Never mind what it means. I can’t believe I just said it, and I’d never in a millionyears explain it to you. “No hablo *ingles,” I said. “Lo siento, *senor.”

“Don’t think you can resort to insulting me in Spanish. I can spot an insult in any language.”

“I bet you can. I’m sure you have a lot of experience in the matter.”

“You’re skating on thin ice,” he said, and then with a smile added, “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

But I did. For the rest of the night, in the recesses of my mind, I resisted him. I squelched any and every attraction I felt, and that was even harder than squelching insults.

After the fair was over, we packed up our minivan and headed home. The boys sat in the back shooting each other with plastic flying frogs they’d won at some booth, while Mom and I sat in the front and did our best to ignore them. Mom gave a contented sigh as we drove. “The fair went pretty well, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” I said, then ran my hand over my shirt, which was now blotched with red Jell-O.

“We cleared over three hundred dollars. Isabelle Woodruff was thrilled. You know, she’s so changed since they adopted Katya. She’s always out and about, doing something with her. She’s much happier.”

I had never paid much attention to Mrs. Woodruff's level of happiness, so I just said, “Oh.”

Mom glanced over at me. “Don’t you think it’s great that she’s become so involved in helping kids?”

“Sure.”

Mom’s gaze returned to the street, and she shook her head. “There used to be a time you actually talked to me in sentences that involved more than one word.”

This had been one of Mom’s complaints against me lately. It wasn’t enough to answer “fine” when she asked how my day had been. She wanted some sort of verbal essay.

I shrugged. “Sure, I think it’s great that the Woodruffs are doing so much for the kids in Russia.”

Mom didn’t say anything for a moment, and I could tell she was deciding whether to drop the subject or not. I guess she decided in favor of dropping because when she spoke again, her voice returned to its normal tone. “So I noticed you and Logan Hansen spent a lot of time together tonight. What’s going on between you two?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Right.” Mom sighed and shook her head again. “You never tell me anything anymore.”

CHAPTER 11

The next day, instead of guy-ogling, my friends and I decided a campaign strategy meeting was in order. We went to the library, sat at a table in a remote corner, and re hashed all the events of the day before—who had said what about the flyers and about me, and how much all of this was likely to hurt my chances for election.

“It’s worse than I thought,” Chelsea said, pulling her chair closer to the table. “That flyer really boosted Amy’s chances of winning the election. A lot of people think you can’t be serious about being school president if you haven’t been serious about your schoolwork.”

Aubrie nodded. “And Rick has already captured the this-is-all-just-a-big-joke vote.”

“You can’t win on intellectual merit now,” Chelsea said. “Your only hope is to try and present yourself as middle-of-the-road type of candidate. You know, not ultra-cerebral like Amy, but not a partyer like Rick.”

“Okay. I’ll be middle-of-the-road.” I had no idea how to go about portraying that image. If I always walked down the center of the hallway, would people understand? “When I give my election speech, I’ll try to sound really . . . average.”

Rachel shook her head. “Not average, you need to be charismatic.”

“Okay, I’ll be charismatically in the middle of the road.”

“You never know," Aubrie said, "maybe you could turn the whole flyer incident to your advantage. People might see you as a victim and want to rally around you. Try to play on that.”

“I’ll be a charismatic middle-of-the-road victim,” I said.

“And remember to appear dedicated,” Rachel added.

I gripped the edge of the table. “My head will explode if you give me any more directions.”

“You’re doing fine," Aubrie assured me. "Just try to act more presidential.”

The explosion felt imminent. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

Chelsea patted my hand as though I were a child. “There’s no need to get upset.

Everything will work out. Let’s change the subject.”

No one said anything for a moment, and then Aubrie asked, “So, do you have any new prospects for the prom?”

The prom. Now there was a great subject. I traced the lettering on my English 315

book, looking at it instead of my friends. How could I talk to Josh about it when I hardly ever saw him?

“I kind of like this one guy,” I said slowly. “But I’m not sure if he’s interested in me.”

“Oh, I think he’s interested,” Rachel said.

I blinked at her in surprise. “What?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious that Logan likes you.”

“Logan?" I sputtered. "What makes you think I was talking about Logan?”

My friends passed a knowing glance around the table, and then Aubrie said, “Well, the two of you are pretty obvious about it.”

“We are not,” I squeaked out. “Logan and I are definitely not obvious, I mean interested. I mean—well, you know what I mean.”

“Oh, come on,” Chelsea said. “You two are always talking with each other in the hallways.”

I folded my arms. “That’s because of his diabolical bet. Not because I like him.”

Rachel smirked at me. “Then why do you two always stand so close together when you talk?”

“We don’t.”

“You do too,” Aubrie said.

Did we? “Then that must be because the hallways are crowded or something.”

“Uh-huh,” Chelsea said. “You also laugh when you’re around him.”

“I find parts of his personality amusing.”

Rachel smirked again. “And what do you find the other parts?”

I tapped my fingers against my English book, trying to think of the right way to phrase how I felt about Logan. “He’s just one of those people that I . . . put up with. And besides, he asked Cassidy Woodruff to the prom.”

“Ohhh,” Chelsea said, as if she understood everything perfectly now.

“But I wasn’t talking about Logan anyway. I was talking about Josh Benson. He’s back from college, and I’ve run into him a couple of times. I’m thinking about asking him to the prom.”

My friends looked at me silently. Finally Aubrie said, “As a revenge type of thing because Logan asked Cassidy?”

“No," I insisted, "not for revenge. This has nothing to do with Logan. Just forget Logan. I like Josh. I just don’t know how to casually ask him to the prom.”

“Don’t do it casually,” Chelsea said. “Come up with some cute idea he won’t be able to turn down—like a singing telegram or something.”

Rachel rested her elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “My sister asked a guy out by putting cinnamon rolls in a toy dump truck, and then she attached a note that said, ‘I’d like to haul your buns to the Sadie Hawkins.’ ”

Aubrie nodded. “My cousin asked her date to Sadie Hawkins by stapling a pair of Superman underwear to a poster and then writing on it, I’LL BE BRIEF, COME WITH ME TO

THE DANCE.”

Chelsea hit her hand against the table as though she’d thought of the perfect idea.

“A baby chicken in a basket with a note that says, ‘This chick would love to go to the prom with you.’ ”

“Good ideas,” I said, “but somehow I can’t see myself giving Josh underwear, live poultry, or anything that references his rear end.”

“You’ll think of something,” Chelsea said. “There are hundreds of cute ways you can ask him.”

The first bell rang, and we got up to go to our classes. As Rachel tucked her books under her arm she said, “Do an invitation with candy. Guys love to eat.”