Our Beating Hearts

23

SATURDAY'S GAME IS IN THE soccer field behind the auxiliary gym. I spot Michael as soon as I get there, brooding in the stands.

I scoot up next to him. "How are you feeling about prom?"

"I don't want to go with Niall," I blurt.

"You like someone else, don't you?" Michael ask.

"Yeah." And then he grabs my hand and squeezes it. And it's weird how perfect it feels, holding hands with Michael. Not a hint of romance. It just feels like home. "Jennifer's saying she wants to keep things normal," Michael says. "Like, she doesn't want us to change the plans for prom or anything."

"Oh, God. Prom," I say. It's in a week. Literally one week from today. "I forgot about that."

"I know."

"They're not . . . still going together?"

Michael shakes his head. "They're both still going to dinner and the dance, but now they're going stag."

"Going stag. Do people still say that?"

He laughs. "I don't know."

I turn to watch the field in time to see Jennifer kick the shit out of the ball, so forcefully I almost wince.

Her face is bright red, eyes burning with an intensity I've never seen before.

The coach nods from the sidelines, clapping slowly.

I turn to Michael, eyebrows raised. "Are we sure she's okay?"

"This is not good," Michael murmurs. But a minute later, the corners of his lips tug upward. His Luke's face. And sure enough, Luke's on the field, grinning up at Michael as he runs.

"EYE ON THE BALL, HEMMINGS," the coach yells. "AND HORAN. FOCUS. GODDAMMIT." I look up to see Niall waving at me frantically with both arms.

"Hello, Niall," I mutter, rolling my eyes. Michael laughs. I have to admit, I like the feeling of being pursued, even if it's only Niall. It just feels nice. And maybe nice is kind of refreshing. Calum Hood makes me feel all kinds of things, but nice isn't one of them.

Stop. Thinking. About. Calum. Jesus Christ.

"This is just so weird." Michael sighs.

And it is.

I mean, here's a surprise: I have an actual date to prom, and Calum Hood's going alone.

I don't know if I should text him.

I mean, it's not like we're fighting. And it doesn't have to be weird. It was just a kiss. And I'm sure it only happened because he was tipsy. I should just send him something friendly and casual because we're casual friends who send casual texts. It's just that every time I try to type something, my brain shuts down completely. I can't even type "hello" to this boy without bursting into flames.

I'm pretty sure this is the kind of crush you can die from.

I try to distract myself by stalking my own Tumblr, scrolling through my posts in reverse order. The further back I go, the shittier my drawings get-proportions all wrong, messed-up shading. I guess I should be glad I've improved, but I feel weirdly embarrassed about the older work. I wish I had the kind of talent that emerged fully formed. I don't like people seeing me in progress. It's like stepping off a stage and finding out your underwear was showing. Not that my metaphorical underwear is particularly well hidden now. I still see flaws in my work, everywhere I look. It's exhausting and mortifying and almost unbearable.