“Oh my god, did we not tell you?” Abigail asks me suddenly.

“Tell me what?”

She and Hilary grin and look at each other. “We decided to go to prom together!”

“Wow,” I say, moving the chocolate cupcake box closer to me.

“Yeah, don’t wanna go through the hassle of finding a date when you’re the person I like most in this school anyway,” Abigail says, looking at Hilary. “Except for you, Cham.” She adds the last part quickly and rests her head on my shoulder.

I smile. “That’s great, you guys.” Sometimes I forget there were years before these that I wasn’t part of. Everywhere Hilary and Abigail went, they showed up on a bicycle built for two. Since I transferred, they cart me along in one of those sidecars most likely to get hit by a bus. Or an overeager cyclist. It’s like I’m constantly trying to get on their level and see over their handlebars.

“Is that seriously it?” Abigail asks as we watch the runners cross the finish line within a few seconds of each other. There’s scattered applause around us.

“That was fast,” I say.

The next thing we know, the boys are walking back toward the bleachers, faces beet red beneath their sweat crowns.

“Damn, that was kind of anticlimactic.” Hilary cranes her neck to see if anyone else is coming, or if they’re going to do another lap, but nope.

“Congratulations to all runners,” the announcer says with very little congratulation-ness in his voice. “Now for the eight hundred.”

“Did you get your Nicaragua forms in yet?” Hilary asks suddenly. I shake my head, watching Gene approach the starting line with his eyebrows fiercely furrowed.

“Ugh, they’re a bitch,” Abigail says. “They’re taking my parents forever.” She turns to me. “Cham, do you need us to remind you to get yours in? You’ve been known to forget important shit.”

“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “I’ll remember because I want to go to Nicaragua. Nothing I forget is ever worth remembering.”

“On your mark,” the announcer says. “Get set!”

“Go, Gene!” Hilary calls, and as soon as the gun pops, Gene takes off with the six other guys next to him. I love how funny his face is when he runs: It’s strained and intense, and one of his eyes gets bigger than the other. The guys pass us in a flash of shiny material: red, purple, mustard yellow, white, and black. Within a couple of minutes of the muscles in their legs flexing past us, they cross the finish line, the guy in red followed by Gene followed by everyone else we don’t care about.

“There you go, Gene!” a woman calls from the other side of the bleachers. I look over and wave to Gene’s moms, who are sitting next to each other in the new sweatshirts they got to alert the media about Gene’s college acceptance. I look around to see if my dad would be able to get into this place. Judging by the cement stairs coming out of every exit door, it seems the building was built before society grew a conscience.