“She’s out with this girl Fiona. They met at the mixer the other week.” It may be the most satisfying sentence I’ve spoken all evening. Brynn for President is single and Emily is on a date. All hail Queen Emily.

“Oh!” The expression on Brynn’s face shifts from a gently patronizing smile to raised-eyebrow, pursed-mouth surprise. And then she smiles again, but it’s fake. I can tell. Her eyes look anxious. “Good for her! Is it like, a date?”

Then I realize that she’s jealous. Brynn Foer-Fucking-Preston for President is jealous, possibly even sad, because Emily is out on a date with another girl. I feel the tiniest spark of . . . wait. Am I—should I be—feeling sorry for her? In this, Emily’s moment of triumph? That’s not right.

“Yeah,” I say. “They’re really cute together. I think it could become a long-term thing.”

“Oh. That’s great! Good for her!” says Brynn again, and she smiles her fakey-fake smile and takes her rental shoes from the shoe guy. Nikki and Lilianna look at each other. “Good for her,” Brynn repeats, softly, to her shoes. I don’t look at her because when I do, that little spark starts sparking and I don’t like it.

Now that I’ve made Brynn sad, the feeling of not belonging is even bigger and more uncomfortable. Even the pressure of Shane’s arm against mine as we lean against the counter waiting our turn can’t distract me from the thick cloud of tension that’s just descended. Part of me wants to stay and bowl out of sheer spite, but while I’m not nice enough to feel sorry for Brynn, I’m also not spiteful enough to stay, and anyway, she’ll probably destroy me at bowling. And I am feeling increasingly sleepy. Being angry and uncomfortable is exhausting.

Reluctantly, I text Hannah.

CJ: Hey, I’m tired of being here but I’m too high to drive (sorry I promise I won’t do this again)

Can you please please please come and pick me up? And not tell Mom?

Within a few seconds, I get a text from Owen saying he’s leaving now.

Great. This won’t be awkward at all.

Shane goes with me to the parking lot. “You sure you have to go?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. My aunt is freaking out right now,” I lie, silently cursing Brynn for ruining my evening.

The Bowl-O-Ramen parking lot is a less-than-ideal place for a first kiss, with its ugly fluorescent lampposts and giant neon sign, but I walk slowly, hoping maybe Shane will make a move anyway. But then Owen—who I am going to strangle later—appears and kills the mood (such as it is) entirely. I imagine that my eyes have lasers in them and I am lasering him into oblivion. But he is oblivious.