Joseph sat beside Betty Lee on a long, stifled bench just outside the third building. As she spoke, he began to realize just how annoying Betty Lee actually was. Why had he been so hellbent on taking her to the eight grade dance? She was irritating and noisy.

"—so, maybe we will get to match after all! Oh, Joseph, this is going to so great. I can't wait to tell my mother." Joseph cringed at this. If Betty Lee told her mother, then her mother would tell his mother, then his mother wouldn't shut up about it. It was simple and fast logic.

"No!" He shouted over her. When she flinched, he coughed, smiling slightly. "No, no, let's just—let's just keep this between you and I, yeah? That way; we can surprise our mother's."

Only seconds later, Betty Lee was clapping broadly, while squealing. "Oh, what a wonderful idea, Joseph! My mother will be so proud."

She'd better, Joseph though, bitterly.

Lark took another slow sip from his box of apple juice, a curious face in tow. Patty was a sweet girl, surely. But it was still frankly possible that she could pulling his leg. Just like Andy had.

"So, what do you say?"

She was definitely mental. That's what Lark thought when she'd explained the entire plan to him. In what world did something like that work out? And if they even attempted, it'd most likely end horrifically. A black and promised.

She'd told him, "we're both most definite homosexuals, and I can't afford my father finding out. And I'm assuming; neither can you. So, I say we date, and make it seem like we're the straightest dill-holes out there."

Lark could admit, the girl was one smart cookie. But what were the odds in it working? One look at Lark's grimace before another prolonged kiss—and nobody would be fooled.

He looked up at the hope laced in her eyes, and her fingers gripping tightly onto her juice box. "Fine," he managed, "I'm in."