whenever anyone in class speaks,” she says.

  “Sure, but when other people speak, you just sit there with the end of your pencil in your mouth, looking at the ceiling. When Justin opens his mouth, you turn to look at him and your eyes get all wide and dreamy like some girl in a Japanese cartoon. Trust me on this one. I could draw your swoony, slack-jawed love profile from memory.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Hey, don’t be offended,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with digging on a guy. Justin’s cute, in a strange, geeky, scientist hipster sort of way. You guys would make a good couple.”

  “I’m not offended,” she says. “I’m embarrassed. Is it really that obvious?”

  “No, not at all. The only way I picked up on it is that I have excellent straightdar. I’m sure nobody else notices.”

  “Really?”

  “Not really. You practically drool when he walks into the room.”

  “Oh my god.” She starts chewing her nails.

  “Relax,” I say, grabbing her hand and pulling it away from her face. “I’m just messing with you. And quit that right now. Nail-biting is gross and unhygienic.”

  We turn onto the strip. We haven’t even walked a block when a minivan full of jerks drives by and some yahoo tosses an empty soda bottle at me. It misses me narrowly.

  “Hey, faggot!” the guy yells.

  Andrea jumps back, startled. I reach down and pick up the bottle and whip it at the van.

  “Tell your dad he left his undies at my house, asshole!” I yell.

  Andrea turns to stare at me.

  “Asshole!” I yell again as the van disappears into the distance.

  She won’t stop staring. “What?” I ask.

  “Jesus, Roemi,” she says. “Those guys. They just…did they just…?”

  “Yes, Andrea, they screamed a homophobic slur at me.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “I don’t know—they drove by too quick. They might have just been yelling because of my outfit. I do kind of look like the master of ceremonies in Cabaret.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Okay,” she says. She’s still looking at me though.

  “Andrea,” I say, “it’s fine. It’s Granite Ridge—it’s a hazard of the landscape. I can’t wait to get out of this place. Aren’t you excited to graduate and get the hell out of here?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I guess I don’t really think about it that much.”

  “Well, I think about it,” I say. “I think about it every fucking day. Anyway, where do you suppose Paul and Candace are? This adventure is starting to suck.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” she says, looking up and down the street.

  “Well, let’s just walk this way,” I say. “Maybe they’ll drive by us or something.” I pull my phone out of my pocket. Nothing from John.

  “What are you looking at?” asks Andrea.

  “Just seeing if Monsieur Dickhead had a change of heart.”

  “And?”

  “Nada. He’s obviously making out with a football player or something as we speak.”

  “Oh, come on,” she says. “He must have had a good reason for standing you up. Didn’t you get any hints from him or anything?”

  “We weren’t playing twenty questions, Andrea,” I say. “Besides, it’s hard to pick up on that stuff online.”

  “Are you telling me that you never met this guy in person?” she asks.

  “Of course not,” I say. “We video-chatted all the time though. That counts, right?”

  “I don’t think so,” she says. “I don’t get it. I thought you were, like, the king of dating or something.”

  “You obviously weren’t listening. I told you I had great straightdar. I’m great at helping girls figure out boys and giving fashion tips and stuff. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the only out gay student at Granite Ridge High School. I haven’t had much personal practice with dating.”

  “So you don’t know anything about this guy except for what you learned online?”

  “Hey, don’t knock Google! I know what his parents do, I know where he lives, I even found supercute pictures of him playing Little League a few years back. We’re practically engaged.”

  “Yeah, but Roemi—”

  “Hey,” I say, putting my hand up to cut her off. “Can we stop talking about this? I know the whole thing was stupid and I should never have expected it to work out. I just don’t really want to admit any of that right now. I want to feel hard done by. I want to wallow in self-pity. If I wanted to answer questions about my failed date, I’d be at the prom right now talking to my real friends about it.”

  “Okay, I get it,” she says. She starts walking briskly ahead of me.

  I feel like a total asshole. She’s just trying to help.

