going to do for spring break in April, summer vacation. I tell him about Daddy’s idea to go to Korea.
“I have a funny story about your dad,” John says, looking at me sideways.
I groan. “Oh no. What did he do?”
“It wasn’t him; it was me.” He clears his throat. “This is embarrassing.”
I rub my hands together in anticipation.
“So, I went over to your house to ask you to eighth grade formal. I had this whole extravagant
plan.”
“You never asked me to formal!”
“I know, I’m getting to that part. Are you going to let me tell the story or not?”
“You had a whole extravagant plan,” I prompt.
John nods. “So I gathered a bunch of sticks and some flowers and I arranged them into the letters
FORMAL? in front of your window. But your dad came home while I was in the middle of it, and he
thought I was going around cleaning people’s yards. He gave me ten bucks, and I lost my nerve and I
just went home.”
I laugh. “I... can’t believe you did that.” I can’t believe that this almost happened to me. What
would that have felt like, to have a boy do something like that for me? In the whole history of my
letters, of my liking boys, not once has a boy liked me back at the same time as I liked him. It was
always me alone, longing after a boy, and that was fine, that was safe. But this is new. Or old. Old
and new, because it’s the first time I’m hearing it.
“The biggest regret of eighth grade,” John says, and that’s when I remember—how Peter once told
me that John’s biggest regret was not asking me to formal, how elated I was when he said it, and then
how he quickly backtracked and said he was only joking.
The school bus pulls up then. “Showtime,” I say. I’m giddy as we watch the players get off the bus
—I see Gabe, Darrell, no Peter yet. But then the last person gets off the bus and still no Peter. “That’s
weird.. .”
“Could he have driven his own car?” John asks.
I shake my head. “He never does.” I grab my phone out of my bag and text him.
Where are you?No reply. Something’s wrong, I know it. Peter never misses a game. He even played when he had
the flu.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell John, and I jump out of the car and run for the field. The guys are
warming up. I find Gabe on the sideline lacing his cleats. I call out, “Gabe!”
He looks up, surprised. “Large! What’s up?”
Breathlessly I ask him, “Where’s Peter?”
“I don’t know,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “He told Coach he had a family
emergency. It sounded pretty legit. Kavinsky wouldn’t miss a game if it wasn’t important.”
I’m already running back to the car. As soon as I’m in, I pant, “Can you drive me to Peter’s?”
I see her car first. Parked on the street in front of his house. The next thing I see is the two of them,
standing together on the street for all to see. He has his arms wrapped around her; she is leaning in to
him like she can’t stand on her own two feet. Her face is buried in his chest. He is saying something