Nervous text exchange with Gene that I just want to get over with:

I’m so sorry about Friday night. I know I owe you an explanation. Can we talk? C

G I need a little space, Cham.

Well wanna go for a run? C

Sorry, I guess that’s not really space. C

Ok, guess I’ll just see you in school tomorrow. C

We’re okay right? C

Days ’til prom: 48

Selfie in the girls’ bathroom, where a certain girlfriend attempts to explain her rudeness with the help of her friends who are better friends with each other than they are with her (not an opinion, but a fact the whole school voted on): high ponytail, freshly brushed teeth, honest eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine after you talk in person,” Hilary says, handing me a bag from inside her backpack. “Do you want to borrow some of my makeup?”

“Yeah, Cham, you just need some color,” Abigail chimes in, pinching my cheeks in front of the mirror.

I splash water on my face. Once Abigail’s passed me a paper towel, I burrow my face in its starchy brown ill-absorbent material.

“Seriously, you’re welcome to any of my makeup,” Hilary says.

“Is that a hint?” I ask.

Hilary shakes her head innocently, then unzips the makeup bag. “Well, okay, maybe a small one.”

Abigail frowns and tilts my face toward hers. “It looks like you haven’t slept since you hit puberty.”

Hilary swipes blush on me and takes out some tinted lip balm. When she opens it I say, “Ew, what is that?”

It smells like vanilla got it on with cinnamon and had a baby called strawberry fields. You know when too much of a good thing becomes an awful thing?

“I hate makeup,” I say, fanning my now-stinging cheeks.

“Well, sometimes it’s good to expose yourself to the things you hate,” Abigail says. “You know, for personal-growth reasons.”

Hilary attacks my lip with the balm and dons her British accent. “You’re gonna love it, darling, just love it.” She pockets it again and heads out of the bathroom. “Good luck, Cham darling.”

“You got this,” Abigail says knowingly, and slaps my butt as she follows Hilary out.

“Okay, thanks, bye.”

I wait until she’s closed the door to turn to my reflection. After a few seconds of licking my sticky lips, I nod and say, “Okay, time to find Gene.” A girl flushes the toilet and comes out of the last stall with a creeped-out look on her face. Like she’s never talked to the mirror before? Please. I have my best conversations with things that don’t answer.

The lunch line is short, and I order two chicken sandwiches just so I can have two sides of Tater Tots. When I catch sight of Gene at the other end of the cafeteria, and he catches sight of me, it’s not the war-separated lovers’ look I had hoped for. It’s confusion. Distance. He says something to Doug, who turns around to look at me, and then Gene walks the perimeter of the cafeteria toward me. I do the same, past tables of people separated by grade and interest, even though we’re probably separated by much less than we think.