Love Is in the Air (5 page)

Everyone's laughing as Riley stands by our hall counselors and gets dressed by the rest of the hall. Megan is slapping white face paint on her while other girls button up a ringmaster coat and help her into the leggings I procured. It's impossible to keep track of time. What seems like only seconds later, Riley's running to the center of the gym. She skids to a stop before Olga, her mismatched striped socks sliding on the smooth basketball court. She's panting, but she's the first one there. Minutes later the other three halls send forth their models.

Olga blows her whistle and the gym goes quiet. Then a few of the coaches come up and start the judging.

Riley's in a red ringmaster coat with the leggings and striped socks and a skewed top hat. Someone had a necklace made of gears, so she's wearing that, and Megan managed to expertly paint a cog over Riley's left eye. Oddly enough, it looks like something Riley would wear on a normal day. Though maybe minus the face paint.

The other girl's outfit looks much more haphazard—she has starry socks on her hands, a tiger-striped leotard, a feather boa, and five watches on her arm.

Both boys did a little better than the female competition: Each
is wearing a vest and a top hat, though one managed to find a pocket watch. They also both have great face paint: white with clown noses or diamonds. I'm a little disappointed to see that neither of them is Branden.

The judges take a few minutes to discuss among themselves. Then one of them whispers in Olga's ear, and she announces the winner.

“This round goes to Leena's hall, with their ringmaster court jester. Congratulations, girls. Speed and accuracy, very impressive.”

Riley walks back to us with a huge grin, which looks really creepy with the face paint. Everyone slaps her on the back and hugs her, but there's not much time to celebrate; before we can figure out who the next model's going to be, Olga's calling out the next challenge.

“Summery woods fairy!”

And again, we're off. But this time it's me who's chosen to model. I have Riley to thank (or blame) for that.

The next few minutes are a blur. Riley grabs my arm and we run back to my room, trying to find anything brown or green or leafy. She throws me one of her camo skirts and a pair of brown boots, and then we're running back to the gym to see what the rest of the hall has assembled.

Megan must have appointed herself lead makeup artist, because the moment I'm standing still she rushes over and starts dusting my face with green glitter and painting swirling lines around my eyes. It's hard to even pay attention to that, because girls are wrapping me
in shawls and beads and tousling my hair and then, after a whirlwind few minutes, it's over. They push me toward Olga, and I run as fast as I can. Not fast enough, though.

I nearly stumble over my own shoelaces when I realize who beat me.

Branden is standing beside Olga. He's wearing brown pants and a brown vest, but that's not what's making it difficult to look away. He's not wearing a shirt underneath, and the rest of his team painted glittery leaves all over him. Somehow, they even got his hair green, though how they managed all that in five minutes is beyond me. He smiles when he sees me. My cheeks go hot, and I'm suddenly very grateful for all the makeup Megan put on me.

The other two teams come up seconds later. The girl has fairy wings—who actually brought fairy wings to circus camp?—and a flowery dress and lots of glitter. The other boys' team clearly ­struggled: Their model is in shorts and flip-flops and a shirt with a tree on it. He smiles sheepishly when the judges come over to start the examination.

“You look good,” whispers Branden. I jump when he talks. He's actually talking to
me
.

“Thanks,” I manage. “You do too.”

He just snickers. “Welcome to circus camp.”

Moments later the judges confer with Olga. Despite this just being a silly game, my heart hammers in my chest. I suddenly really want to win this, even though I didn't have anything to do with the costume and don't even know what I look like. It's ridiculous, but I hope winning will impress Branden.

“We have a winner!” Olga announces. “Michael's team, with their glittery rendition of Puck. Well done!”

My stomach drops when it's not Leena's name. Then I realize she's talking about Branden.

“Good job!” I manage to tell him, right before we're ushered back to our groups. I watch him fist-bump his comrades when he reaches his team. A few girls clap me on the back, but it's not as warm a welcome. Especially from Megan.

“Don't even try it. I see the way you look at him,” she hisses in my ear. “You don't stand a chance.”

I glance at her, but she's already refocused on Olga.

“Mermaid!” Olga yells.

As Riley drags me back to our room to find something for the next look, I can't get those words out of my head. Because I know she's right. In spite of that brief bout of excitement, I don't really fit in here. I'm way too normal, too dull. And surrounded by all these glittery, amazing circus girls, I know there's no way Branden would ever pick me.

Chapter
Five

Y
ou're being ridiculous,” Riley says.

It's a few minutes after sign-in, and she and I are back in our dorm room. We didn't win the game—that honor went to Branden's hall and their hilarious rendition of a merman, complete with painted-on shell bra—but we did spend the last half hour chatting as a hall. Megan was giving me the evil eye the entire time. I'm surprised I didn't melt right then and there.

“I'm not,” I say. I'm lying on the bed in my pj's, staring at the ceiling. One of the college kids had put up star stickers, and the RAs must have missed a few when cleaning the room; the stars glow faintly in the darkness. “I should just give up now. Megan's right—Branden would never go for me.”

“So why is he being all flirty with you, huh?” she asks. She rolls
on her side to look at me—even in the near dark, her fiery hair seems to glow from the corner of my eye.

I take a deep breath.

“Because it's funny.”

She doesn't answer for a moment.

“What do you mean, ‘it's funny'?”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” I admit. I squeeze my eyes shut, like maybe it will hide me from what I'm admitting.

“What happened?” she asks. I hear her shuffle from her bed, and then she's sitting next to me, a hand on my shoulder.

