“Not really my thing.”
I knew what that meant.
He didn’t want to spend three hours standing beside a wall pretending not to notice that everyone else had someone to dance with.
So I stopped asking.
Then, one Tuesday afternoon, Tobin came through our front door with an expression I hadn’t seen on him since he was a little boy.
He was smiling.
Not his usual polite half-smile.
A ridiculous, uncontrollable grin.
I was chopping onions in the kitchen when he dropped his backpack onto the floor.
“Something happened.”
For one hopeful second, I thought one of the universities he’d applied to had accepted him.
Instead, Tobin leaned against the counter and said, “Celeste Monroe asked me to prom.”
I almost dropped the knife.
Everyone at Willow Creek High knew Celeste.
