Everybody Bugs Out by Leslie Margolis

‘Lucky you,’ and he smiled, and then as he was leaving he said, ‘Have a good one,’ and sort of saluted.”
    â€œWow,” said Yumi.
    Okay, now I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.
    True, no one’s ever actually punched me in the stomach, but it had to be better than hearing Claire go on and on and on about my crush.
    Oliver had never—not once—kind of saluted to me.
    He smiled at me a lot. He taught me how to swing a cricket bat. And last time I was at his house he showed me his portfolio. Besides sketching bugs, he likes painting pictures of his favorite waterfall in Jamaica. He also has one very lifelike picture of his swimming pool. It’s inspired by an artist named David Hockney, he said. And when I told him I’d never heard of David Hockney, Oliver said not to worry about it. He hadn’t, either, until his dad took him to an exhibit in the city last summer.
    My point being, we had real conversations about meaningful stuff. Wasn’t that better than a kind of salute? I didn’t ask out loud because it seemed rude, but I did wonder.
    And once I stopped wondering, I started wishing I’d spoken up thirty seconds sooner because if I had, my friends would be talking about my crush on Oliver, not Claire’s. But now it was too late. There was no turning back.
    â€œYou have to wonder about his taste, though,” said Rachel. “Since he used to go out with one of the Three Terrors.”
    â€œHe and Jesse broke up weeks ago. During winter break,” I reminded her.
    â€œRight, so he’s been single for ages,” said Yumi.
    â€œAnd everyone makes mistakes,” Claire said with a grin.
    â€œIs it true his mom used to be a model?” asked Yumi.
    â€œShe paints,” I said. “Really pretty watercolors. And Oliver is into art, too, except he likes working with oils and he’s also good at drawing. He takes private classes and he visits museums in the city.”
    Claire stared at me, her head tilted to one side like she was trying to figure something out. I know that look because Pepper gives it to me whenever he suspects I have food. Except something told me Claire wasn’t hungry. Not in the conventional sense, that is, so I decided it would be a good time to stop talking.
    â€œAre you going to ask him to the dance, or try and get him to ask you?” asked Rachel.
    This made my heart sink to depths I didn’t know existed.
    As my friends peppered Claire with questions, I wondered, how did this work? Like, what were the rules? Could we both like Oliver? I mean, we both did, but should I admit it, too? It seemed wrong to just blurt it out. Too late, at least. But was it really?
    Claire would be upset if I told everyone about my crush—I knew she would. But did she have a right to be?
    And what about Oliver? Just because Claire liked him didn’t necessarily mean he had to like her back. I’m sure he had an opinion. So maybe we could ask him to choose between us? No, that would be wrong. Weird and uncomfortable, like some dumb reality show: Help! My best friend and I are crushing on the same boy!
    The longer I waited to say something, the worse I felt.
    â€œI’m making all of us belts to wear to the school dance,” Claire said. “In different colors so they won’t be too matchy-matchy. But do you think I could make one for Oliver, too? Or would that be weird? Maybe I should make him some shoelaces instead …”
    It was as if Claire had already called dibs on him. Like how the first person to yell “Shotgun” gets to ride in the front seat.
    â€œHow long have you been into him?” I asked, interrupting, because I couldn’t stay quiet for one more second.
    â€œHuh?” asked Claire.
    â€œOliver.” It hurt to say his name, just to ask this question. But I really wanted—no, I needed—an answer. “How long has it been?”
    â€œA few