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“The fuck did you just say to her?” Milo demands, jumping out of his seat.

I grab his wrist before he can do something stupid, like launch himself across the room.

Dean’s the mayor’s son. Nothing good would come from Milo hitting him, no matter how much he’s asking for it.

“Oh, look,” Dean smirks. “Looks like Fletcher beat us all to the punch.” He shrugs. “Hey, I’m good with sloppy seconds if you are.”

“Say that again!” Milo shouts, straining against my grip.

“Sit down, Mr. Fletcher. You too, Mr. Shepherd,” Ms. Mallory barks. “That’s enough out of both of you.”

The room quiets at the reprimand, but only slightly. Half the class is still staring at their phones, whispering and giggling before sneaking looks my way.

It’s unnerving as hell. Thankfully, Ms. Mallory seems to have reached her limit too.

“You know what? You’ve all lost your phone privileges.” She marches over to her desk and pulls out a cardboard box from underneath it. “Every phone in here. Now. Or I’m giving the entire class an F today.”

A chorus of groans fills the room as Ms. Mallory begins confiscating our phones.

I, on the other hand, need to know what has everyone so riled up. More importantly, I need to know why I’m the butt of whatever joke they’re all in on.

As discreetly as I can manage, I slide my hand into my bag and reach for my phone. I’ve barely pulled it out, my thumb hovering over the power button, when Ms. Mallory snatches it from my hand.

“You’ll get it back after class. Not a second sooner,” she says before taking Milo’s phone too.

Unlike me, Milo isn’t worried about his phone being taken from him. He’s more concerned with whatever silent conversation he’s having with his best friend, Dylan, who is seated one row behind us on the opposite side of the aisle.

Milo shoots him a look that clearly asks what the hell is going on. Dylan only frowns and gives the smallest shake of his head before his gaze shifts past Milo and lands on me.

My stomach drops at the unmistakable pity on Dylan’s face.

“Max?” Milo asks, turning toward me. “What’s going on?”

“Why are you asking me? I’m as clueless as you are.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie.

Peyton.

Whatever this is has Peyton’s fingerprints all over it.

I shift in my seat, my anxiety climbing higher with every passing second as I wonder what she’s done.

When Ms. Mallory returns to the front of the room, reminding us how much time we have left, I don’t hear a word of it.

My mind isn’t on biology. It’s on fucking Peyton Crawford.

Here’s the thing about having an active imagination. It takes you to some pretty dark places in record time.

I think of every possible scenario she could’ve dreamed up to humiliate me. Whatever she did, she obviously sent it to the whole class. Probably the whole school.

What could it be? Did she somehow get a compromising picture of me? Maybe one from the girls’ locker room.

Oh, my God! Does everyone have a naked picture of me from the showers?!

No. No. Please don’t let it be that.

Fuck. It would explain Dean’s comment, though.