  “Hey, wait up!” I say, hurrying after her although I think my shoes are starting to kill the nerve endings in my feet.

  “On a more cheerful note, I’ll bet you that with my help we could make Justin fall head over heels for you.”

  She stops and waits for me to catch up, turning around and raising a skeptical eyebrow at me.

  “Seriously,” I say. “Justin is the kind of guy who needs to be told what’s going on. He’s a bit spacey, if you know what I mean. He’s not going to figure this thing out on his own, but with some prompting, I guarantee you guys could be married by graduation.”

  She laughs. “That’s what Bethanne tells me. She says that if I like him, I’m probably going to have to make the first move. She says he has no skills.”

  “Well, Bethanne’s a wise woman,” I say. “Despite her bangs.”

  “That was kind of the main reason I wanted to go to prom,” she tells me. “I was going to talk to him, or whatever.”

  “That’s as good a plan as any,” I say. “Talking is usually a good first step.”

  Andrea’s attention drifts past me. “Check it out,” she says, pointing across the street.

  I turn and see Paul and Candace sitting inside the Starbucks. We cross the street to the coffee shop and stop outside, watching them through the window. They’re a mismatched couple, to say the least, but it actually kind of looks like they’re on a first date or something.

  “Man oh man,” I say. “If Lannie saw this, they’d both have to go into the witness protection program.”

  I knock on the window and Paul waves, beckoning us in. The look on Candace’s face is harder to read. I wonder if she wants us there at all.

  “What happened to you guys?” I ask, taking a seat.

  Paul and Candace go back and forth as they tell us the cop story. “My dad’s going to kick my ass if I don’t get his ladder home tonight,” Paul says, leaning back into his seat.

  “Can’t you just go home and get the truck again?” asks Andrea.

  “That cop was being a total asshole,” says Candace. “If we go back up there in the truck, he’ll be all over us.”

  “What about my parents’ Land Cruiser?” I ask. “It has a roof rack. Would the ladder fit on top of it?”

  “Are you serious?” says Paul. “That would totally work. You don’t think your parents would mind?”

  “They’d be thrilled to help,” I tell him. “They’re very enthusiastic people.”

  “That would be awesome, man. Thanks!” he says.

  I glance past him as a couple of women come in and walk up to the counter. “Uh, Paul,” I say. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but does Lannie have any idea that you’re spending prom night hanging out with the Breakfast Club?”

  “What? No, so please don’t mention it next time you see her.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at,” I say. “Don’t turn around now, but her mom just walked in.”

  “Shit!” he says, slouching down in his seat.

  “Okay, listen,” I say
. “The important thing is not to panic.” I turn to the girls. “I’m going to make a distraction and then you guys hustle Paul out of here. Try to keep him covered.”

  “Roemi, he’s a foot taller than either of us,” says Andrea.

  “Just do your best, and wait for the right moment.” I jump out of my chair and run over to the counter, where Mrs. Freston and her friend are waiting for their coffees. I quickly move around in front of her to keep her facing away from our table. “Hi, Mrs. Freston!” I say.

  She actually jumps a little bit, startled. “Oh, Roemi. You scared me. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Freston,” I say cheerfully. I make a quick motion with my hand, signaling for Paul and the girls to leave. Paul shakes his head and points past me at the door. I know what he means—if they run for the door, Mrs. Freston will definitely see him. But she’ll also see him if she turns away from the counter with her drink. We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  I just stand there, smiling like an idiot. My mind races, trying to figure out what to do. I’m obviously interrupting them, but I can’t lose their attention.

  “Do you like my tuxedo?” I ask.

  “It’s very…colorful,” she says. “Why aren’t you at prom?”

  “Oh, it’s a long story, Mrs. Freston,” I say. “I guess you could say I’m president of the lonely hearts club this evening. Drowning my sorrows in a skim macchiato with an extra shot of espresso, a pump of vanilla and whipped cream. I know the whipped cream kind of defeats the purpose of the skim, but you know what they say, yin and yang. The circle of life and all that.”

