Fifteen
Memory 7
The next day at school, after a sleep that felt more like a blink, I looked and felt a wreck. So of course the first person I saw as I stumbled along the corridor—dressed in my lamest old Barenaked Ladies tee-shirt and ripped jeans, extra-large mocha in one hand and packet of Cheezels in the other—was none other than Sir Twinkle-Eyes himself.
He was leaning against my locker, holding a shiny black paper bag with ribbons for handles. “Well, good morning,” he said. He looked me up and down. “Interesting outfit.”
I mumbled something about running late. It was all I could do not to cry. If I’d had any chance with Viggo before, I definitely didn’t now.
“Well, don’t feel too bad,” Viggo said. “Because I may just have saved your sartorial bacon.” He handed over the bag.
“Wh
