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33 | chance
As lovely as Bridget looked at homecoming, with her gold makeup and emerald dress, to see her in her combat boots and that green bomber jacket just feels right. She's beautiful like this too. Perhaps even more beautiful because she's fully herself. Her sassy, sarcastic, smartass self.
The snow begins to melt as we enter March. The weather report always threatens more snowfall in the future, but I'm hoping not. As picturesque as fallen snow is, I miss the warmer temperatures. And I'm tired of the winter-wear shoots.
But with March comes Bridget's yearbook deadline. I thought I didn't see her much before—now I rarely ever catch glimpses of her at school. Most days after school, I can find her in front of one of the library computers. Or she's rushing about, taking photos and talking to people.
They had announced the winners of the senior bests. And I won Most Likely to Be Famous. When they'd said my name over the intercom that morning, my class erupted into cheers.
And Gina won Most Popular. Delilah snagged Best Hair, Mikayla Most Athletic. Everyone else, I had only met in passing or knew by name alone.
When I had gone to find Bridget to thank her for letting Gina and I win separate superlatives, she was nowhere in sight. I learn later that she had locked herself in the computer lab, working on the yearbook.
It's mid-March when I run into her in the hallway. Her hair is a frazzled mess, worse than usual. The bags beneath her eyes color purple and blue. The steely look in her eyes screams that people should stay the hell away.
And naturally, I ignore the warning.
"You look awful," I say in lieu of greeting.
She casts a glare at me. "Glad to know you're finally seeing the true me."
I shake my head. "I just mean, you look exhausted."
Sighing, she rubs her eyes. "Yeah, a week of bad sleep can do that to you."
I click my tongue. "Damn. Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?"
"Write my AP English paper for me?"
"If only," I say, chuckling.
"Yeah."
I walk alongside her through the halls. "So how's the yearbook coming along?"
She groans, head tilting toward the ceiling. "God, don't even mention that. It's absolute hell. Hell. Half the girls came up with some lousy excuse about being unable to meet their deadlines. So guess who has to pick up the slack? That's right. Me. I would like to die please."
