Dear Universe,

I need to rent a storage space for all my feelings—just a huge, massive building that isn’t my body, something with sturdier insides than organs and bones. Feelings like these are just bad furniture: cumbersome, ugly, and I can’t contain them by myself.

8

Days ’til prom: 61

PREDICTION: IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN. SOMETIME BETWEEN NOW and Senior Night, Gene is going to ask me to prom.

Outlook: sunny with a chance of hell yeah.

Text exchange with Hilary and Abigail:

Wtf do I get Gene for his last track meet C

A Sex

A Hil says “A lesson in feminism”

I’m going with a chocolate cupcake C

A Boringgggg.

A K we’ll pick you up in 20

You guys literally always hang out without me C

A OMG CHAM WE HAVE A HISTORY PROJECT TOGETHER

Ew who does homework C

A Exactly. See you soon.

When Gene first invited me to one of his track meets, I felt like I was getting smoothies with the queen. “I have a race,” he’d said shyly after one of our runs. “You could come if you want.” A boy had never invited me to something that was his. But Gene wanted me to go. I even put on jeans instead of leggings. I’ve been to almost all of them, and now that it’s his last one, I feel like there should be more. He’s going to have lots of these in college, but I don’t know who he’s going to invite to those.

Track isn’t a very popular sport at school, which is fine by me. You don’t have to pay to get into any of the events, and the good seats are never taken on the bleachers. Me, Abigail, Hilary, and the chocolate cupcake show up at the arena with about two minutes to spare. All the runners are stretching on the sideline, and the air inside is still cool, without a hint of mugginess or sweat.

“Perfect timing,” Abigail says as we slide onto the bleachers. She waves behind us to Kelly and Helga from the dance team, and I do this awkward I-kinda-know-you-from-my-friend-but-mostly-I’m-jealous-of-how-chill-you-are-at-parties smile. When we sit down I notice how much it smells like rubber and B.O., and I doubt I’ll miss it here when Gene’s season ends.

I peek under the lid of the box and don’t see any signs of frosting. “I think it’s safe to say the cupcake has survived,” I say, placing it next to me while patting its imaginary head. “Good cupcake. Hang in there just a little longer.”

“How about this one?” Hilary asks, reaching across me and passing her phone to Abigail. I glimpse dorm room furniture. Given that the present moment is high school, and we don’t even know if Hilary has gotten into college yet, I think this would be very disappointing to the Buddha.

“Welcome runners, students, parents, and teachers,” the announcer says. I spot the shiny 42 on Gene’s pinny and wave. He smiles in his short shorts and stretches out his hamstrings.