Still a Work in Progress Read Free

picks us up, and then we head to the high school to get my sister and Stu. There, we wait in the long carpool line. As usual the students take their sweet time saying good-bye to their friends, as if they will never see them again. Emma has to hug everyone. I catch Harper looking at her dreamily. Everyone looks at Emma that way.
    She finally saunters over to the car and climbs in next to me.
    “How was your day, honey?” my mom asks cheerfully.
    “Fine,” Emma says in the same tone. She reaches over and punches my arm. It’s how we say hi to each other. I punch her back.
    Harper turns around from the front seat. “Hey, Emma,” he says hopefully.
    She smiles. “Hey, Harper. Nice hat.”
    He’s wearing a New England Patriots hat that says GO, PATS !
    “Thanks,” he says. “Nice, um, sweaters.”
    “Thanks.”
    Emma is always cold, so she wears lots of layers. Sometimes she’ll wear a V-neck sweater over a crew-neck sweater and then sometimes even a cardigan sweater over that, all buttoned up. Then she makes these little slits in the cuffs so she can pull them down over her hands and she sticks her thumbs out through the holes so they’re like a sweater/fingerless-glove combo. For pants, she wears leggings in different colors. All those bulky sweaters make her legs look extra skinny. She’s like SpongeBob SquarePants, only she’s SpongeEmma SquareSweater. But I don’t tell her that. Even though she pretends not to care what people think, I know she does. Too much. My parents know this, too, but they are great at pretending it’s not true.
    Stu finally shows up and pushes his way into the backseat so that Emma is squished between us. As soon as we hit the road, Stu and Harper start arguing about who’s going to make it to the Superbowl this year. I wish my mom would turn up the radio, but she loves to listen to carpool talk. She says it’s the only way she gets any information. Emma pops her earbuds in and moves her head slightly to the music. It sounds like some kind of reggae stuff, which I can’t stand. She doesn’t offer to share a bud, which is fine with me. I don’t know which is worse: her music, or Harper’s whining about the Patriots and the New York Giants. You’d think we were talking about some upcoming war, the way he talks.
    Must be nice to have your biggest worry be about whether your favorite football team makes it to the Superbowl. But I wouldn’t know about that.

“Here’s what you need to know when a girl sits next to you,” Ryan tells me and Sam while we eat lunch a few days later. “The first time, it was probably a mistake.”
    We’re sitting outside on the steps, just the three of us. It’s cold, but sometimes you need some fresh air. The locker-juice smell still lingers in the hall, even though it’s been three days since the incident.
    “What if a girl sits next to you twice?” Sam asks. He takes a small bite of a potato chip. Sam is a dainty eater. He’s the only person I know who bites his chips instead of popping them in his mouth whole.
    “Two times means she feels sorry for you,” Ryan explains. “Probably just trying to be nice. It’s a pity sit.”
    I pick at the Tofurky sandwich my sister made. Emma is in charge of school lunches. I’m in charge of breakfasts. I would switch if I wasn’t so lazy. Emma became a vegan two years ago and refuses to make non-vegan lunches for me. She says it’s against her principles to handle meat and dairy products.
    “What if a girl sits with you
three
times?” I ask.
    Ryan takes a drink from his water bottle. “Then you’re in business.”
    I don’t know where Ryan gets his information, but for the most part, he seems to know what he’s talking about.
    “So, how many times has Molly sat next to you?” I ask.
    “Four,” Ryan says, shaking his head.
    “She must be
really
into you,” Sam says. He takes another tiny bite of his chip.
    Ryan sighs and glances up at the sky. “But . . . why?” he asks it.
    “Are