I smiled a little.
Ezra gestured in Cas’s direction. “He’s, like, your best friend, right?”
“Not so much recently. He’s always with Lindsay.”
An odd expression took Ezra’s face. “They’re not together, you know. They’re just … hanging out.”
I nodded. “There’s no agreement between them.”
“That’s a strange way of putting it.”
“But it’s true, right? One person says they like the other person and the other person reciprocates, and then they have an agreement.”
“To be attached.”
I looked at him. That’s just how Jane would say it. “Exactly. That’s it exactly.” A pause. “I know he likes her. And she just practically begged me to ask him to ask her to Homecoming. So … an agreement of mutual like is impending.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
It was quiet for a moment. When I glanced at Ezra, he had another strange look on his face. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then Jordan strode up.
“Hey, Champ. Can I borrow Ezra for a bit?”
“Sure.”
Ezra glanced at me. “Are you … will you be okay?”
It was a weird question. Of course I would be okay. But I knew what he meant. Something told me that before Jordan, Ezra was no stranger to being alone at parties.
“Super duper,” I said, and then grimaced. “Yes. Yeah.”
Ezra’s lips twitched, an almost-smile, and then he headed off with Jordan.
22
My “office hours” for English that next week saw something new: an actual person come for actual advice.
I was drawing in the margins of my history notes when she came in—a tiny freshman girl with thick, dark eyeliner and straight hair, wearing a hoodie that was big enough to swallow her up.
“Mrs. Chambers said you help people with papers,” she said as a way of a greeting.
I closed my notebook. “I do,” I said, even though that may have not been the exact truth—I hadn’t helped anybody yet.
The girl flung herself down in the desk next to mine and handed me some pages. “I failed this. She said if I rewrote it, I could get points back.”
I flipped through the paper. It was an analysis of The Great Gatsby, the first major writing assignment of the semester. “You know, it doesn’t count as four pages if the last two don’t have writing on them.”
She made a face. “I don’t know how to write like she wants. It’s annoying. I just … don’t think like that.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Like the metaphorical resonance of gold shirts and stuff?”
She cracked a smile. “Yeah. Who cares?”
“Daisy cared.”
“Don’t even,” she said.
Now I smiled.
Her name was Alex, and together we broke her paper down bit by bit. What the thesis statement was. What could be expanded. What made no sense whatsoever. I wondered if this was how Rachel Woodson felt looking at my résumé—I knew what to move where and what could be fixed. But all I could do was guide her and let her fix it herself.
It was late by the time we finished. She had a solid outline to work from. Enough to get her started.
“You’ll be here next week, too?” she said.
“And the week after that, and the week after that.”
Alex nodded. “Good.”
Rachel ambushed me in the hall the next day. “Did you see it?”
“See what?”
“The issue is out. The issue with our article.”
“Our…”
She held up a copy of the Herald. There, on the very first page, under “by Rachel Woodson,” it said “and Devon Tennyson.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m really in the byline.”
“You’re really in the byline,” Rachel said. “I think it turned out well. Maybe we could collaborate again.”
“Uh … sure.”
“Awesome. Your input would definitely be valuable to future pieces.” She forced the paper into my hand. “I’ll be in touch!” and then she hurried off.
I looked down at the paper. On the front was a large picture of Ezra, and underneath …