Free Someone Like You by Sarah Dessen

don’t know.”
    â€œWell,” he said, looking up at me with a shock of blond hair falling across his forehead, “even if she can’t make it, you should come.”
    â€œI can’t come by myself,” I said without thinking.
    â€œYou won’t be by yourself,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
    â€œOh.” That was when I looked at the clock, over his head, marking this moment forever. The culmination of all those badminton matches and volleyball serves, of laps run around the gym in circles. This was what I’d been waiting for. “Okay. I’ll be there.”
    â€œGood.” He was smiling at me, and right then I would have agreed to anything he asked, as dangerous as that was. “I’ll see you there.”
    The bell rang then, loud and jarring and bounding off the walls of the huge, hollow gym as everyone stood up. Coach Van Leek was yelling about bowling starting on Monday and how we should all come ready to learn the five-step approach, but I wasn’t hearing him, or anyone, as Macon grabbed his notebook and stood up, sticking out a hand to me to pull me to my feet. I just looked up at him, wondering what I could be getting myself into, but it didn’t matter. I put my hand in Macon’s, feeling his fingers close over mine. I let him pull me toward him, to my feet, and my eyes were wide open.
    Â 
    After school Scarlett and I went to her house, where Marion was busy getting ready for a big date with an accountant she’d met named Steve Michaelson. She was painting her fingernails and chain-smoking while Scarlett and I ate potato chips and watched.
    â€œSo,” I said, “what’s this Steve guy like anyway?”
    â€œHe’s very nice,” Marion said in her gravelly voice, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Very serious, but in a sweet way. He’s the friend of a friend of a friend.”
    â€œTell her the other thing,” Scarlett said, popping another chip in her mouth.
    â€œWhat thing?” Marion shook the bottle of polish.
    â€œYou know.”
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    Marion held up one hand, examining it. “Oh, it’s just this thing he does. It’s a hobby.”
    â€œTell her,” Scarlett said again, then raised her eyebrows at me so I knew something good was coming.
    Marion looked at her, sighed, and said, “He’s in this group. It’s like a history club, where they study the medieval period together, on weekends.”
    â€œThat’s interesting,” I said as Scarlett pushed her chair out and went to the sink. “A history club.”
    â€œMarion.” Scarlett ran her hands under the faucet. “Tell her what he does in this club.”
    â€œWhat? What does he do?” I couldn’t stand it.
    â€œHe dresses up,” Scarlett said before Marion even opened her mouth. “He has this, like, medieval alter-ego, and on the weekends he and all his friends dress up in medieval clothes and become these characters. They joust and have festivals and sing ballads.”
    â€œThey don’t joust,” Marion grumbled, starting on her other hand.
    â€œYes, they do,” Scarlett said. “I talked to him the other night. He told me everything.”
    â€œWell, so what?” Marion said. “Big deal. I think it’s kind of sweet, actually. It’s like a whole other world.”
    â€œIt’s, like, crazy,” Scarlett said, coming back to the table and sitting down beside me. “He’s a nut.”
    â€œHe is not.”
    â€œYou know what his alter-ego name is?” she asked me. “Just guess.”
    I looked at her. “I cannot imagine.”
    Marion was acting like she couldn’t hear us, engrossed in buffing a pinky nail.
    â€œVlad,” Scarlett said dramatically. “Vlad the Impaler.”
    â€œIt’s not the Impaler,” Marion said snippily, “it’s the Warrior. There’s a