“Not the brain thing!” I say quickly, then open my bag of tortilla chips to drown out the sounds of my anxious thinking. His eyebrows shoot up to the lights on the ceiling that somehow get sprayed with condiments sometimes.

“Uh, okay.” He sets the iPad down on the table and turns it to me to cast my vote.

“I just feel really strongly about… boobs,” I explain through a mouthful of chips.

Abigail throws an anemic tomato at me. “You’re being so weird.”

I eat another three chips. Maybe if my breath smells enough like corn and taco onion, no one will get close enough to talk to me. Ever. “Am I being weird?” I ask innocently. “I mean, I’m always weird, so it’d kind of be weird if I wasn’t being weird, right? Right?”

“Okay, now will you two fill out the survey?” Brendan asks Hilary and Abigail. He points to the remaining tables: two by the snack bar, one by the three bins for trash, recycling, and compost. “I still have a lot of people to ask.”

“Sure,” Abigail says, leaning over the iPad. “But can’t we vote for both? It’s not like there’s a limit on how much the senior class can volunteer.”

“They’re on the same day,” he says, and I commandeer the iPad.

“God hates suck-ups, Abigail,” I say, filling out the survey with a few finger taps. “We’re all set, Brendan. Breast Cancer Polar Plunge it is.”

He lingers over us and our trays and our pile of napkins. “Uh, okay, well, thanks for supporting Student Council.”

“And boobs,” I say. “I love me a good pair of boobs!”

Abigail laughs and shakes her head. “Good for you for embracing your boobs, Cham. Gene can’t be the only one giving them some love.”

“That’s my cue to leave,” Brendan says.

Once he’s out of earshot, Abigail whispers, “Did you notice Brendan got cute this year? I mean, besides being annoying AF.”

Hilary nods. “Puberty did a good job with him.”

I look down at my chest. “Now if only puberty would come back for me.”

{FEBRUARY}

Days ’til prom: 83

For the last couple of weekends, Gene has had a lot of away track meets, which has reduced our hookups to ten minutes of making out after lunch, with or without leftover food particles in our mouths. Also, because he’s been away so much, he hasn’t had time to ask me to prom. Not that I need him to ask me to prom to know that we’re going to prom together. It’s just that the way you get asked to prom says a lot about how much the other person likes you. Does he like me a random-text-with-no-emojis amount or a seven-hundred-balloons-in-the-sky amount?

Dear Universe,

What if my insides have kidnapped a feminist and they’re holding her hostage? Not to be paranoid, but sometimes I hear this voice of unknown origin and it’s hollering, Ask Gene to prom yourself, you freaking 1950s idiot!