if it went off the way she thought it could, she’d ruin homecoming, too, courtesy of one giant act of badassery.
Sarah takes a left and skids to a stop at the base of a hill that she doesn’t remember being there. Or maybe it never seemed this enormous when riding the bus. She can’t see MountWashington High School at the crest, just an endless stretch of tar paved to the sky.
She pedals hard, rocking her weight from side to side to get some speed going. At the halfway mark, she clocks barely enough to remain upright. Her wobbling bike drifts into the middle of the street. Cars and school buses begin backing up behind her, and a few hop the curb in order to pass her by.
But Sarah is determined. The autumn air bites the edges of her ears. Dead leaves explode underneath her tires. She stands and pumps harder, sweat bleeding into her T-shirt.
Milo’s T-shirt.
Whatever. The same shirt she wore to school yesterday.
Milo has beaten her to their bench. “Hey!” he calls out, surprised. “Nice bike.” His eyes move up to her forehead. “I, um, guess they call it permanent marker for a reason, huh?”
“I guess so.” Sarah can barely speak, she’s panting so hard. She picks up the hem of her T-shirt and dabs lightly at the sweat on her forehead, careful not to disturb the word. It is still scrawled there, a little lighter than it had been yesterday.
“Is that my shirt? Again?”
“Who are you? The fashion police?” She feels for her cigarettes, but then thinks better of it. Smoke will camouflage her smell. She will quit smoking this week. “Yes, it’s your shirt.” She sits down at the end of the bench and pulls her legs close to her chest. They are already sore, cramped from the ride.
A curious look crosses Milo’s face. It makes his eyes go squinty behind his glasses. “Why are you wearing it, when you’ve been acting like you can’t stand me?” He digs in his school bag and hands her a folded square of black fabric. “Here’s yours back, by the way. I washed it.”
It’s funny how direct Milo can be about stuff sometimes. It’s like his awkwardness trumps the shyness.
Sarah has not yet said anything to Milo about ending things between them. It’s been too crazy, with yesterday’s events. And seriously, why should she? Why should she have to do the dirty work when she’s not the one who did anything wrong? Why should she give Milo the easy way out?
She lifts her chin a few degrees. “I’ve decided not to take a shower for a whole week.”
“For real?”
“Yup,” she says, making the p pop. “I’m not showering, I’m not brushing my teeth, putting on deodorant, anything. I’m wearing these same clothes, not just the shirt, but the jeans, the socks, the underwear, the bra. My last shower was on Sunday night, before I went over to your house.” She folds her arms. “I won’t participate in any kind of hygiene until Saturday night.” It feels good to say her plan out loud. Now there can be no backing out.
“What’s on Saturday night?”
“The homecoming dance.” It sounds so utterly ridiculous, but she keeps a straight face. “I’m going as smelly and disgusting as I can possibly make myself, dressed in these clothes.”
Milo laughs and laughs, but when Sarah doesn’t join, he stops. “Wait. You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
“Why are you letting that stupid list get to you? You hate the girls at this school, obviously for good reason. And now you want to show up at their dumb dance? This isn’t like you at all.”
Sarah runs her fingers through the brittle streamers on her old bike, trying to detangle them. This last bit is proof. Proof that Milo doesn’t really get her. He never did. And she doesn’tfeel like explaining everything to someone who’s not going to understand it. “Look, can you not make a big deal about this? I’ve made up my mind. It’s happening.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Can I go with you?”
She turns her head fast and looks
Sarah takes a left and skids to a stop at the base of a hill that she doesn’t remember being there. Or maybe it never seemed this enormous when riding the bus. She can’t see MountWashington High School at the crest, just an endless stretch of tar paved to the sky.
She pedals hard, rocking her weight from side to side to get some speed going. At the halfway mark, she clocks barely enough to remain upright. Her wobbling bike drifts into the middle of the street. Cars and school buses begin backing up behind her, and a few hop the curb in order to pass her by.
But Sarah is determined. The autumn air bites the edges of her ears. Dead leaves explode underneath her tires. She stands and pumps harder, sweat bleeding into her T-shirt.
Milo’s T-shirt.
Whatever. The same shirt she wore to school yesterday.
Milo has beaten her to their bench. “Hey!” he calls out, surprised. “Nice bike.” His eyes move up to her forehead. “I, um, guess they call it permanent marker for a reason, huh?”
“I guess so.” Sarah can barely speak, she’s panting so hard. She picks up the hem of her T-shirt and dabs lightly at the sweat on her forehead, careful not to disturb the word. It is still scrawled there, a little lighter than it had been yesterday.
“Is that my shirt? Again?”
“Who are you? The fashion police?” She feels for her cigarettes, but then thinks better of it. Smoke will camouflage her smell. She will quit smoking this week. “Yes, it’s your shirt.” She sits down at the end of the bench and pulls her legs close to her chest. They are already sore, cramped from the ride.
A curious look crosses Milo’s face. It makes his eyes go squinty behind his glasses. “Why are you wearing it, when you’ve been acting like you can’t stand me?” He digs in his school bag and hands her a folded square of black fabric. “Here’s yours back, by the way. I washed it.”
It’s funny how direct Milo can be about stuff sometimes. It’s like his awkwardness trumps the shyness.
Sarah has not yet said anything to Milo about ending things between them. It’s been too crazy, with yesterday’s events. And seriously, why should she? Why should she have to do the dirty work when she’s not the one who did anything wrong? Why should she give Milo the easy way out?
She lifts her chin a few degrees. “I’ve decided not to take a shower for a whole week.”
“For real?”
“Yup,” she says, making the p pop. “I’m not showering, I’m not brushing my teeth, putting on deodorant, anything. I’m wearing these same clothes, not just the shirt, but the jeans, the socks, the underwear, the bra. My last shower was on Sunday night, before I went over to your house.” She folds her arms. “I won’t participate in any kind of hygiene until Saturday night.” It feels good to say her plan out loud. Now there can be no backing out.
“What’s on Saturday night?”
“The homecoming dance.” It sounds so utterly ridiculous, but she keeps a straight face. “I’m going as smelly and disgusting as I can possibly make myself, dressed in these clothes.”
Milo laughs and laughs, but when Sarah doesn’t join, he stops. “Wait. You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
“Why are you letting that stupid list get to you? You hate the girls at this school, obviously for good reason. And now you want to show up at their dumb dance? This isn’t like you at all.”
Sarah runs her fingers through the brittle streamers on her old bike, trying to detangle them. This last bit is proof. Proof that Milo doesn’t really get her. He never did. And she doesn’tfeel like explaining everything to someone who’s not going to understand it. “Look, can you not make a big deal about this? I’ve made up my mind. It’s happening.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Can I go with you?”
She turns her head fast and looks
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