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most boys can’t.”
    Bet went on to give a short history of courtship, which meant the formal process for girls and boys dating. Bet said, a long time ago, girls were considered their father’s property until they became their husband’s property. I laughed to myself thinking about Dad picking my husband. So scary to think who he’d pick—the nicest nerdball he could find, probably.
    Then everyone laughed when Bet showed pictures from some of the original Sadie Hawkins dances at Margaret Simon Middle School. The girls were in pigtails and polka-dot tops. The boys tried to look all hillbilly, too. Some even blackened their front teeth to look more authentic.
    Mrs. Percy, from the office, was known for being cranky, yet she was upbeat about the dance. She’s worked at the school for twenty-five years and is what people call “a character.”
    â€œIt’s good, clean fun, not a political statement,” she said. “God bless Jane, but she needs to relax.”
    Again, I looked up at Ms. Russo. We all did. This time she pushed out her lips in annoyance, but only for a moment. She straightened up her expression when she noticed we were all looking.
    The dance will go forward as planned, Principal F. said at the end of Bet’s report. He encouraged everyone to come but also applauded the “rich dialogue” that resulted from the questions raised. Next year, a committee would be formed to re-examine the Backward Dance and consider different themes. Bet said she wanted to end her segment with someone “who seemed to want the maximum amount of happy people next Saturday night.” It was me.
    Cool, I thought. Let’s just hope I’m one of them.

Thirteen
    A few hours before the dance, I was sizzling with nervous energy, so I decided to go for a run. At our gym teacher’s suggestion, I had gone out for the track team this year. I first thought, Oh, no-no, I don’t like to run. But then, this one time, I was running outside for gym and I got into this weird rhythm. I didn’t want to stop even after we did the required warm-up laps. Endorphins was the reason, my father explained. He said they’re chemicals that make you feel good. Your brain releases them in different circumstances, exercise included. Who knew?
    If I had told Piper, she would have called them “endolphins,” and I would have imagined teeny-tiny dolphins swimming around in my bloodstream. She was always messing up words that way, and it always made me laugh. But then I had to remind myself that Piper and I were not speaking. Why would I want to be friends with the girl who stole Forrest from me not fifteen minutes after he was finally available?
    I was still angry and definitely not looking forward to seeing the two of them at the Backward Dance. But each footfall was doing for me what I couldn’t do very well for myself—calming me down. By the time my house was back in view, the sun had sunk low in the sky. November shade was cooling everything in sight—the grass, the pavement, the sweaty ponytail at the nape of my neck.
    I took a quick shower and then got ready very carefully, making sure I looked so good that Forrest might notice me. I towel-dried my hair, combed through some straightening cream, and then blew my hair dry with a flat metal brush. It smoothed out my wavy hair and made the ends line up perfectly straight. Eyelashes were curled. Lip gloss was applied and then popped into my purse for reapplication at the dance. Every now and again, I imagined what Forrest and Piper were doing, and that they were doing it together . It was hard to take.
    When Bet’s parents arrived to drive us, my mom insisted on taking photos, but this was just another sad reminder that I was going to the dance alone. It made my stomach flip-flop. I snapped at my mom, who was, as usual, confused by the buttons and beeps of her digital camera. When she finally got off a few shots, I