“You’re a little stinker,” Oliver said to her as he backhanded a ball. “But I’ve no doubt she’s into me. She has excellent taste.”
“Then I bet she’ll go for that bloke who looks like Jude Law,” Phoebe offered.
My gaze snapped in her direction. “You mean Colton Davis? The guy who plays guitar? Senior? He’s yummy.”
“So yummy,” Phoebe said dreamily. It was the first thing that had come out of her mouth that afternoon that wasn’t laced with sarcasm or sass.
Logan missed the shot, Oliver lowered his paddle, and I simply stared at her. Phoebe rarely talked about boys. With a determined look, Oliver walked over to his sister, sat next to her, and took her hand. “Do you want to go with him? We could ask him to go with you.”
The sound that emanated from Phoebe was the most derisive snort to emanate from any person ever.
“No!”
Instinctively, I turned to the door, looking for Oliver’s parents to come running to see if she’d fallen, to see if she was okay. But she was more than fine, and they were out, their dad at work, their mom running to the pharmacy to pick up meds for Phoebe.
She jerked her hand away from Oliver and pointed a stern finger at him. “Do not ever do that. Do not do something because you feel sorry for me. I mean it. I don’t want to get dressed up. I don’t want to wear stupid makeup, and I definitely don’t want to wear a hideous fucking wig. No, thank you. I’d rather stay home with Gloria than have everyone stare at me because I finally got to go to prom.” For a second, her voice trembled, but she swallowed and raised her chin. “Besides,” she said, collecting herself, a twinkle in her eyes, “I’d rather help Summer get ready, do her hair, and snap the photos when she has to take you as a pity date after Emily turns you down.”
Her smile was slow to spread, mischievous and thoroughly Machiavellian.
Logan mimed shooting a slam dunk. “Ohhh! You’ve just been burned.”
We all laughed. Phoebe was still Phoebe—always finding ways to poke fun at her little brother.
I joined in the laughter, knowing full well Phoebe’s prediction would never come true.
Emily would say yes, Oliver would take her to prom, and I’d go with . . . well, a group of friends.
Which would be fine.
I liked my girlfriends.
I didn’t have a crush on the handsome British boy next door.
I didn’t long for my brother’s best friend.
For my good friend.
Not at all.
At least, not very much most of the time.
But enough, apparently, that butterflies flickered through my chest two days later when Oliver pulled me aside after fifth-period calculus, scratched his jaw, and said, “Listen. Turns out Emily’s involved. Dating some wanker in community college who’s taking her to prom.”
“He’s definitely a wanker if he’s dating a high school student,” I said, quickly concurring. “What kind of college student dates a high schooler?”
“The wanker kind.” His grin faded, his expression turning serious. “But I was thinking about what Phoebe said.”
“Which part?” I asked, ever so casually, as if the details of the prom planning weren’t seared into my brain.
“The part where she mentioned you getting ready. I think she really wants to help you get ready. Do the whole girly thing. And look, I know it’s not your thing. I know you’re more into sports and Phoebe was always more of the frilly one, but would you want to?”
My heart sped up, beating a wildly fast rhythm. That was weird. Why would my heart trip over itself? I didn’t like Oliver like that. I truly didn’t. Fine, now and then I’d entertain little crush-like thoughts, but that was it, that was all.
But I wanted to be sure I understood. “Would I want to go to prom?”
“Would you be my pity date?” His lips curved into a grin as he repeated Phoebe’s words.
“You make it sound so appealing,” I teased, but we both knew what the date was about.
It wasn’t about us. It wasn’t about this skip in my heart.
It was about Oliver giving something to his sister that she’d never ask him to give. Something small that he could do if I said yes.
Of course I said yes. I didn’t say it for me, though, in spite of those butterflies.
I said it for him and, most of all, for her.
A few weeks later, Phoebe did her best to help me with my hair, flat ironing it until she was too tired to hold the iron.
She applied my blush, then regarded me with the intense stare of a reality show judge. “You look smashing,” she declared, appraising my simple blue dress. No frills, no satin, no lace.
“She does,” Oliver seconded, shooting me a smile that warmed me all over.
Was the smile for her? Or was the smile for me?
