“Guys smell better than animals,” Chelsea said.

“Not always. It depends on the guy,” Rachel said.

“Guys are better kissers.”

“That also depends on the guy,” Rachel said.

Aubrie cocked her head. “Who have you been kissing?”

Rachel giggled obscenely. Rachel is just that way.

Chelsea folded her arms and got a faraway look on her face. “Wouldn’t it be poetic justice if Brad got sick from drinking on prom night and threw up in his own car?”

“He’d better not be drinking on prom night,” I said. “I’ve seen how he drives when he's sober.”

Aubrie looked upward, thinking. “Lassie would have never left Samantha stranded in a parking lot. I think pets win.”

“A boyfriend would never have scaled a wall and sat on the vet’s roof in the first place,” Chelsea said.

Rachel lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. “He would if he knew the vet was trying to fix him."

Then all of my friends laughed and started suggesting the positive attributes of neutering.

“Okay, forget the subject of veterinary procedures,” I said, and plunged into a subject change before I had to listen to any more anatomy talk. “School elections are a week after prom. Have any of you ever thought of running for anything?”

Rachel shrugged, and her gaze returned to the river of students that made its way across the lobby. “Not really. Why?”

“I was just thinking that it looked like a lot of fun.”

Chelsea snorted. “What part do you think is fun? Planning things with the teachers?

Like I don’t already see enough of them.”

“I wasn’t talking about that part,” I said. “I just mean, you know, being a leader.”

Rachel shook her head. “Leading cheers is enough for me, and it’s not like we even got a lot of thanks for that.” She pulled her gaze away from the passing students. “You know those cookies we always bake for the team? I think a total of one person has ever said thank you to me.”

Aubrie nodded in agreement. “Guys don’t say thank you. That’s why, in the end, they all get married—to have someone write their thank-you cards for them.”

“And to have someone pick out clothes for them to wear every day,” Chelsea added.

“What is it with the Y chromosome that prohibits them from matching colors?”

“That’s another point in favor of pets,” Rachel chimed. “They never wear stupid clothes.”

I tried to steer the conversation back to me. “But being in the student body council could be fun, don’t you think?”

Chelsea leaned back against the banister and shot me a suspicious glance. “Are you thinking of running for something?”

I didn’t answer right away. For a second longer I could change my mind and back out.

For a second longer I didn’t have to worry about planning, campaigning, or more importantly, losing. “Yeah, I think I’ll run for president.”

“President?” Aubrie asked.

“Yes, president.” I figured if I was going for leadership potential, then I had better run for president. I’m not sure how much stock universities put in secretaries or vice presidents.

Rachel winked over at Aubrie. “I think someone had better tell Samantha that high school presidents don’t get interns.”

“Or the power to nuke teachers,” Chelsea added.

I glared at Rachel and Chelsea.

“What?” Rachel said. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Rachel bit back a smile. “Because you’re the one who’s always said student government was for people who didn’t have the talent to do sports or the rhythm to do cheerleading. Did you suddenly lose your rhythm?”

“No, I suddenly got my SAT scores.” I hadn’t meant to tell them my reasoning, but none of them looked shocked. In a quieter voice I added, “I thought my college application might need a boost, like a term as school president.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Aubrie said, “So how bad was your score?”

“Eight ten.”

Chelsea winced. “Well, you might have rhythm, but apparently you don’t have math or English skills.”

“I don't know what happened," I said. "I'm sure I’ll do better next year on them, but I still think it would be a good idea if I ran for student body president too." I looked at each of them one by one. "You guys will help me campaign, won’t you?”

“Sure,” Rachel said, full of loyal concern now. “Of course we'll help you. What do you need? Posters? Flyers? Nasty rumors about your opponents?”

I figured she was kidding, but wasn't sure. Rachel had dirt on a lot of people. “I don’t want to spread rumors about anyone. That wouldn’t be fair.”

Chelsea let out a half grunt. “Fair? This is politics. If you're going to play the game, you have to do whatever it takes to win.”

“I am going to do what it takes," I said. "And right now I think it will take posters.”

“Posters we can do,” Aubrie said, and then they spent the rest of the time until the bell rang discussing possible campaign slogans.

I nodded every once in a while, but I was only half paying attention. Chelsea’s words still hung in the air before me, and I couldn’t see beyond them. You have to do whatever it takes to win. It was just a school election. What did she think it was going to take?

Brad had the same lunch hour as I did, and he usually stopped by my table to talk with me. I wondered if he would show up today and what he’d say.

I wanted to give him another chance; giving him another chance would be easier than breaking up. I could even forget being stranded in the parking lot if he’d just apologize. With sincerity.

But Brad never showed up. I saw him only once, across the cafeteria. H e strutted out of the room without even pausing to glance in my direction.

So what did that mean?

Did he expect me to make the first move to talk to him? I wasn't the one who'd left him stranded.

I went to my English class and fumed about Brad while I was supposed to be listening to a lesson on the passive voice.

I kept thinking about the prom. Would Brad and I make up by then, or would the evening be just one long, uncomfortable ordeal interspersed with dancing? Should I try to smooth things over? Did I even want to go to the prom with Brad? I debated this question instead of listening to the lecture on the proper use of semicolons.

Which would be worse: swallowing my pride and acting like everything had been my fault—and then having to put up with a boyfriend who thought it was—or spending prom night with someone I was barely speaking to? What great dance pictures that would produce.

After school, while I took my books out of my locker Chelsea walked up. She put one hand on my locker door and leaned closer to me. “Did you hear about Brad and Whitney?”

“No, what about them?”

“He asked her to the prom.”

I stood, openmouthed, waiting for Chelsea to tell me she was kidding. But she didn’t.

Finally I turned back to my locker. “Well, it was nice of him to inform me we weren’t going, before he asked someone else.”

“Total loser,” Chelsea agreed. “You’re better off without him.”

“Sure.” She was right, but it didn’t seem like much consolation after being dumped in such a nasty manner. I swallowed hard to try to keep my throat from tightening. I absolutely was not going to cry about this. He wasn’t worth it.

Chelsea leaned up against the locker next to mine. “We should go out tonight we go out, find every stray cat in the city, and put them all in Brad’s car.”

“That would be cruel. To the cats, I mean.”

“Better yet, you should tell Brad it turns out Frisky really did have rabies, and now his upholstery is infected with dangerous germs.”

I smiled, but just a little. “And the car needs to be demolished for safety reasons.”

“Right. He and Whitney can walk to the prom.”

I shoved the last of my books into my backpack. “We’d be doing Whitney a favor.