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just noticed you two were talking.”
    Tommy gives me a blank look. “I don’t remember that.”
    â€œOn Facebook.”
    â€œOh, yeah—about homework.” Tommy gives me a funny look. “Seems like you know more about it than I do, though.”
    I shrug. “Your convo popped up on my newsfeed this morning.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    He’s smirking at me, and I feel my cheeks coloring. “Anyway,” I say, trying to sound breezy, “I’ve got to run by the Student Activities office before class. Since I resigned my post as secretary, they talked me into running the graduation committee. I’ll see you at lunch?”
    â€œOf course.”
    I lean in to give him a kiss, and he pulls me in close.
    â€œYou know you’re the only girl for me, Marijke,” Tommy whispers in my ear. I smile against his neck. Those are the only words I ever want to hear.
    Well, those words, plus three more little ones . . .
    â€œAll right, folks, move along please.” Ms. Jensen, my science teacher, is standing next to us with her arms crossed. Tommy shoots her a winning smile.
    â€œSorry, Ms. J. We were just saying good morning. I hope yours is lovely as well.”
    In spite of herself, Ms. Jensen chuckles and shakes her head.
    â€œLet’s just move along to class, Mr. Lawson. Okay?”
    Tommy tips an imaginary hat to her and I just smile, looking down. Tommy’s a natural-born charmer—it’s in his genes or something. As my grandfather would say, “He could sell a bottle of ketchup to a lady in white gloves.”
    â€œHave a good day, baby.”
    Tommy grabs my hand and raises it to his mouth. He brushes a light kiss over my fingers.
    â€œI’ll see you in a few hours.” Then he swings into his history class.
    I walk down the hall, grinning with the knowledge that half a dozen girls are watching me with undisguised jealousy. Days like this make me think that my life is just about perfect—I’m going to states, I’ve got a hot boyfriend, and there’s still prom, graduation, and senior week to look forward to. Everything is coming up Marijke.

I can say with utter confidence that I learned absolutely nothing in math class today. Every time I started to write an equation, I’d remember Joe’s bright-green eyes or his warm, strong hands and by the time I’d broken out of my reverie, Ms. Dotson had already moved on to a new problem. Fortunately, I sit next to Bill Danner, who is a math genius—I manage to copy most of his notes, despite his nearly illegible handwriting.
    By the time the bell rings for second period, I’ve started considering other possible ways to run into Joe Lombardi again. It’s not like I could just randomly just show up at the motocross course—how totally awkward would that be?
    Hey Joe . . . those are some really round tires you got there.
    So, you ride here often?
    What’s your sign, baby? Besides, you know, street signs . . .
    I. Am. So. LAME.
    Groaning aloud, I turn the corner toward my journalism class. Immediately, I’m assaulted by dozens of balloons.
    â€œWhat the hell?” I say, batting the ribbon tails away from my face.
    A glance around shows me a handful of other bewildered students are doing the same thing. Then I see Sam Peterson standing at one end of the hall and his new girlfriend, Layla, at the other. Layla’s mouth has dropped open and I can’t really blame her; her boyfriend is standing fifty feet away from her wearing a full suit of armor. I don’t know where someone even
gets
one of those.
    I watch along with everyone else as Sam clomps toward Layla, clumsily maneuvering around the balloons. Some of their tails catch on his chain mail. As he gets closer, I see a red rose in one of his metal-clad hands. In the other, he’s holding a shield with the words, I’LL BE YOUR KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR IF YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME.
    Aw,
hell
. I