Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
FRANKIE
B y Wednesday, the hallways had become a war zone.
Not of gossip or tension—though that still simmered like bad leftovers—but of glitter bombs, choreographed marching bands, helium balloons, and too many roses to count.
Homecoming proposal season had officially begun.
And as usual, our school didn’t just lean in. We went full Broadway.
Archie and I walked into first period behind a girl holding a live goat wearing a t-shirt that said “Will you bleat my date?” and I wasn’t even surprised.
With a snort, Archie dropped into his desk. At his lack of biting commentary, I raised my brows. “Too easy,” he mouthed and I grinned. For a few seconds, we were just us again.
The only thing that shocked me at the moment was how quickly people forgot about the mess at lunch just days ago. Trauma had a short shelf life at Robertson High.
Rachel met me at my locker with a dry smile and a barely concealed eye roll.
“Three promposals by 8:20. A new record. I’m calling FEMA.”
I popped open my locker and tried not to laugh. “You think they’d show up?”
“Only if someone sets off a pyrotechnic display. Which, honestly, give it until third period.”
She leaned against the row of lockers beside me and tapped a notification on her phone. “Someone just posted that the mascot’s doing a halftime proposal at Friday’s pep rally. I give it ten minutes before we have a mascot brawl.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Chad versus other Chad?”
Rachel gave a solemn nod. “The two species.”
As we made our way to class, we passed a girl covered in rose petals from a “Love Actually”–style cue card proposal that ended in a fog machine fail and a minor asthma attack.
A theater kid’s a cappella group serenaded someone in the stairwell.
And someone else, I swear, was building an actual archway in the quad. With scaffolding.
It was… a lot.
During lunch, things got even more chaotic.
A guy in a Cupid costume skateboarded into the cafeteria and nearly crashed into a lunch cart.
A girl screamed as confetti rained from the ceiling.
At our table, Bubba wore the expression of someone two seconds away from giving up on humanity altogether.
He’d already stared down one guy carrying a bucket of something and they took a wide circuit rather than cut past us.
“You’d think they were proposing marriage, not a dance,” he muttered, watching a junior literally unfurl a banner with a drone. “What happened to texting and keeping it casual?”
Mathieu, seated beside me with his ever-calm expression and a sandwich he’d been politely ignoring, gave a small shake of his head. “I didn’t think this kind of thing was real,” he said. “I thought it only happened in movies. The glitter. The signs. The livestock.”
I smirked. “Everything’s bigger in Texas.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Even the romantic gestures?”
“Especially those,” I said, a little rueful. “There’s an unspoken rule here—if you don’t rent a mariachi band or stage a flash mob, do you even like the person?”
Mathieu looked faintly alarmed. “I didn’t realize there were… expectations.”
Rachel snorted into her iced tea. “Don’t worry. Frankie hates flash mobs. And mariachi bands. And public emotional displays. Basically, she doesn’t like anything involving feelings in font size 500.”
I gave her a flat look. “Thanks, Rach.”
“You’re welcome. Just keeping the emotional bar where it belongs: manageable, indoors, and slightly sarcastic.”
“Add caffeinated,” I said, raising my cup in a toast.
“Obviously.”
Archie showed up halfway through lunch, plunking himself down with iced coffees for me and Rachel, much to her surprise, and a frap for Bubba.
He even had a black tea with lemonade for Mathieu.
The extra iced coffee had to be for Coop who strolled in.
He’d disappeared after fourth, so I guessed he went with Archie or something.
“What did we miss?” he asked.
“Cupid wiped out,” Bubba deadpanned.
“A drone banner nearly decapitated one of the lunch ladies,” Rachel added.
“Someone’s goat ate a geometry assignment,” I finished.
Archie nodded, completely unfazed. “Ah. You should have let me make the bingo card.”
I almost snorted my iced coffee.
Mathieu leaned toward me and whispered, “Are we supposed to start preparing countermeasures?”
I laughed—soft, involuntary.
The truth was, for a few minutes, it actually felt like a normal high school lunch. The kind with inside jokes and snack trades and the kind of absurdity that makes you forget you’re holding your breath.
But it didn’t last.
Because every time someone looked at me— really looked—I could still see it.
That question behind their eyes.
Who was I going with?
Was Jake still in the picture?
Was it Archie? Coop? The French one ?
Had someone asked her already?
And worse— had someone been rejected?
Everyone had a theory.
I had none.
