Making Out by Megan Stine Page A

said: “Meet me. Pub office. After school.”
    â€œHurry. She’s heading back here!” Lisa Marie warned.
    Marianna slipped the phone back into Heather’s purse just in time.
    â€œSomeone took all the chunks.” Heather pouted at the dribble of blue cheese dressing on her salad plate.
    Poor Heather. Why couldn’t she get herself focused on what was important in life—like the prom? If she didn’t work a little harder, she was going to end up spending the whole night alone.
    Luckily, she had two good friends to handle the details for her.

    â€œThe sports section is a mess.” Marty Alexander, the editor of the yearbook, leaned over Heather’s shoulder in the pub office that afternoon and looked at the pages in front of her. Behind them, the yearbook staff was bustling around like crazy. The final sections of the book had to go to the printer in three days.
    Heather had laid out the sports section in Quark and printed out PDFs of the pages. Now she had the printouts spread in front of her on a big table.
    â€œWell, we can’t start with lacrosse—it’s too marginal,” Heather argued. “That’s why I put basketball up front.”
    â€œBut if we start with basketball, it looks like we’re sidelining the other sports,” Marty explained. “Makes it look like we have a pecking order.”
    â€œWe do,” Heather said with a laugh. “Fess up. Why else did we put theater and dance in the front of the book, and all the sports in the back?”
    â€œBecause we hate the jocks?” Marty offered.
    â€œ Hate ’s a strong word,” Heather scolded.
    â€œYeah, you’re right. More like utterly despise because we’re intimidated by their big muscles,” Marty said.
    Heather laughed. “So what do you want me to do? You’re the editor. It’s your call.”
    Marty thought for a minute. “Put the cross-country team first,” he decided. “Use a huge photo of Marianna. That way everyone will think you’re just playing favorites with your friends, and the heat’ll be off me.”
    â€œThat’s not fair.”
    â€œCry me a river,” Marty said. “It’s my call, remember?”
    He meant it, too.
    Oh, whatever, Heather thought. She didn’t really care about the sports section anyway, and it would be cool to use a big picture of Marianna.
    She sat back down at the computer and started rearranging the pages.
    â€œHi,” a voice behind her said.
    Heather turned her head slightly, still staring at the monitor with one eye and clicking things with her mouse. Finally she looked up.
    It was Tony. He hopped up onto the table beside her.
    â€œHi,” she said absently, wondering what he was doing there. The lit mag had sent their stuff off to the printer a few days ago.
    â€œI got your text message,” Tony said. “Why did you want to see me?”
    Text message? Heather shook her head slightly.
    â€œI didn’t send you one. You must be confused.”
    Tony reached into his tight black jeans and took out his cell phone. His all-black outfit—jeans, T-shirt, boots—set off his smooth, pale skin and blue eyes. Heather thought he looked like a postmodern painting.
    â€œI’m not confused. This is your cell number, isn’t it?” He showed her the text message.
    Heather studied the phone and then saw what time the message was sent—during lunch that day.
    Wow.
    â€œMy friends must have done that,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.
    â€œWhy?” he asked.
    Good question, Heather thought. How dare they? She could only come up with one answer.
    â€œThey’re trying to fix me up with you so they don’t have to take care of me during the prom.”
    An approving grin spread across Tony’s face. Was he charmed by her blunt honesty?
    â€œSo meet me there,” he said with a shrug. “We can hang