Page 55 of The Dating Game

“A hair circle?” I ask in confusion.

“Yeah, you know,” she moves her finger in a demonstrative circle, “we all sit in a circle and do the hair of the person in front of us. Then Carmen Sanchez had the idea for all of us to match, which was super fun. Not everyone knew how to French braid, but we taught them all quickly enough.”

“And by we she means her. Brooke taught everyone who didn’t already know,” June Kim pipes up from behind us. “She’s, like, a really good teacher.”

“Yeah, and she even knew how to do my hair,” Marley Portman says from the row behind June. “It’s not easy to manage my natural hair.”

Brooke shrugs looking bashful at the compliments. “I grew up dancing,” she explains. “We had to have our hair a certain way for every competition. When we got older we did each other’s. I used to do my friend McKayla’s hair. It can be hard to work with because of the curl pattern, but the results are always stunning. And your hair is so soft,” she adds to Marley. “It was like braiding luxurious silk.”

Marley looks immensely pleased by the compliment, but further conversation is cut off by Pat announcing over the intercom that we’re setting off and asking us to take our seats.

I slide down next to Brooke, giving her a sideways look as I do so. “You’re something else, Brooke Garza, you know that?” I tell her, and she blushes prettily with pleasure.

“It’s just a few braids,” she waves off my words.

“It’s more than a few braids,” I counter. “You mobilized 30 teenage girls into one joint activity where they all came out smiling and more confident.”

“Every woman feels happier on a good hair day,” she says with a dismissive shrug, like she didn’t just reveal a noteworthy nugget of truth.

“I’ll remember that,” I say. Our eyes meet as my words, an exact echo of the ones I said last night, bring to mind that conversation about the two of us kissing. I can’t help myself, the thought makes my gaze dip to her lips. Electricity crackles between us, but then at the exact same moment we both seem to remember that we’re on a bus full of people. Not just people, impressionable teenagers.

“So,” I say, and the word comes out hoarse. I clear my throat before continuing, nervously rubbing my palms against the material of my shorts. “How about another Mad Lib?”

***

Wemadeit.Iwatch kid after kid pile off the bus—girls going left to stand with the female chaperones, boys going right to stand with me and the other male chaperones—and feel a surge of satisfaction. We made it.

I’ve been planning this trip for months and seeing it come to fruition is a true joy. Emotion swells in my chest, and I find myself wishing Brooke were standing next to me so I could steal a sip of water from her ginormous water bottle to fend off the tears that arethreatening to emerge.

Not that she would let me drink out of the same water bottle as her. That might be a bit presumptuous. We should probably kiss before I ask her to share water with me.

I shake my head, annoyed with yet another errant thought that centers around kissing Brooke. The ride over here was chock full of them:

If I were that carrot stick she’s eating, we’d be kissing right now.

Did that movie character just say the wordmiss, you know what that rhymes with?Kiss!

Ooh, a tree! If Brooke and I were in it we could be k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

I’m as bad as the whole bus full of hormonal teenage boys we brought to Texas.

At least I’m not on the verge of tears anymore, though.

“Alright, is everybody off the bus?” I boom and the hubbub of chatter dies down as all eyes turn my way. Pattie, who was in charge of the female headcount, gives me a thumbs up and next to me Tim gives me an affirming nod. “Alright, who’s ready to have an amazing week?” Cheers erupt all around me, and I notice Brooke joining in from her spot between June and Carmen. I feel a swell of affection for her. “Tonight,” I go on, reluctantly tearing my eyes off of her, “we’re settling in at our host church, having dinner together, and then you guys get to have some free time to spend with your assigned groups and their respective chaperones. Then tomorrow the real fun begins!” There’s another round of cheering, and I wait to continue until it dies down. “Every morning at breakfast we’ll have a briefing of the day’s events. Let’s all please remember to treat the church we’ll be sleeping in as if it were our own house. Let’s be a team of missionaries that leaves the boarding space we’ve been gifted even cleaner than we found it. Remember, once again the girls are in the gymnasium and the boysare in the basement. No going into the opposite gender’s sleeping quarters,” I add sternly.

“Same goes for you and Brooke, right, Will?” one of the guys shouts and all the kids burst into raucous laughter.

“Same goes for all the chaperones, Silas,” I say wryly as the laughter dies. Brooke’s hand is fisted over her mouth like she’s covering a laugh. The moment feels like a connecting point between us, as if being the brunt of their teasing makes us more of a couple.

“Like we’d want to go into your stinky sleeping quarters anyway,” Reagan Marshall calls, and the girls all cheer, taking the attention off me and Brooke.

“Alright, everybody, grab your luggage and let’s head inside.”

The church hosting us is called Mercy Coast, and, as the name suggests it’s right on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. It’s large but pretty old with beautiful stained glass windows, tall, slanted ceilings, and worn wood floors. The head pastor, a guy named Keith Sawder, and his wife, Shannon, welcome us warmly, taking us on a quick tour of the church before leaving us to settle in.

The rest of the week we’ll be cooking our own food, but tonight we’ve got pizza coming. Pizza that disappears in about five minutes flat. I’ve barely finished a piece when my group of boys, Silas Nash included, appear at my side, ready and raring to go.

“We want to play beach volleyball,” Silas declares. “You game for that, old timer?”

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