And as much as I hated to admit it… I didn’t have an answer either. And I wasn’t sure how we were ever going to get us back.
By Thursday, it felt like the school was actively auditioning for America’s Next Top Proposal .
Someone installed a glitter cannon in the gym that misfired and dusted half the volleyball team like radioactive cupcakes.
Another guy faked a pop quiz in English class just to slide a “Will you go with me?” note into the test packet.
It wasn’t romantic. It was mostly confusing. The girl said yes anyway.
And the banner drone? It came back. This time trailing a six-foot heart and a QR code to a TikTok video of someone singing “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran in three-part harmony.
It was like watching a very sparkly apocalypse.
The weirdest part?
The roses didn’t stop.
Every day—one or two at a time, tucked into my locker or resting carefully on my desk in AP Euro—wrapped in simple parchment paper, no glitter, no note. Just soft petals and the faintest trace of scent, like the sender knew I couldn’t handle anything more right now.
Rachel thought it was adorable.
“I don’t care who it is,” she said Wednesday afternoon, plucking one from my backpack like she was inspecting a rare artifact. “This is emotional warfare. They’re winning.”
“I don’t think it’s supposed to be a war,” I said, though my cheeks burned.
Rachel shrugged. “Everything’s a war. This one just smells better.”
Mathieu hadn’t asked me to homecoming.
He hadn’t mentioned it, either.
Which—I told myself—was fine . We weren’t labeling things. We were going slow. Casual. It didn’t have to be some dramatic thing.
Still, every time another flash mob broke into “Can’t Help Falling In Love,” I felt something sharp twist in my chest. Not jealousy, exactly. Just… something else. An ache.
I didn’t want a parade.
But I wouldn’t have hated a question .
By Friday morning, Coop had the look of a man on the brink of a carefully timed mission.
He kept scribbling in a notebook during free period, tucking it away when anyone got too close.
He’d stop mid-stride in the hallway and study the ceiling tiles like they were part of a secret map.
It was kind of cute. Kind of terrifying.
Then, one by one, the unexpected started to happen.
Bubba tugged my arm after second period, drawing me away from the rush of kids heading to their next classes.
He looked nervous. Bubba . The guy who once punched a hole in drywall because some jackass knocked me off my bike and I scraped up my arm.
The move was way more Jake than Bubba, but he’d been pissed .
I didn’t think he even had a nervous expression.
But there he was, scratching the back of his neck, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Hey, uh—Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
He exhaled through his nose. “I know it’s kinda last minute. And weird. And I totally get it if someone already—well. I just wanted to ask if maybe, if you’re not already going with someone else… you’d wanna go to the dance with me?”
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
“Bubba…”
“You don’t have to answer now!” he said quickly, voice low and awkward. “No pressure. I just figured, y’know, in case no one else?—"
“Hey.” I touched his arm lightly.
He gave me a sheepish smile. “I’m trying to be lowkey charming.”
“You’re doing great.”
“Remember, I did ask that you not limit yourself?”
“I do.”
“Then—think about it? If you want me to go bigger with the ask, just tell me. I’ll do it.” He blew out a breath and held up a hand. “I meant what I said, you don’t have to answer yet.”
That made my heart flip flop. “Okay.”
He nodded once, then bolted like I’d just handed him a live grenade instead of a compliment.
I didn’t even have time to breathe before it happened again.
That afternoon, in the art wing stairwell—quiet, echoey, usually where people went to cry or hide from pep rally sign-ups—Archie found me.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned a shoulder against the rail and looked at me like he was still figuring out how to begin.
Then, after a long pause: “I won’t do glitter. Or drones. Or a six-piece jazz band.”
I blinked. “Okay…”
“But if you’d rather skip the whole circus and go with someone who won’t make you slow dance to Jason Mraz , I’m your guy.”
My heart stuttered.
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
He gave me a smile. That easy, infuriating, Archie smile. The kind that said he wasn’t asking for an answer right then. Just planting the idea like a seed in soil.
“You know where to find me,” he said. “If the roses aren’t a declaration you’re already spoken for.”
A beat of silence.
“Frankie?”
My heart beat so hard I worried it was about to punch its way out of my ribs.
“To be one hundred percent clear, this is me, once again, asking you out on a date. If you want to skip that dance and go play mini-golf, we can do that too. I just want the time with you.” He stared at me so long, it was like he was trying to make sure I got the message in my soul.
I did.
“You have time and I’m patient.” A whisper of a promise and a wink that was just all my Archie.