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By Root 418 0

tell me that Hope had called him not too long after our last long phone conversation about all the reasons why Marcus was messing up my life. She called him to tell him that she knew he couldn’t have stopped her brother’s death, and she was tired of hearing my psycho excuses for why I wouldn’t let Marcus back into my life. She called him to tell him what I was too afraid to say out loud: that he was right, I was pushing him away because I was petrified of what would happen if he got too close. Hope called him to step in where she knew I wouldn’t. The two of them—Marcus and Hope—got Pepe and Bridget involved in this prom scheme, too. But it was Hope’s doing, mostly.

That’s precisely why she is my best friend, and always will be no matter how much distance separates us.

I didn’t realize that I had been standing there mute for a minute until he said, “Are you quiet because you’re surprised or because you’re repulsed?”

“Neither,” I replied. “I’m quiet because we’ve done enough talking.”

Did I not make it to the prom because I took his face in my hands and pressed my mouth to his, long and full and wet, right in front of the entire prom-going senior class? Did I not make it to the prom because we quickly hopped into the Caddie, never letting go of each other’s hands, and drove back to his house? Did I not make it to the prom because we were all alone and unchaperoned because his parents were visiting his brother in Maine? Did I not make it to the prom because we, without speaking, and barely breathing, slowly and nervously and tenderly undressed each other, and even more slowly and nervously and tenderly made love in his bed, on black-and-white-striped sheets that smelled like smoky cedar trees, exactly like I had imagined all this time . . . ?

For the record, I was not under emotional duress.

While you know I can’t write in detail about these things—you know, sex things—especially when it’s about me, I do feel that after all this obsessive talk about dying a virgin and everyone else in the world doing it but me, and wanting to wait for the perfect time and the perfect place and, most important, the perfect person, I should at least say this to put your mind at ease:

It was well worth the wait.

Holy shit, was it worth it.

Right before I was about to fade into slumber, my eyes popped open. I suddenly remembered that I needed to ask him a question.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your middle name?”

“Armstrong.”

Marcus Armstrong Flutie.

“Like Neil, the astronaut?” I asked.

“No,” he replied.

“Like Louie, the jazz singer?”

“No,” he replied.

“Then like who?”

“Like me.”

“Thank you,” I said, before drifting off into a long, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.

the tenth

Is there anything more priceless than a yearbook picture of the Class Couple who are no longer a Class Couple? I nearly split my spleen when I saw that picture of Scotty and Manda making gooey eyes at each other. That alone was worth the seventy-five dollars.

But then there was the shock of seeing Sara in her Best Buddies and Class Motormouth photos, taken when she was still summertime skinny. Her weight gain was so gradual that it was impossible to pinpoint the day she was officially chunky again. It would have made an awesome subject for a time-laspse photography film: Size 2 to 14 in 180 School Days.

Of course, the most excruciating photos were of Len and me, captured before there even was a Len and me. It was weird to see us in our Most Likely to Succeed and Class Brainiac pictures, the two of us not knowing what would happen between us this year. When the picture was taken, we weren’t comfortable enough around each other to touch. In both pictures we’re smiling and everything, feigning camaraderie, but keeping a safe distance. It’s sort of how we act around each other now, as exes.

QUIZ!!! MATCH THE YEARBOOK QUOTE TO THE PERSON!!!

Of course, looking at excruciating photos is only half the fun of yearbook-getting.

If there’s anything I learned on prom night, it’s that we seniors are compelled to kiss each other’s asses before we graduate. Everyone