  Behind her, Paul and the girls move slowly through the coffee shop and stop just out of Mrs. Freston’s line of sight. The barista reaches over and places two drinks on the counter next to the ladies, who appear happy for the excuse to turn away from me.

  “Well, it was nice to see you, Roemi,” says Mrs. Freston as she moves to grab her drink.

  “Wait!” I say. They turn back to me. Mrs. Freston’s friend looks a bit nervous. Hard to blame her—it’s not every day a short gay teenager in a purple tuxedo screams at you in a Starbucks.

  “Wait just one second,” I say. “I promise you’ll be happy you did. Has Lannie told you about my amazing new act?”

  “No, I don’t believe she has.” The look on her face tells me that Mrs. Freston is running out of patience.

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t. All the kids at school are super impressed with it. I’m hoping it gets me a scholarship or something. Okay, cover your eyes. You too, ma’am,” I say to her bewildered friend.

  “What? Roemi, this is all very strange.”

  “Please!” I say. “It will just take a second, and I’m having such a horrible night, I’d love to bring some joy into someone else’s evening.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Diane,” says her friend. “Let’s just watch his act.”

  “Thank you, ma’am! Now cover your eyes, and no peeking!”

  Reluctantly, Mrs. Freston puts her drink back on the counter, and she and her friend cover their eyes. I motion for Paul and the girls to hustle. As they scurry out of the coffee shop, I say, “Okay, ladies, on the count of three. One! Two! Three!”

  They drop their hands, and I break into a snappy little tap dance. I improvise by twirling in a circle and even throw some jazz hands into the mix before stopping with a flourish, flipping an imaginary top hat down my arm. Mrs. Freston doesn’t look very impressed, but her friend claps politely.

  “That was pretty good,” says the barista from behind the counter.

  “Thanks! I’m here all week,” I say as I turn and race to the door. “Goodbye, Mrs. Freston,” I call over my shoulder. “Say hi to Lannie for me!”

  The guys are waiting around the corner of the building.

  “Did you seriously just tap-dance for Lannie Freston’s mom?” asks Andrea.

  “It was either that or my Michael Bublé impression,” I say. “Now let’s get out of here before they decide to leave.” I point dramatically toward my street. “To the Roemicave!”

  ANDREA

  Roemi’s house is the kind of place my mom would kill to have on her listings sheet. Most houses in Granite Ridge are pretty boring, mainly bungalows and split-levels. Roemi’s, however, is a contemporary castle, all glass and steel and exposed wooden beams, sitting on a perfectly landscaped hill. He leads the way up the front walk and shoves the huge front door open.

  “I’m home!” he hollers.

  Sticking together and staying a few feet back, the rest of us follow him into the house. The place is enormous, with soaring beamed ceilings and expensive leather furniture. In front of us, a large steel staircase leads to a landing with a bunch of doorways opening off it. It feels like a movie star’s house.

  Candace stops in front of a giant abstract painting.

  “This is incredible, Roemi,” she says.

  “Yeah, my parents love that artsy shit.” He cups his hands over his mouth. “I’m home!” he yells again at the top of his lungs.

  “Hello, dear!” The voice comes from somewhere deep inside the house.

  “They’re in the family room,” Roemi explains. “Probably watching reruns of Friends or something. They love sitcoms. Come meet them. Don’t worry about your shoes. The cleaning woman will be here tomorrow.”

  As we follow him, Candace turns to us and mouths, “Wow!” Paul and I nod in agreement.

  The family room is actually more of a home theater. A gigantic TV takes up most of one wall, and big plush armchairs and couches are lined up in front of it. There’s a popcorn machine and bowls full of candy on a table in the corner.

  Two smiling people get up from their chairs as we come into the room.

  “Hello, dear!” says his mom. “We wondered where you went. Hello, Roemi’s friends, I’m Roemi’s mother.” She looks at Paul and smiles. “You must be Roemi’s boyfriend, come to take him to prom after all.”

