Page 67 of The Beta Test

“I did work hard,” I insist, heat rising in my face. “You don’t even know⁠—”

“Yes, actually, I do.” Her voice drops, quieter now, but sharper. “I know exactly how much harder everything is when you don’t have anyone at home checking your homework or packing your lunch or buying you new everything.”

Her words hit me harder than I expect. But at the same time, I can tell she’s not mad at me. Well, she’s definitely at least a little mad at me. This seems like it’s about more than that though.

My mouth opens, then closes. I feel stupid for every assumption I’ve made about her life. For my petty jealousy.

“I didn’t realize,” I say finally.

“No,” she mutters. “You didn’t.”

She starts to walk again, shoulders tense, worn backpack slipping slightly down one arm. For a second, I think she’s done with the conversation. But then she adds, in a tired voice that’s almost too low to hear, “Just because you’re struggling doesn’t mean the rest of us have to listen to you.”

I stand there frozen, watching her disappear into the stream of students heading toward class. I'm not sure what stings more—the truth in her earlier words or the barbs of her last ones. But underneath all of it, I think Jenna was right. Analiese needs someone. Even me.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Over the next few weeks, Analiese continues to dodge me. On Tuesday I try a casual 'hey' by the lockers—she gives me a curt chin nod and walks away before I finish my sentence. On Friday I message her on Connection Services. Read receipt; no reply. The following week after AP Lit, I tell her I liked her analysis of the assigned reading, and she looks at me like I've sprouted a second head before muttering 'thanks' and disappearing down the hall.

Guilt fills me when I think of how she helped me when we were still talking anonymously—she was the first person I turned to about my suspicions about Braden, even if unwittingly. I never offered her the same support, and I can only hope that one day she'll let me try again.

My friendship with Jenna, at least, seems fully mended. We sit together at lunch, we text constantly, and last weekend I slept over at her house. Jake was home and decided to watch a chick flick with us—not anything we haven't done a million times before, but now things feel different. At some point during the movie, he started braiding my hair. I kept waiting for Jenna to say something, but she acted like she always does when Jake is around—like we're all friends who've known each other forever.

What Jenna doesn't know is that when Jake braids my hair now, a million butterflies take flight in my stomach. Logically, he's still my best friend's little brother. But ever since the start of this school year I've seen him differently, and I can't tell if I should dig into the feeling or shove it into a dark corner and wait for it to pass.

And now, as I sit in my room with Jake to study for our calculus final tomorrow, I make the choice to shove those butterflies into the metaphorical abyss.

My eyes track his large hand as he writes out a problem step by step on a sheet of paper in the notebook on my desk using the same pencil I gave him for his birthday. He’s used it every time we’ve done homework together. It must be a good pencil, after all.

His sandy blond hair has grown a little too long and swoops adorably across his forehead. He bites on his lower lip as he concentrates—something I remember him doing when he was younger while building Star Wars Lego kits. It also causes his dimples to pop slightly. Those same dimples made those darn butterflies take flight when he flashed them at me an hour ago, and they have yet to settle down. Cute face craters should be illegal after a certain age, especially on guys—they’re like tiny weapons designed to cause girls to lower their defenses. My eyes narrow as I watch him, feeling annoyed that I’m so affected by something so small.

“Did you finish the problem yet?”

My eyes snap to meet his gaze and a blush starts to bloom. Was I staring? And no, I did not finish the problem. Didn’t even start!

I clear my throat. “Uh, no, sorry. I guess I’m distracted.”

He doesn’t seem to notice my embarrassment, or perhaps he misinterprets it.

“Have you heard from Braden since…ya know?”

“Since I found out he was a lying liar-pants?”

“Well… yeah.”

“He texted once to say,” I pause to pull out my phone so I can read Braden’s words verbatim, “‘Sorry, babe, I’ve been swamped. Miss you.’ That was a week and a half ago and I haven’t heard from him since.”

I toss the phone on the mattress beside me in disgust.

“Did you respond?”

“Of course not.”

“So you guys haven’t talked about what you found out?”

I scoff. “I couldn’t get him to stay on the phone with me longer than five minutes all semester, so what’s the point in trying now?”

Jake nods thoughtfully, then seems to hesitate before he speaks again.