“I swear to God!” says El, only loud enough for me to hear.
I think they were made for each other.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” he calls.
We could be in the midst of an alien invasion and Tim would be like, “Cool.”
After he’s made it across the parking lot, he drops his phone into his back pocket and kisses her. It’s not some gross open-mouth kiss, but more like a hello-I-missed-you-you’re-as-pretty-as-you-were-on-our-first-date kiss.
A slow sigh slips from me. If I could avert my eyes from all the kissing people ever, I’m positive that my life would be at least 2 percent more fulfilling.
It’s not that I’m jealous of Ellen and Tim or that Tim steals Ellen away from me or even that I want Tim for myself. But I want what they have. I want a person to kiss hello.
I squint past them to the track surrounding the football field. “What are all those girls doing out there?” Trotting around the track are a handful of girls in pink shorts and matching tank tops.
“Pageant boot camp,” says Ellen. “It lasts all summer. One of the girls from work is doing it.”
I don’t even try not to roll my eyes. Clover City isn’t known for much. Every few years our football team is decent enough for play-offs and every once in a while someone even makes it out of here and does the kind of thing worth recognizing. But the one thing that puts our little town on the map is that we’re home of the oldest beauty pageant in Texas. The Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant started back in the 1930s and has only gotten bigger and more ridiculous with every passing year. I should know since my mom has led the planning committee for the last fifteen years.
Ellen slides Tim’s keys from the front pocket of his shorts before pulling me in for a side hug. “Have a good day at work. Don’t let the grease splash you or whatever.” She goes to unlock the driver’s-side door and calls over to Tim on the other side, “Tim, tell Will to have a good day.”
He pops his head up for a brief moment and I see that smile Ellen loves so much. “Will.” Tim may have his face in his phone most the time, but when he does actually talk—well, it’s the kind of thing that makes a girl like El stick around. “I hope you have a good day.” He bows at the waist.
El rolls her eyes, settles in behind the wheel, and pops a fresh piece of gum in her mouth.
I wave good-bye and am almost halfway to my car when the two speed past me as Ellen yells good-bye once more over Dolly Parton’s “Why’d You Come in Here Lookin’ Like That” blasting through the speakers.
As I’m digging through my bag, looking for my keys, I notice Millie Michalchuk waddling down the sidewalk and through the parking lot.
I see it before it even happens. Leaning against her parents’ minivan is Patrick Thomas, who is maybe the biggest douche of all time. He has this super ability to give someone a nickname and make it stick. Sometimes they’re cool nicknames, but more often they’re things like Haaaaaaaanah, pronounced like a neighing horse because the girl’s mouth looks like it’s full of . . . well, horse teeth. Clever, I know.
Millie is that girl, the one I am ashamed to admit that I’ve spent my whole life looking at and thinking, Things could be worse. I’m fat, but Millie’s the type of fat that requires elastic waist pants because they don’t make pants with buttons and zippers in her size. Her eyes are too close together and her nose pinches up at the end. She wears shirts with puppies and kittens and not in an ironic way.
Patrick blocks the driver’s-side door, him and his rowdy group of friends already oinking like pigs. Millie started driving a few weeks ago, and the way she zips around in that minivan, you’d think it was a Camaro.