Opposite of Always(47)

“I know,” I say. “You guys have been awesome.”

Mom squeezes my hand. “The thing is, you don’t forfeit your whole world to prove your feelings to someone. You bring your worlds together. You get more world, not less.”

“Hey,” I say to Franny as we clear the kitchen table.

“Hey,” he mumbles back.

“So, there isn’t a good enough phrase to describe what I’ve done, but I’m really . . .”

But Franny shakes his head. “Save it, man. Soon as we get done with these dishes, I’m gonna get my payback.”

“Uhhhhh,” I gurgle.

“You’re about to get the ass-whooping of your young life,” he promises. “In Metal Brigade.”

He pushes me in the shoulder.

Jillian awwwws behind us.

I push him back the same.





Promises


The night before prom I can’t sleep.

I have Kate rattling around my head, of course. But it’s more than that.

I think about my last prom.

The teeter-totter feeling—initially believing I’d been stood up by Kate, only to find out that, no, she was actually in the hospital.

What if tomorrow, it happens all over again?

What if Kate doesn’t show? What if she’s not well?

But Kate does show. And she’s even more beautiful, which I didn’t think was possible.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her as soon as I open the front door.

“Umm, nervous, actually,” she says.

“That’s it? Nothing else?”

She laughs. “Excited? I don’t know what you want me to say.”

I want to just ask her, But do you feel healthy? I study her, although I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly, and I suppose she seems okay.

“Jack, aren’t you going to introduce us to your date?” Mom asks behind me. “I swear he wasn’t raised by wolves.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Mom, Dad, this is Kate. Kate, Mom and Dad.”

“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Dad says. “We’ve heard so many good things.”

Kate grins. “I hope they’re true.”

Mom beams. “You two look so good together. Can I hug you, Kate? Is that weird to ask?”

“Mom,” I protest.

But Kate laughs, holds out her arms. “I love hugs.”

“Sooo.” Kate nods. “This is what I missed out on when I didn’t go to my own prom.”

This year’s prom theme is Mardi Gras, and there are possibly more beads in this room than in the rest of the world combined. “Yes,” I say, taking in the scene. “All of . . . this.”

“Should I flip my top up now or wait until later?”

“As tempting as now is, my vote is later.”

“Good call,” she says, pulling me onto the dance floor. “First, let’s get our nonrhythmic grooves on.”

“Definitely,” I say. I snap my fingers and I am not within ten miles of locating the beat. Fortunately, Kate is also very good at being dysrhythmic.

“Nice, horrendous moves,” I say, as I perform a cross between the cha-cha and what I like to refer to as cracked-out polar bear on wheels.

“You’re pretty awesomely terrible yourself.” She flaps her arms so hard that either she is (invisibly) on fire and trying to put out the (invisible) flames or she is attempting to gather enough momentum to lift off, fly Mary Poppins style above our heads, before exiting this prom via the skylights.

“What do you call that move?” She steps back, presumably to get a better look at my killer routine.

“Isn’t it obvious? Chicken trapped on an escalator,” I say, not missing a beat, my arms flailing, my feet hopping up to the next invisible step.

And then she’s twirling her arms in a circle and making a whooshing noise, and then she’s spinning round and round. And I have to ask, “And what do you call that?”

“Cat on a windmill.”

We spend most of the evening on the dance floor, thoroughly embarrassing ourselves. And it’s electric.

“This punch would taste so much better if it was in a juice box,” Kate shouts over the thumping bass.

“Juice boxes are the best,” Jillian says.

“Juice boxes for president,” Franny yells, raising his plastic cup in the air.

I raise my cup. “Juice boxes for czar!”

When our favorite Mighty Moat song comes on, our foursome erupts in our worst dancing yet.

“I didn’t think anyone liked Mighty more than me,” Franny says to Kate, impressed at her word-for-word recitation.

“Would I sound pretentious if I told you it’s because I know the band?” Kate asks.

Franny stops dancing. “Get outta here.”

“Okay, I’ll get out,” Kate says. “But I don’t know how I’d invite you to their concert if I’m gone.”

“Are you serious?” Franny says, jumping up and down.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Jillian says, laughing.

“Jack, why have you kept Kate away from us?” Franny demands. Which seems to be a popular question.

On the last slow song, I mull over where I should put my hands, but Kate makes it easy for me—places my hands on her back centimeters above her ass. Her face rests on my shoulder. And there’s no place I would choose over here.