P.S. I Still Love You(68)
As we sway, I’m remembering the eighth grade formal, how everyone paired up and no one asked me to go. I’d thought Genevieve and I were riding over together, but then she said Peter’s mom was taking them, and they were going to a restaurant first, like a real date, and it would be awkward if I tagged along. So it ended up being her and Peter and Sabrina Fox and John. I’d hoped John McClaren would ask me for a slow dance, but he didn’t; he didn’t dance with anyone. The only guy who really danced was Peter. He was always in the center of the cool-people dance circle.
John’s hand is pressed against my back, leading me, and I think he’s forgotten all about the game. I’ve got him in my crosshairs now.
“You’re not so bad,” I tell him. Song’s halfway over. I’d better hop to the beat. I’ve got you in five, four, three, two—
“So . . . you and Kavinsky, huh?”
He’s distracted me completely, and I’ve forgotten all about the game for a moment. “Yeah . . .”
Clearing his throat, he says, “I was pretty surprised that you guys were together.”
“Why? Because I’m not his type?” I say it casually, like it’s nothing, a fact, but it stings like a little pebble thrown directly at my heart.
“No, you are.”
“Then why?” I’m pretty sure John’s going to say “because I didn’t think he was your type,” just like Josh did.
He doesn’t answer right away. “That day you came to Model UN, I tried to follow you out to the parking lot, but you were already gone. Then I got your letter, and I wrote you back, and you wrote me back, and then you invited me to the tree-house thing. I guess I didn’t know what to think. You know what I mean?” He looks at me expectantly, and I feel like it’s important that I say yes.
All the blood rushes to my face, and I hear a pounding in my ears, which I belatedly realize is the sound of my heart beating really fast. My body is still dancing, though.
He keeps talking. “Maybe it was dumb to think that, because all that stuff was such a long time ago.”
All what stuff? I want to know, but it wouldn’t be right to ask. “Do you know what I remember?” I ask suddenly.
“What?”
“The time Trevor’s shorts split open when you guys were playing basketball. And everybody was laughing so hard that Trevor started getting mad. But not you. You got on your bike and you rode all the way home and brought Trevor a pair of shorts. I was really impressed by that.”
He has a faint half smile on his face. “Thanks.”
Then we’re both quiet and still dancing. He’s an easy person to be quiet with. “John?”
“Hmm?”
I look up at him. “I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I’ve got you. I mean, I have your name. In the game.”
“Seriously?” John looks genuinely disappointed, which makes me feel guilty.
“Seriously. Sorry.” I press my hands against his shoulders. “Tag.”
“Well, now you have Kavinsky. I was really looking forward to taking him out, too. I had a whole plan and everything.”
All eagerness I ask, “What was your plan?”
“Why should I tell the girl who just tagged me out?” he challenges, but it’s a weak challenge, just for show, and we both know he’s going to tell me.
I play along. “Come on, Johnny. I’m not just the girl who tagged you out. I’m your pen pal.”
John laughs a little. “All right, all right. I’ll help you.”
The song ends and we step apart. “Thanks for the dance,” I say. After all this time, I finally know what it’s like to dance with John Ambrose McClaren. “So what would you have asked for if you won?”
He doesn’t hesitate even one beat. “Your peanut butter chocolate cake with my name written in Reese’s Pieces.”
I stare at him in surprise. That’s what he would have wished for? He could have anything and he wants my cake? I give him a curtsy. “I’m so honored.”
“Well, it was a really good cake,” he says.
40
ON THE PHONE A FEW nights later, Peter suddenly says, “You have me, don’t you?”
“No!” I haven’t told him I took out John over the weekend. I don’t want him—or Genevieve, for that matter—to have any extra info. It’s down to the three of us now.