First Comes Like #Wattys2020

29

TWENTY NINE

The chairs have all been cleared away and the auditorium is empty. It looks bigger that way. I stand in the center holding a box of supplies in my hand turn around, imagining where all the decorations are going to be on Saturday: the balloons over there, red tablecloths there, gold and silver confetti on the dance floor. A couple of teachers volunteered to take over the decorating on Saturday morning and I'm all for it. It means I can stay home and give myself a pep talk in the mirror, so I don't freak myself out when I think of Dean discovering I'm his match.

OHMYGOD.

(Still not used to it yet.)

Speaking of Dean, where was he? "Pinkette!" I yell and my voice bounces off the walls, echoing in the empty room.

Pinkette!! Pinkette! Pinkette. Pinkette...

Taunting, almost.

I sigh loudly. Ms Fitz insisted that the school was 'missing something' and wanted us to make a banner for the front of the school. "Be creative," she said. "It's easy. You'd be done in no time." And yet, nearly an hour later, here I am, still at school, with no banner. I'm about to shout for Dean again when I feel something jab at my ribs.

"BOO!"

I scream and drop the box, fear making my skin all prickly and my ears hot. I arm myself with the first thing I can pick up: a small paint brush, slightly blue from previous art projects. I turn around fast, only to find Dean doubled over, laughing so hard, he's silent. He's got a blue glove on his hand, part of a costume, decorated to look like Stitch's hand from Lilo and Stitch. I realize the painted black nails must have been what jabbed me in the ribs.

I frown at Dean and poke him with the pointy end of the brush, annoyed that he hasn't stopped laughing yet.

"You've always come off as brave to me." He says finally, grinning and breathless, "That," he gestures to the paint brush in my hand, "Was a surprise."

I don't say anything, but cross my arms and deepen my frown at him until he comes closer and places his blue gloved hands on my waist. "Sorry." He says, looking me in the eye and making his voice sound like Stitch. And when I'm all ready to forgive him and I'm looking at his hair and wondering how soft it is and if I should allow myself to touch it, he smirks. "But admit it, I scared you."

I wriggle out of his grasp and pick up the box again. "Did you get the paint?" I say, ignoring his question.

"Yup."

We find a corner and lay out the big white sheet, that's going to be the banner. It's so large, Dean and I work at opposite ends, quietly painting the whole thing red in slow, careful strokes. And then, when the banner is saturated with red paint, we start decorating, starting on the drier bits, until the whole thing is done. It reads: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! and it looks great, even if it's two days early.

"We should leave our mark on it." I suggest, realizing for maybe the hundredth time since the school year started that this was our last year. We were leaving, finally, and the only real mark I'd left was my name in a gold Sharpie in the third stall of the girls bathroom. And thinking about it now, someone was going to look at it and think it was the other Valerie.

"You mean our names?" Dean looks from me to the banner. "I don't think there's space."

I shake my head. "I mean our hands." I dip my hand into some left over white paint and Dean follows. "Anywhere you want." I say. But we both go for the same spot, under the 'Valentine's' and our hands get mushed together, with only half of Dean's print on the banner, and the other half on the back of my hand.