TWO
U nfortunately, other students aren’t as invested in executing the perfect teenage rite of passage.
Fifteen minutes into the student council prom-planning meeting and our fair president is nowhere to be seen.
Kassie (secretary and my best friend), Ollie (chief of fundraising), and Nori (creative vision) appear unfazed by our leader’s tardiness. Kassie and Nori are too busy hanging on to Ollie’s every word. He always has the latest Maplewood High School tea, which is allegedly “piping hot” today.
“Two kids from drama club got caught hooking up in the weight room this morning,” he explains, bouncing his thick brows suggestively. “Heard it from Coach Tanner.”
Nori perches on the chair like an owl, proverbial popcorn at the ready, layered butter and all. “What kind of hooking up ?”
Ollie makes a lewd gesture with his hands, which tells me more than I needed to know.
Kassie gasps, as if she and Ollie haven’t done much worse—like their bathroom rendezvous at my sixteenth birthday party. I haven’t used that bathroom since. “In the weight room? That’s ballsy.”
I snort. “Literally.”
They pass the next twelve minutes sharing other rumors about people boinking on school property (including Principal Proulx’s desk). Meanwhile, I clench my jaw, oversharpen my pencil, and stare at the clock.
I’m about to suggest we begin the meeting without Mr.President when the door whooshes open. Everyone hollers cheerfully, unbothered. Of course they do. Because everybody loves J.T.Renner.
“Track practice went late,” he announces unapologetically as he waltzes in, broad chest puffed out like God can’t touch him. His navy “smedium” T-shirt is working overtime today, fabric taut around his biceps in a thinly veiled effort to accentuate his muscles. Don’t get me wrong, I harbor no ill will toward muscles. As a scrawny nerd with nary an athletic bone in my body, I’m jealous of people who can open water bottle caps with ease and take the stairs without getting winded. I do, however, reserve the right to be petty when those muscles are attached to Renner, whose smug face makes me want to toss myself into a wormhole.
“It’s fine, Renner. It’s not like we have anywhere else to be.” I make my voice sugary sweet as he plunks into the seat beside me, stretching his abnormally long legs under the table. His left sneaker is less than an inch from my mustard patent ballet flat, and I don’t like it one bit.
He shoots me the stink eye—he does this whenever I use his last name. Everyone else calls him J. T. “Did I miss anything important?” he asks, extending a tanned arm to swipe one of the nut-free granola bars I generously supplied.
Because I’m a mature seventeen-year-old, I shift the granola bar pile two inches to the left. If you want it, work for it, sucker. He still manages to get his grubby paws on one without missing a beat.
“We’re only having the most critical meeting to date,” I say primly.
He tears the granola bar wrapper open like a chimpanzee as he conducts a stony inspection of my turtleneck T-shirt and matching plaid skirt. “Nice outfit, Char. Diarrhea green really is your color.”
“Thanks. I wore it to match your eyes,” I retort. For the record, my shirt is olive green.
Nori waves her hand like a wand, casting a pretend hex to dissolve the tension. “Guys, I have a FaceTime with my energy healer in forty minutes. Let’s get started.”
Ollie turns to a crisp, fresh page in his notebook. “Let’s go over the budget after our projected ticket sales,” he starts, barely suppressing a giggle when Kassie fondles his thigh under the table.
It was inevitable Kassie would fall for Ollie, a certified hottie (picture Michael B.Jordan but twenty years younger), on the first day of ninth grade. One look at his broad linebacker shoulders and her crush on Renner was but a distant memory.
A bit of important history: Kassie and Renner first met at a beach volleyball charity tournament a few days before high school started. A hot yet meaningless makeout against a tree ensued. But the moment Kassie met Ollie, she promptly forgot about Renner’s dopey Noah Centineo vibe, his seafoam-green eyes (that sadly don’t resemble diarrhea), and his tousled, wavy locks that look like shaved chocolate.
I’m aware this paints an enticing picture of Renner. But it’s just pure fact that he looks like the love child of all the great rom-com jocks. His superpower is bewitching people with his puppy-dog eyes and constant, gleaming smile. It’s straight-up sorcery, if you ask me.
There’s just something off about people who smile too much. From the get-go, I had a sneaking suspicion he was too good to be true. And he proved me right.
Let me take you back four years to the first week of freshman year. For a total of four and a half days, I may have developed a microscopic crush on Renner (as I said, sorcery). He sat in front of me first period. Every day, he’d turn around, flash me his perfect teeth, and ask to borrow one of my many pencils. I went through an entire package of mechanical pencils in one week, but it was my favorite moment each day.
