“Whatever, I get it.” Clarice pats me on the back. “When’s the big family dinner?”
I’m having dinner with Stephen’s family tonight. Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m going to puke at any second. And here I’m thinking it was the shrimp I didn’t eat last night. “Tonight.”
Breathe, Gert. Breathe.
“Wow. You nervous?” she asks, all guru.
“Maybe.” I swallow bile.
“I think I’d be puking.”
“Hadn’t occurred to me,” I lie.
You know how you can tell you’re in trouble?
You can tell you’re in trouble when you’re standing in a long line of girls in a basketball gym, getting ready to try out for an eighth-grade club team – an elite-level team, the kind of team you haven’t played on before, the kind of team you really want to play on – and you all of a sudden realize you’re staring straight-on, eye-level at the shoulder blades of the girl in front of you. Which means, as far as you can tell, the girl attacked to those shoulder blades is a good nine or ten inches taller than you.
And that’s right where I was.