30
I used the telephone again to call Amanda because it was a certified emergency.
“Oh my gosh, it was horrible.”
“What did he say?”
“That he likes me.”
Amanda squealed. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he ask you out?”
“Yes.”
Another squeal. “Well?”
I paused, then let out a groan. “I said yes.”
You’d have thought from the scream on the other end I’d just told Amanda a publisher wanted to buy all her poems.
“When?” she asked.
“This Saturday. I told him he could come with us to Poetry Night.”
“A double date! I get to see everything! We need to go shopping,”
Amanda rattled off, “and fix your hair, and maybe do your nails—”
“No,” I interrupted before she could get too out of control. “I’m not doing any of that. I’m going as-is or not at all. I shouldn’t have even said yes.”
