Something like a smile pulls at Matt’s mouth again, though it fades fast.
I glance at the clock. We still have a few minutes, and this guy has the type of silence that presses and pushes, begging conversation. “So,” I say. “You ready for the election?”
He closes his eyes. “Oh God, I forgot about that.”
“Why are you, uh, running, then?”
“A mistake is why.”
“Huh,” I say. “It’d be hard to get Claire to change the ballot, but I could talk to her for you, if you want to withdraw.”
“Why?” he says. “Need something to pad your college apps?”
I blink rapidly. Was that a joke, or does he have a problem with me? “Hey, excuse you.”
“I mean, it’s true,” Matt says. “I’m pretty sure the only reason student gov’s starting back up is so people can put ‘Sophomore Class Co-Secretary’ or whatever on the Common App. I thought I was going to quit, but I don’t know. I might as well run, too.”
“You sure people are doing it for college apps?” I say. “Maybe some people want to make this school a tiny bit less awful.”
“So that’s why you’re running?” he asks.
“Dude. First off, I don’t need the sass, and second, that could a hundred percent be why.”
Matt looks up at the ceiling and lets out a chortle. The sudden urge to punch him in the larynx overwhelms me. Not caring about things doesn’t make you cool, I want to yell. Instead, I force patience into my voice. “So if you’re not taking it seriously, and you’re not taking yourself off the ballot, what are you going to do if you win?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh! Great. Because this isn’t important to anyone or anything.”
“Uh, apparently it is to one person.”
“Yeah, my friend Claire.” My fists curl up. “Whatever. You look like you’ve been hot-boxing for three days, so I bet anyone could get you off the ballot if they wanted.”
He frowns. “Wait, is that a threat?”
“It could be.”
“Well,” he says, folding his arms, “no offense, but you and Juniper Kipling aren’t model citizens, either.”
“Excuse me?”
“Alcohol.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t make sense getting self-righteous about weed if you go out drinking every weekend, right?”
I could point out that I don’t drink, but frankly, I don’t feel obliged to defend myself against that slew of verbal diarrhea. As if this guy knows anything about my life on the weekends. For a second I sit there, my lip curling. “Wow,” I say, finally. “I . . . wow.”
García calls out, “All right, back to your seats, everyone.”
I head back to my desk and fume until the bell rings.
I’m the first one out the door, and I seethe all the way through the halls into the old wing. I smack into Juniper in front of our sixth period, French.
“What’s up?” she asks as we head to our row. “You look like someone insulted Return of the Jedi.”
“No, I just—I talked to Matt Jackson for the first time. García gave us this project, and we’re paired up for it.”
Juniper pats my shoulder. “My deepest sympathies.”
“Sympathies accepted. He is so . . .” I make a clenching motion with both hands. “Oh my God, infuriating, is what.”
Juni laughs. “What’d he say?”
“He was normal until we were talking about the election, and then he got all bitchy and just, holy shit.” I crack my knuckles. “One of us has to win, Juni. He’s not allowed to win. Okay? Deal?”
“Deal, I suppose. Although I thought you wanted to drop out.”
“I did until, like, forty-five minutes ago.” I flick my hair out of my eyes. “Now I want to win out of sheer spite.”
“Naturally.” Juniper strokes an imaginary goatee, looking sagely into the distance. “You know what they say. ‘Three things last forever: faith, hope, and spite. And the greatest of these is spite.’”
I laugh so hard I have to put my head down on my desk.
BETWEEN SIXTH AND SEVENTH PERIOD, I PASS BY ONE of the student-government lists I taped between rows of lockers. A flash of red catches my eye, and I glance up at it. Somebody has taken a pen to Olivia’s name. Now it reads: OLIVIA SCOTT SUCKS DICKKKK!!
I roll my eyes and keep walking.
Halfway down the hall, I realize I should have taken that list down, or at least scratched out the graffiti. Why didn’t it occur to me to do that? God, I’m the worst friend.
I stop at my locker, loosing a sigh. The way Olivia bounces from guy to guy these days, I can’t get away from references to her sex life. It’s wearing on me—the graffiti, all the talk in the halls, the muttered conversations I overhear in class.