“You don’t know him,” I say sharply. “What if he actually likes me? What if he wants to do things the old-fashioned way?” Three faces stare back at me blankly. Danielle begins to laugh.

“You’re saying this hot college guy, who probably has his pick of every girl on campus, suddenly starts texting you, and wants to take you out for a nice steak dinner? Do you want him to give you a promise ring? Maybe you guys can hold hands and then after you can write about it in your diary.” She’s still holding the unopened bottle of black nail polish in her hands and she shakes it as she speaks, the click click click emphasizing every word. “Sorry, Collins, it has nothing to do with you. You’re totally datable. It’s just—a guy like James Dean doesn’t want to date anyone.”

I sigh and look down at my phone. “Well, I need to answer him. It’s been too long.”

Ava clicks her tongue. “The longer you make him wait, the more he’ll sweat.”

“Give me the phone.” Danielle sets the nail polish aside, her hands still dry. Then she holds her palm out to me.

“Wait, what are you going to say?” I drop the phone into her hand, hesitant.

“You just have to come across as more experienced,” she says, typing something onto the screen and then turning it to me.

I’m on a date, but it’s kinda boring

She presses SEND and we all inhale at the same time, staring at the phone. Danielle puts it down on the rug in the middle of us and we don’t speak, willing it to vibrate. After three tense minutes, it does, and we all lunge for it. Danielle reaches it first.

“Let me have it!” I say.

“What does it say?” Ava says, her hands wet with nail polish. “Someone show me!”

We’re having a party tonight. You should come by when you’re done. I promise not to be boring

We let out a collective shriek. I feel a nervous excitement bubbling up inside of me. There’s no mistaking the tone of this text. Some part of him is interested in me. Maybe he felt the same energy I did the other day in the break room. Maybe his knee on mine was on purpose after all.

“You have to go to the party,” Danielle says.

“I can’t go to a college party,” I say immediately. “I don’t even like high school parties.” I feel like a pent-up ball of energy—like I need to jump or scream or run around the room.

“Your parents already think you’re sleeping over at my house, so you have no excuse.” Danielle types a response.

Maybe. I don’t know how late I’ll be. What’s the address?

He answers almost immediately.