One morning, instead of asking for a pencil, he slipped me a note that read, Homecoming? Circle Yes or No.
Containing my excitement was a task. Inside I was doing mental cartwheels and air-punches. But on the outside, I just lowered my chin in a controlled nod and circled Yes .
I regretted being so trigger happy when I told Kassie after class, neck spiking with heat at her blatantly unreadable expression.
“I can totally go back and tell him no,” I offered meekly, leaning against the banister for support. “I know I should have asked you first. I just thought you’d be cool with it now that you’re with Ollie. But I get it since you hooked up with him and—”
She shook her head, waving my words away before dashing up the stairs. “Technically, you should have. But he’s so not my type,” she assured as I followed. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you. I’m just ... surprised.”
I never imagined I’d have a date to homecoming (even though it was on my freshman bucket list). I also didn’t realize Renner saw me as anything but Kassie’s annoyingly uptight friend. Besides, I’m used to being invisible. If our friend group were a rom-com, Kassie would be the main character—the sunshine dream girl with an effervescent laugh. Then you have Nori, who marches to the beat of her own drum, dropping zany one-liners. Then there’s me. I’m not sassy, hot, or fun. I’m not even charming enough to be the uptight, sweater vest–wearing heroine who “just needs to let loose once in a while.” I’m the tertiary character. The overachieving mom-friend who takes care of everyone in the background but does zero to advance the plot.
But I digress. Back to homecoming. Renner and Ollie planned to pick Kassie and me up from her house. We’d ordered pizza and spent the entire evening in her room getting ready, fantasizing about our future double dates.
“Make sure you bring mints. He’s totally gonna kiss you,” Kassie declared, dabbing my nose with translucent shimmer powder.
I lit up, picturing my very first kiss under the scattered lights of the disco ball. “You think so?”
“Oh yeah. And he does this thing with his tongue—” And there it was. Another reminder that technically, Renner had been Kassie’s first. Comments like this made me uncomfortable, even though she didn’t intend it. She was just trying to relate to me. And realistically, it wasn’t her fault I was insecure.
Despite feeling eternally second to my best friend, I felt pretty that night in my blossom-pink satin minidress. Kassie said it accentuated my legs. My cheeks were sore from smiling in anticipation. But when Ollie arrived, he was alone, expression solemn. My eyes immediately welled with tears.
“J. T., umm ... he canceled last minute. Something about plans he forgot,” Ollie hastily explained before Kassie whisked me inside.
“Something you should know about J. T. is he’s a manwhore. I heard he’s been seeing a volleyball girl, Tessa, from Fairfax,” Kassie told me, dabbing my smeared mascara with a wad of toilet paper.
“Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known, I never would have agreed to go with him.” I sniffed from atop her bathroom counter.
She let out a shaky breath, hesitant. “You were so happy when he asked you ... I couldn’t burst your bubble.”
“Ugh, he’s such an asshole. I should call him out,” I said, fists balled in my lap.
“No.” Her tone was firm, eyes wide. “You know what the best revenge is? Having a fabulous night, dancing with all his friends, and forgetting about him entirely.” She held her hand out and pulled me off the counter.
Contrary to Kassie’s advice, I never forgot. I didn’t forgive either.
Renner tried apologizing the following Monday in first period. “I know you’re mad,” he’d said.
“I’m not. Just disappointed you didn’t even have the guts to tell me yourself.” I waited for him to reveal the truth—that he was interested in someone else. But he didn’t. He didn’t offer a single explanation.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I kept my eyes trained on the whiteboard, willing him to turn around and never speak to me again.
“Are you going to accept my apology?” he prodded, drumming his fingers against my desk.
“Honestly, Renner, don’t worry about it. I only agreed to go with you because Kassie made me.” It was all a lie, of course. He’d humiliated me. I’d cried all weekend in bed in a haze of Cheeto dust. But I’d be damned if I was going to let him know. I’d learned from Dad that disappointment was inevitable. And getting upset when he didn’t show up, like to my middle school graduation, never changed anything.
“Wow,” was all Renner said, brow furrowed. Then he spun around in a huff.
Served him right. Suffice it to say, we haven’t gotten along since.
Kassie mindlessly fluffs her thick, waist-length Blake Lively hair for volume, something she does approximately forty times an hour. “Since we’re a month out, we should see about setting up the prom ticket booths at lunchtime,” she suggests, unaware that I’ve already arranged it. I don’t say anything, though. She gets pouty when I do things without consulting anyone. “Prom committee is a team effort, not a solo mission,” she likes to say.
