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After an uninterrupted twenty minutes of studying, my eyelids start to grow heavy, so I dunk my hands into my pocket and pull out the thin packet of coffee powder I’m halfway through. A mistake, because the crinkle of noise catches Lexie’s attention.
Her long, manicured fingers snatch the packet before I bring it to my now pouting lips. “I let you have half of this, but I can’t allow you to ruin your digestive system further.” She winks at me, her heart-shaped face always appearing much more innocent thanks to her soft features, hiding the constant mischief she tends to shower on others. She shoves it into her blazer pocket, then continues, adding beads to the thin wire she’s been working on.
Lexie picks up interests easily and frequently. Last week she picked up rock climbing; this month, she’s been obsessed with making friendship bracelets.
My fingers reach under my blazer, running over the smooth beads on the seven bracelets she already made me. “If I fall asleep during this exam, you’ll owe me more than a DIY set of jewelry.”
She stops, closing the tin kit holding all the tiny craft pieces, then turns to face me fully. Her brown eyes—a color like autumn leaves before winter steals them—glisten from the panels of sunlight pouring in from the wide windows. They’re just a shade lighter than her perfectly parted and styled hair, pinned in a half-up, half-down situation, a pink bow clipped at the top of it.
Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. “You could ace this exam in your sleep.” I sigh and she reaches over and drops a hand on my thigh. “When’s the last time you slept? I thought you said your dad was better?”
My gaze lands on her palm, resting on my blue-plaid skirt uniform. This kind of closeness is why everyone at school, and everyone who sees us for more than thirty seconds, thinks we’re dating and not the platonic soulmates we deemed each other one grief-filled and oddly hilarious day four years ago when Lexie’s aunt died and I found her crying in class, sitting in my seat. I asked her to move, not to get tears on the table, and she called me a string of curse words that got her kicked out anyway.
Then she found me after class and demanded an apology for being insensitive after her aunt had died. And, struck and awkward and not knowing what to say next, I replied, “Why? It’s not like I killed her.”
And we both burst out laughing. We went out for ice cream, and Lexie told me memories of her aunt, and I listened for hours. Instant best friends.
“He is, but I kept getting nervous that another disc would slip and I wouldn’t be awake to help.”
She pats my leg. “I wish he changed his schedule.”
“Third shift pays double,” I repeat for the millionth time in the tone of my father’s thick accent. “And private school is expensive.”
My scholarship pays for my tuition, but the uniform, books, and any necessary activities that pad my résumé are all out-of-pocket.
“It’s a good thing you’re getting a full ride to Harvard. You’ll be able to pay him back as soon as you become America’s best corporate lawyer.”
A smile fills my face. I don’t need extra assurance. I also have zero doubt about that; I believe in myself more than anyone. But the sincerity Lexie says it with feels like sitting out in the sun.
I look back down at my work, fighting the small smile on my face. “Not if I keep mixing up the formula to find the vertex of a quadratic function with the one for finding x-intercepts.”
“You sure can make boring words sound pretty.”
“That’s because you love me too much,” I say, shutting my journal in one loud slap. “All right, I’m going to get there early to find a seat at the front.”
I leave her to her crafts. I move through the halls of high ceilings and wood panels waxed so well that the parallel stained-glass windows reflect rainbows against them in tiny puddles of light.
This place always felt comforting and intimidating to me, like a church and an academic battlefield that smelled of perfumes with seven-syllable names.
“Lopez!”
The familiar-yet-unfamiliar voice makes my dingy white shoes pause on the ground.
I turn and catch my classmate—Theo Hudson—jogging toward me. His long legs quickly propel him to me, easy to do when I’m frozen in confusion. I don’t think I’ve ever had more than a single conversation with him before, certainly not one where I agreed for him to call me by my last name.
I know little else besides his name and his reputation. Lexie is my only friend, and in the couple of classes we share, I sit in the front and him in the back. He only speaks when spoken to, after he’s late, sleeping, or clicking his pen too much and getting chastised.
This close, I spot a tiny galaxy cluster of freckles over his slightly crooked nose—at an angle, I think he must have broken it painfully. His eyes, framed by thick lashes I have to layer two coats of mascara on to get, glow like hazel gems as he smiles at me—the face of Bell-Haven’s most sought-after date.
I frown. “Can I help you?”
“As friendly as I was told,” he says, rubbing a thumb against his jaw. His shirt is loosely buttoned, and his tie is missing in a way that will surely flag him for a dress violation. “What’s up? How are you doing this magnificent day?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m doing good, too; thanks for first responding to my question and then politely inquiring the same.”
“We’ve never spoken before,” I say. So why are you talking to me now?
