“Other than the obvious?” I reply, my goal momentarily forgotten. I’ve explained to Elle a dozen times why I disapprove of Jason. He’s an annoying, airheaded actor who adores nothing more than his own reflection. He has a girlfriend, who I’m guessing isn’t here—and who I have to hang out with every day during cross-country after school. “You know I don’t condone this.”
“If I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it,” she replies. “Why’d you pull me in here?”
My nerves catch fire. Andrew’s out there only feet away. I pace the disgusting restroom floor, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “Do you have a shade of lipstick that’s, like, seductive?”
Understanding dawns in Elle’s eyes. “You are interested in one of the soccer players. Tell me who.”
“Andrew.”
“Andrew Richmond?” Elle starts to smile.
“Do you have any lipstick or not?” I ask loudly, crossing my arms.
Elle’s watching me with skepticism and a hint of humor. “For your information, I don’t just carry around a complete color palette wherever I go. If you’re going to borrow my makeup, you’re going to need to text me beforehand what you’re wearing and how much sun you’ve gotten that day. I don’t just have lipstick for you.”
“Fine.” I level my gaze with hers. “I’ll go borrow Morgan’s. I have plans for the night, and if you won’t—”
Elle sighs. “Come here,” she orders. “You’d look awful in what Morgan’s wearing.”
With a swell of satisfaction, I lean on the counter, facing away from the mirror, and watch Elle pull out no fewer than four shades of lipsticks from her purse. She proceeds to mix them on her hand and then dab the color on my lips with one finger. Elle’s a professional and a perfectionist. I knew she’d have something.
“For years you have me do the dirty work of discouraging every guy interested in you,” she says, holding my chin while she paints my lips. “Now you’re chasing Andrew Richmond. Would you care to explain?”
“No, I would not,” I reply shortly. I could explain if I wanted to. For months I’ve had a list of reasons to break my no-dating rule for Andrew. He makes me laugh. He’s objectively gorgeous. We’re both runners. He’s committed. He’s proven he has goals and works hard. I don’t want to die a virgin.
“It’s because he’s new blood, isn’t it?” she goes on, ignoring me. “He’s new to the popular crowd. He just made varsity soccer, he’s the only guy here who hasn’t dated every blonde within reach—he’s exciting. And you haven’t had enough time with him yet to know he’s as lame as every other guy.”
“I’ve known Andrew for years,” I fire back. “I’d know if he was lame. Like I know with Jason.” I cut her a pointed look, which she brushes off. “Andrew’s . . . different.”
“How different?” Elle presses, her voice heavy with skepticism.
I don’t reply right away, because I’m remembering a rainy afternoon in December of junior year. We were in my bedroom because our moms were having dinner downstairs, but we couldn’t go for a run with buckets pouring from the sky. We’d been working on homework, and I was panicking about a group project on which I’d been paired with none other than Abby Fleischman, who’d unacceptably decided dressing in a ridiculous costume and going to a comic book convention was a worthwhile use of her weekend. Which it obviously wasn’t, and we’d gotten nothing done on the project. I was five minutes into a world-class rant about Abby’s objectionable life choices when Andrew glanced up from his history textbook.
“People are starving, Cameron,” he said dryly. “You’ll survive.”
I blinked, too thrown to be angry, and burst out laughing. And then Andrew was laughing, and the panic in my chest eased. I noticed he was cute when he laughed. I noticed the dimple in his right cheek. I noticed the way his eyes lit up, and the whole room with them.
“We work. We just do,” I tell Elle.
She doesn’t reply. “If I’m going to finish your lipstick,” she says after a moment, “you’ll have to stop smiling like an idiot.”
I can’t help it. I smile wider.
Elle flicks my nose in return. “Okay.” She steps back to scrutinize her work. “You’re ready.”
Every memory of Andrew and me dances through my head—every conversation, every run, every laugh. Every private, perfect moment. Why was I nervous? Tonight isn’t about looking perfect or saying the perfect flirtatious thing. It’s about him and me.
“I am,” I say, not bothering to check my reflection in the mirror. Andrew knows me better than everyone except my closest friends. All I need is to be myself.