Renner lifts a lazy hand. “Wait, wait, wait. Did we decide if dinner is included yet?”
I let out a maddening sigh, grip tightening around my mechanical pencil. I see he’s stolen one of my three backups. “No, dinner is not included. For the tenth time. You’d know this if you cared to show up to the last two meetings.”
“It’s not my fault it’s track season. Sorry, I actually have a life. I highly recommend it.” He throws me one of his smug looks.
Did he really just insinuate I don’t have a life? I mean—he’s not entirely wrong. I have friends, even if I don’t get to hang out with them as often as I’d like. When I’m not scooping ice cream at Two Cows ’N’ a Cone or studying, I’m usually in my natural habitat, scrolling through the Netflix home screen, unable to decide between To All the Boys I, II, or III for the five hundredth time, only to end up on TikTok for hours. But I’d rather wear my contacts for a week straight than admit that to Renner.
“My sincerest regrets. Between doing your job as president in addition to my own as VP, getting a life slipped my mind. I’ll happily take yours, though.” I flash a smile.
Ollie, always the referee, waves his notebook like a flag. “Did we settle on the theme yet?”
I take this as my cue to whip out my tablet, which contains all seventeen slides of prom magic. Time to blow some minds.
Technically, Renner and I were supposed to propose a theme jointly to Principal Proulx. But since Renner’s been living his best life, I went ahead without him. It probably sounds like I’m a control freak. Maybe I am, but I can’t leave prom in the hands of this self-proclaimed “big-picture guy” and his bare-minimum approach to life.
Renner muffles a snicker with his elbow when the projector screen fills with vibrant stock photos of iconic landmarks.
I do my best to blur him out, zeroing in on everyone else’s comparatively comforting faces. “Picture this. Guests need a passport to enter prom. We’ll get to travel the entire globe in just one magical night. Instead of a sit-down plated dinner, we’ll have stations with all kinds of tiny appetizers. Chinese. Mexican. Ethiopian. Italian. And don’t even get me started on the possibilities for decor. I’m thinking gigantic cardboard cutouts of all the most famous landmarks, twinkling string lights, shimmery tulle drapery ...”
When my presentation ends fifteen minutes later, everyone slow claps—except Renner. Kassie is seconds from nodding off on Ollie’s shoulder, while Nori has taken to doodling on her wrist.
Renner twirls my pencil like a baton. He looks like he’s trying to solve a complex algebraic equation, on the cusp of breaking his poor little pea brain. Our eyes snag for a disturbing moment before he simply says, “Nah.”
I blink. “Nah?”
Nori, Kassie, and Ollie resettle in their seats, like they’re audience members at a UFC match, eagerly awaiting a gory bloodbath.
Renner shrugs and leans farther back in his chair. He’s practically horizontal, exuding serious dirtbag energy. “I think we can do better than Around the World.” He says around the world like it’s tired and juvenile, as if he’s heard it all before. He punctuates it with a half eye roll; he can’t be bothered to complete the three sixty.
“And what’s wrong with Around the World?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“How are we supposed to choose what food to order? Which landmarks? I’m Polish and German. I want pierogies and sausages. If we didn’t have them, I’d feel jilted.”
“Love when white boys get flustered when things aren’t all about them,” Nori teases.
Renner nods respectfully. “Touché, but my point still stands.”
“We won’t leave anyone out,” I assure. “We’ll poll everyone on their backgrounds and—”
Ollie raises his hand. “J. T. makes a good point, Char. It’s kinda ... invasive to go around asking people their ethnicities.”
“True,” Kassie reluctantly agrees. “I love the idea, but I think it’s too broad of a theme. Let’s think of something a little more laid-back and fun.”
Renner raises his brow in a silent I told you so , pleased that he’s stolen my thunder. It’s one of his favorite pastimes, after worshipping his own reflection and leaving people high and dry on special occasions.
I fold my arms, miffed. They do have a point. I overlooked the glaring privacy bit. But I can’t help but feel they’ve tossed my proposal prematurely without considering ways around it. Traitors. “Then what does Mr.President propose?”
He shrugs. “What about ...” He looks to the ceiling, as if the answer is up there. “Under the Sea?”
I want to keel over at the thought. Under the Sea means tacky seaweed, bubble machines, anchors, and ... fish decor. For the most magical night of teenage-hood? Someone hold me. “No. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.”
He meets my stare in a challenge. “Let’s vote on it.”