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“Maisie,” she greeted as I approached. “How did you find those questions I gave you over the weekend?”
“You went easy on me.” I passed over the extra credit worksheet. “Speaking of, Principal Oliphant didnotgo easy on me when I met with her today.”
“She said no, huh?”
“She didn’t even give me a chance to ask before she shot me down.”
Mrs. Diego’s lips quirked to the side. “I’m sorry, Maisie. I know it must be frustrating, but don’t worry about it too much, okay? I’ll write you the Brentwood High’s best letter of recommendation.”
It wasn’t enough to completely lift my dark cloud of disappointment, but her words did a good job at breaking through some of the darkness. “I’ll be ready for the next worksheet when you find one.”
Mrs. Diego was my favorite teacher because she understood me. Even if she was the only person who understood me.
“Such a teacher’s pet,” the peanut gallery resumed once I sat back down, which caused my skin to prickle. I ducked my head, as if I could disappear into the desk. I’d never felt embarrassed about my love of math before—there’d never been a reason to. But with the list floating around, pleasantly invisible Maisie started to feel like trapped-inside-a-fishbowl Maisie.
The final bell rang, a long note that was more grating than relieving, and the clamor of student voices rose to a crescendo now that the school day was over. Packing up my things, I escaped into the hallway, away from the whispering voices and prying eyes.
It was easier to blend in with the crowd of students filtering from their last period classes, easier to fall in step with everyone shuffling forward. Easier to feel less like a bug under a microscope.
Until I stepped to my locker, spotting something taped to the front of it. Paper.Textbookpaper, with black words scrawled on it.
Most Likely To: Marry A Math Book.
Macy Matthews.
My brain processed the words at a snail’s pace, like each letter took five seconds to work through. One of the jockstraps seriously got my name wrong? So, what—they were anti-English now, too?
Someone’s hand came down on my shoulder hard, jarring me a little. “Let me know when the wedding is!”
A girl laughed directly behind me. “I can’t wait to see the tux you get for the book.”
I wouldn’t have called myself a violent person, but in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to turn around and find out how much punching someone actually hurt. It’d hurt more than it was worth. Probably.
I ripped the paper off the locker, crumpling it into a ball while angrily turning my lock. I got the combination wrong the first two tries, fingers fumbling.
Marry a math book. Was it wrong to have something you enjoyed doing? Were we really suck in the 80s where the smart kids were picked on? Would I walk up to the quarterback and tell him he’s most likely to marry a football? How about an art student? Most likely to marry a paintbrush? What was the big deal with math and numbers? Whocared?
Cracking the knuckles on my left hand, I angrily sorted through the things in my locker with my right. I didn’t care what anyone thought, not anymore. I didn’t.
But it didn’t change the fact that I kept my head buried in my locker until the crowd behind me thinned.
“Um, hello?” The voice was so soft-spoken that I nearly missed it, and even when it did register, I ignored it. I slid my English Lit book into my satchel, right next to my Calc textbook, shoving things around to make room. “It’s Macy, right?”
When I turned, I was met with a wall of chest covered by a blank yellow T-shirt. Accompanying the T-shirt were the brightest eyes I’d ever seen. Not green, not blue, not brown—hazel. The intensity in the gaze lit a match up in my chest, setting fire to a wave of anger.
There were two Connors at Brentwood High—Connor Wasilewski and Connor Bray. Connor W wasn’t as infamous as Connor B. Wasn’t on the varsity football team, didn’t have the snobby head cheerleader as a girlfriend, and didn’t have a fancy-schmancy house on Bleeker Avenue that he liked to throw parties in. Connor W was a great guy.
Connor B, the hazel-eyed boy standing in front of me, was not.
“Hi,” he said again, a mask of superiority coating his features. Full lips, straight nose, thick eyebrows. It was likebe conventionally handsomehad been on his Christmas list or something. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
I stared at him, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder. Surely, he wasn’t talking tome.
But Connor persisted. “In private?”
I glanced around the hallway at the handful of students standing by lockers and chatting with their friends. It was then that I realized Connor didn’t stand directlyin front of me. There was about five feet of space between us, his body angled toward the lockers, as if he were having the conversation with the metal. Almost like if anyone were to glance over, they wouldn’t assume he was talking to me.
It solidified my response. “No.”
