Page 8 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

My stomach did somersaults looking at the screen. Of course, the hashtags were there everywhere, like it was supposed to be some sort of normal thing:

#TheNerdKnowsHowToBreakdance

#ClarkTheRaveKing

#WatchClarkDanceLikeANewbornCalf

#FromBooksmartToDancefloorSmart

#FromBookflipToBackflip

And the comments were worse. #WasHeMimickingAliens? was trending faster than I could blink.

"I don't even want to know where you got this," I said, trying to hide my face from the growing pool of shame.

"Oh, come on," Shun grinned. "Look at it this way: You've got fans."

"Fans? Of my terrible dancing?"

Shun just grinned harder. "Well, it's better than being a nerd, right?"

"Yeah, thanks. I love my new fame," I said in a monotone.

"Seriously, though," Shun said, scanning me like a human barcode. "You've got some respect now. The jocks—Max and Ethan included—actually gave you props."

I let out a hard sigh, one that could have blown out a lightbulb.

Max. Ethan.

Jocks. My natural-born enemies. And they were giving me respect? Because of my dancing? I didn't know whether to be appalled or grateful. But knowing Max and Ethan, this was probably some elaborate scheme to humiliate me later. But how could a cheerleader like Shun understand that?

As if my thoughts had conjured him up, Ethan showed up—of course he would: the demon jock everyone in school seemed to worship, yet I couldn't stand. He looked me up and down a second before smirking—like my pain was the best comedy he'd seen all day or something.

"Nice moves," he chuckled, clearly relishing in my discomfort. "Didn't know the nerd had it in him.".

"Don't call him a nerd," Shun warned mock-serious.

Max came up behind Ethan and walked towards Shun kissing her like it was his day job. Seriously, every time I saw it, it was grosser.

Meanwhile, I said nothing to Ethan. Instead, my face went crimson, and I couldn't think straight anymore.

His smirk only grew bigger.

Someone please kill me.

And to make matters worse, Shun and Max leaned on my locker as if that was now the most popular hangout spot in the world. I was trapped. Those next five minutes were like five years. I had only one move left: look away—not at Ethan, but at the floor, or probably the ceiling, anything but him.

Finally, after what seemed like forever and a half, they were gone.

And then, the torture of tortures came: Joy.

"Hey," she said, grinning like she'd just unlocked the secret to life, "if Ethan's picking you up tomorrow, you'll get a ride in style."

That was Joy's version of good morning: small talk.

She was right, though—he would probably show up in some ridiculously shiny car to drag me along to whatever weird ritual they had in store.

I stared at her, wide-eyed. "Tomorrow? Ethan is picking me up?"

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