  Candace snickers as Paul turns red.

  “As if,” says Roemi. “This is Paul and Andrea—they go to school with me—and this is Candace. She’s a traveling gypsy artist.”

  “Oh, how wonderful, an artist,” says Roemi’s dad. “What kind of work do you do? Do you have anything for sale at the moment?”

  This time, Candace looks uncomfortable. “Um, no, not really. Thanks for asking though.”

  Roemi’s dad beams at Candace, and his mom beams at his dad, and then they both turn and beam at Roemi. There are some good vibes in this room.

  “Roemi,” says his dad, “why don’t you take your friends to the kitchen and give them some ice cream?”

  “No, thanks, Dad, we’re in a rush. Can we borrow the Land Cruiser?”

  His dad frowns slightly and squints at Roemi. “The Land Cruiser? Who’s going to be driving?”

  “Paul,” says Roemi. Paul’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything.

  Roemi’s dad turns to Paul, his cheerful face suddenly stern. “Do you have your driver’s license, young man?”

  “Uh, yes sir,” says Paul. “I’ve been through driver’s ed and got my full license a couple of months ago.”

  “And there will obviously be no joyriding or going over the speed limit?”

  “For sure,” says Paul. “I mean, I’ll drive safe. No speeding.”

  “There will be no drinking and driving, will there?”

  “Dad!” says Roemi. “No drinking and anything! Come on, I promise.”

  Roemi’s dad thinks about it for a moment, his face deadly serious.

  “Okay then,” he says. “As long as safety comes first. Use your seat belts!” He smiles broadly again. “The keys are hanging on the wall in the garage.”

  “Great, thanks,” says Roemi. “Come on,” he says, turning to the rest of us. “Let’s go up to my room so I can throw some jeans on.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say to his parents as Roemi hustles us out of the family room.

  “Have fun!” they say in u
nison.

  Roemi’s bedroom is as impressive as the rest of the house, although quite a bit messier. Sliding glass doors open onto a little balcony, and a bright white bathroom is visible through a doorway. On one side of the room is a sitting area with a couch and an armchair that faces a desk with a massive computer monitor on it. A goldfish in a bowl sits on top of a mini fridge. Plastered all over the walls are Abercrombie & Fitch ads of muscular shirtless guys; a giant poster of Lady Gaga hangs over the bed.

  “Roemi, what the hell?” says Paul as soon as we’re in the room. “You didn’t tell me I’d be driving.”

  “Well, I can’t do it,” says Roemi. “I don’t even have my learner’s permit. What’s the big deal? Anyway, grab a seat,” he tells us. “I just have to figure out what to wear. There’s soda and stuff in the fridge.” He rummages through piles of clothes and quickly comes up with a pair of jeans and a neon-green T-shirt. He goes into the bathroom and closes the door but comes back out again almost right away.

  “Can’t do it,” he says. “I look too good in this tux. I’m paying for it too, so I might as well get my money’s worth. I’ll just put sneakers on.”

  I drop into Roemi’s incredibly comfortable couch.

  “I could get used to this, Roemi,” I say.

  “Tell me about it,” says Paul.

  It’s kind of strange to be hanging out somewhere that isn’t either my house or Bethanne’s. It’s even stranger for the four of us to be here together.

  “Your parents seem really cool, Roemi,” I say.

  “What do they do?” asks Candace.

  “Dad’s a family doctor and Mom’s a shrink,” he says.

  “Do they want you to be a doctor too?” asks Paul.

  “No way,” says Roemi. “Only if I want to be, which I don’t. Gross. As long as I find something I enjoy doing and work hard at it, they’re pretty much cool with whatever.”

  “Must be nice,” I say. “My mom has been pushing me to go into engineering since I was a kid.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do?” asks Paul.

  “Probably,” I say. “It pays well, and I’m good at math and science.”

  “Way to live your own life,” says Candace, who’s sitting with her legs over the edge of the armchair.