“Right,” I say, my face suddenly flaming hot. I never get embarrassed, but now I feel so truly and desperately embarrassed. It washes over me, hot and sticky, unexpected and unfamiliar, and I want to run upstairs, slam my bedroom door shut, turn my fan on high and hide on my bed underneath it.
But if Sam and Laura actually had a good time last night, if they genuinely like each other, then that means my algorithm isn’t a complete disaster. That our project isn’t completely ruined. And I know that’s a good thing. But it’s still hard to breathe, and my face still burns too hot.
“I should probably go,” Sam says, standing. “I’ll leave you the donuts, though, okay, E?”
“Yeah,” I say. I stand up to walk him to the door, and he reaches over, gives me a quick hug. His arms feel gentle and kind, and my embarrassment lessens, because even though I did the wrong thing, read the situation all wrong, he’s not upset. “And thanks,” I say. “For the donuts, and for...” I can’t articulate the rest in words for a minute. Finally, I say, “Making me feel better.”
He nods, like he gets it. “Anytime, E. Anytime.”
* * *
Izzy’s FaceTime chime an hour later is so predictable I’m annoyed with myself for not having thought to preempt it with a text to her, telling her not to listen to George, and that I’m fine. Everything is fine! But the truth is, I’m still not fine, and I pick up, relieved to see her there, even if it’s just on my screen, and really, she’s 2,764 miles away. Still, I can’t believe George involved her again, after just apologizing to me last week for doing it the last time.
“Whatever George said, don’t listen,” I say before she can say anything.
“George?” She frowns. “What happened with George?”
For some reason, I think of that moment last night, the two of us dancing, my cheek pressed into the wool of his jacket. But then I quickly remember the way, only twenty minutes later, his angry words had felt like a slap. The dance meant nothing, the same way Sam’s kind hand on my knee meant nothing.
“Never mind,” I say. “What’s going on, Iz? I thought you had midterms.”
“I do, but Dad texted me and asked me to check in on you.”
I sigh. Not George at all. Dad. I should’ve thought to mollify him with...something last night. Some excuse or explanation. Since Sam had showed up right after I woke up, I haven’t remembered to text Dad back this morning yet, either. I feel bad that I worried him enough that he texted Izzy to check on me.
“Well, I’m fine, Iz. Really.”
“That’s not what Dad said. He said you went to the dance, and something happened and you seemed upset and then you wouldn’t talk to him about it.”
I bite my tongue because I know if I tell Izzy the truth about what happened, she’ll tell me that she told me so about my app. And Sam is right. Now that we’ve submitted it for the state competition, we’re going to have to figure something out. I’m not dropping out of the competition, not failing as co-president my senior year.
“But you went to the dance,” Izzy finally says. “That’s good. I’m proud of you, Em.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well...” I let my voice trail off, not wanting to elaborate more. I’m thinking about what Sam said, about how our app isn’t bad, or a total disaster; it just needs more work. Hannah needs a new match, and we need to account for jerks like Phillip. “Hey, Iz,” I say. “If you had to pick the number one thing that makes you and John work, that makes you love him, what would it be?”
“Did you actually dance with a boy last night?” Izzy’s eyes widen, then go fuzzy on my screen.
“No,” I say too quickly. I did dance with George, but that doesn’t really count. I’m not going to tell her about that. “That’s not why I’m asking. I’m just trying to figure out what’s the most important thing to make two people fall in love.”
Izzy frowns again. But then she answers my question. “He makes me laugh,” she says without hesitation.
“He makes you laugh?”
It’s like the thing Dad said about Mom’s eyes. And I have no idea how to quantify that. Izzy’s answer is no help at all.
Chapter 12
George texts everyone and calls an emergency coding club meeting for Monday after school. As soon as I get his text, I’m a little annoyed with myself that I didn’t think to send one first. But that’s part of what makes our co-presidency work, isn’t it? George is just naturally better with people than I am.
I text George back separately and ask if he still needs a ride to school in the morning.
Yep, he texts back.
I stare at that one word, trying to read into it. Does this mean he’s not mad at me, or does it just mean that Jane can’t pick him up for some reason?
I consider texting him again to ask him, but then I don’t. And when I show up Monday morning, he gets in the car and says hi, almost like nothing ever happened at all. So I decide not to tell him yet that I’ve been thinking about what Izzy said about John making her laugh, and that I’ve been taking another look at my algorithm, considering that maybe I have the categories weighted all wrong. We drive to school in silence, and I can’t tell whether it’s that nice silence we usually have or whether George is really mad at me.
“You study for calc?” George finally asks as we get out of the car and walk toward the school together. He doesn’t sound mad at all. He sounds quiet and sweet and kind...like George.
I nod. Of course I studied. If he thinks this app is going to distract me from my real goal this year, becoming valedictorian, beating him, then he doesn’t know me at all.
“It’s not your fault, what happened at the dance, you know,” George says quietly. “If anything, it’s my fault.”
“No. I never should’ve said you were trying to sabotage the app. I know you wouldn’t really do that.” I stop walking and turn to look at him.
His face is downcast; he’s staring at his shoes—back in his beat-up old gray Converse today, which look much more George than the shiny black shoes and wool suit from Saturday night. His clothes look so much more George, but I haven’t ever seen him looking this dismayed before.
“This is not your fault,” I say gently. “You didn’t even want to go along with my app to begin with. And you are not responsible for Phillip using us.” As I say all this out loud, I start to feel angry again. That’s what Phillip did—used us. Used me.
George shakes his head. “I heard Phillip say some things last year. I should’ve known. I should’ve said something at our meeting. It was just...one of those things, where I didn’t really think about it until after I overheard them on Saturday, you know? And then I felt so stupid for not realizing it all along.”