“It's nothing.”

“Clearly it's something.”

I don't want to think about this, and I don't know why I even mentioned it. I barely know her—I don't even talk about this with the friends I've had since elementary.

“It's embarrassing,” I finally admit. “But last year there was this guy. Josh. He played basketball and sat next to me in computer class. Anyway, one day he asked me out. And I said yes.”

“And?”

“What do you think? He told me to meet him at this restaurant, and then he didn't show. Never gave me his number, so I just sat there, waiting, for like half an hour before I left and walked home.”

“Maybe he forgot?” Riley suggests, but her voice says she already knows that's not the case.

“Nope.” I try to make my own words strong, nonchalant—I've
spent the last few months convincing myself this guy didn't get to me, and it's still a struggle. “The next day he came into class, and the moment he saw me he burst out laughing. Got high fives from his friends and everything. It was . . . bad. I almost ran out of class right then. I never asked why he didn't show—must have been some sort of sick joke. You know, get the nerd girl's hopes up.”

Riley doesn't answer for a while, but she also doesn't move her hand from my shoulder.

“I had something similar happen once,” she finally says. “Though not with a date. Some jerk wrote me fake love notes for a week, left them in my locker. Good ones too—quoting Shakespeare and all that, so I thought they were genuine. Then the last one just said, ‘JK, I would never date a girl as ugly as you.' ”

I open my eyes and look at her. There's no sadness when she talks about it.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“I'm not,” she responds. “It taught me that some guys are real jerks. And somehow, I dunno, after that point I just stopped caring what people thought of me.” She shrugs her shoulders. “That was before I started dressing crazy—I'd spent so much time trying to fit in and look gorgeous like everyone else. I let everything go after that. And then, a few weeks later, I met Sandy at a juggling class. He liked me, fuchsia hair and all, and that's when I learned there were still gentlemen in the world, and that the important ones will like you for all your crazy.” She squeezes my shoulder. “What I'm trying to say is, you can't let that one bad experience get you
down. I don't think Branden's that type of guy. And if he is, screw it. There's someone out there for you. And when you meet him, you'll know.”

She leans over and gives me an awkward hug.

“Anyway,” she says as she hops over to her bed. “
I
think you're pretty awesome, and mine is the only opinion that counts around here. Obviously.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “I think you're pretty awesome too.”

“Of course I am.”

A pause.

“Good night, Jennifer.”

“Good night, Riley.”

I close my eyes and block out the stars on the ceiling. In the shadows of my imagination, I let myself daydream about Branden smiling at me, taking my hand. Asking me on a date.

And I can almost let myself hope that in the real world, he'd mean it.

•  •  •

I wake up the next day with a strange mix of fear and excitement in my stomach. I'm up before the alarm—definitely a first for me—and jump on Riley's bed to wake her up.

“Riley! Riley!” I laugh. “It's Christmas!”

She groans and rolls over, burying her shock of hair beneath a pillow.

“No, it's not,” she mumbles.

I pull the pillow off her. “Oh fine, you're right. But it
is
almost
breakfast time, and I don't want to be late. Especially since we have warm-ups right after. I don't want to throw up all over Branden on our first day.”

This makes Riley laugh, and she pushes herself up to sitting. “It would definitely make a lasting impression,” she says. Then she pushes me to the side. “Okay, okay, let's go. But brush your teeth first—it smells like you ate cat poop in your sleep.”

I laugh and make sure to breathe in her face before rolling off the bed and heading to the bathroom.

•  •  •

“How'd you sleep, ladies?” Tyler asks. We're all sitting at the same table in the corner; I keep hoping Branden will come sit by us, but no such luck. I spy him sitting with some of the guys from his hall, though he does glance over and catch my eye once.

“Like rocks,” I say.

“Speak for yourself,” Riley responds, picking at her eggs. “You snore.”

I throw a balled-up napkin at her.

“Liar. I do not.”

Riley looks at Tyler. “She does,” she says. “And mumbles. I kept waiting for her to sing opera.”

Tyler chuckles and runs a hand through his curly hair.

“Yeah, well, it can't be worse than my roommate. Stinky McStinkerson doesn't smell any better in the morning, let me tell you.
And
he snores like a train.”

Riley laughs.

“Still not worse than Jennifer.”

I shake my head. “You're horrible,” I say.

“You love me.”

“Speaking of,” Tyler says, “when are you gonna make a move on that Branden kid?”

I stare at him, openmouthed, then glare at Riley. She tries to look innocent as she bites into her muffin.

“Oh, come on,” Tyler says, “it's pretty obvious. I mean, you keep looking over at him.”

“You're really bad at being discreet,” Riley adds.

I shake my head.

“I'll make a move the same time you do,” I say. I smile at Tyler, who raises an eyebrow. “I saw how you were staring at that acrobat.”

“Kevin?” he asks. He breaks out into a grin. “Oh, sweetie, I've already made a move. We were chatting right up until sign-in last night. He's really cute,
and
he only lives twenty minutes away from me. Kind of perfect.”

“Jealous,” Riley says. “Gay boys always get the cute ones.”

I elbow her. “You've got Sandy.”

She nods. “Yes, but that's different. Besides, you're changing the subject. Tyler's brought his game, time for you to bring yours.”

“Okay, okay,” I say. “I'll talk to him at lunch.”

“If not sooner,” Tyler says with a wink to Riley.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask. But of course he won't tell me. He just goes back to eating his scrambled eggs.