“Hey, wait up!” A boy, sprinting to catch the swimmers, barges into my shoulder and spins me off balance. My periodic table water bottle bounces out of my backpack and away under the front of a car, toppling xenon over helium. I right myself, waiting for an apology, but the boy doesn’t glance back.
I hate people. I crouch, swatting under the fender to grab my bottle, but it rolls out of reach. A hand grabs it from under the driver’s door. “Got it,” says the voice attached to the hand.
I straighten up. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the girl says. “Did that guy not even apologize? Jeez.”
I start, taking half a step back. That voice . . .
“You must’ve had this for a while,” she says, peering at the bottle. “Copernicium isn’t named.”
Staring at the ground, I nod. “You, um. Like chemistry?”
“I love it,” she says, and the girl’s voice in my head says, I love you.
It’s her.
Sudden pressure clamps down on my skull. I look her in the eyes and know so much about this girl, all of a sudden; I picture her standing in the darkness of the faculty break room, staring up at a nameless face, promising that nobody will ever know—and I suddenly wish I could unknow this. It’s too much to hold. I could ruin her life.
She tilts her head. Her eyes are beautiful, clear, and piercing. They dig into me.
I don’t know her name. That’s something. A tiny protection from this responsibility.
She holds out the bottle, and I snatch it. “I have to go.”
I hurry down the green toward the school, not looking back.
FRIDAY’S LUNCHTIME ANNOUNCEMENTS BLARE OUT, proving me right: people wrote fake responses on the fifth-period questionnaires. Enough people that Principal Turner spends a good five minutes chastising the school through the loudspeaker.
“Lastly,” she says after concluding her rant, “these sheets are still available outside the guidance office if, at any point, anybody does wish to come forward. And as always, the submission form on our website remains open. Thank you, and have a good day.”
“No, thank you, dear leader,” Olivia says, brandishing her juice at the speaker in a Capri Sun salute. Around us, the cafeteria conversations rumble back to life. “Also, happy weekend already,” Olivia adds to me and Juni.
“Thank God,” I say. “Was it just me, or did this week last forever?”
“Definitely not just you,” Juniper says, stirring her yogurt. Olivia and I exchange a worried glance. She looks even more exhausted than she did yesterday.
“Hey, Juni,” I say carefully. “You okay?”
“What? Yeah.” She looks up with a determined smile. “I was up until, like, three last night. Two essays due today, and . . . well, you know. Paganini calls.” She glances at Olivia. “By the way, did your unwanted attention blow over?”
The subject switch doesn’t escape me, but I’m curious. “Unwanted attention?”
“Bleh.” Olivia blows her hair out of her eyes. “Daniel.”
“Why’s his attention unwanted?”
Juni and Olivia swap a knowing look that makes me feel instantly excluded. “Sure you want to know?” Olivia says.
“Duh, nerd. Spill.”
“He sort of sent me a dick pic, and now things are awkward because, like . . . penises.”
I choke on my sandwich. “He what? When was this?”
“Monday.”
“How dare you conceal this incredibly important information?” I say in a voice laden with sarcasm. The joke lands—Olivia grins—but part of my heart has clenched up. It’s not that Dan Silverstein’s junk is in any way interesting, but Olivia told Juni already. So, what, because of our not-fight Monday, I’m not allowed to be in the know anymore? And with Juni’s excuses and deflections . . . is this the new normal, them keeping things from me?
“My deepest apologies,” Olivia says. She lifts her hands in praise to the heavens. “But at last, we greet the weekend! A joyous miracle! Time to sleep in. And marathon Parks and Rec. And rage with my favorite people.” She gives me and Juni a winning smile.
“Rage, right,” Juni says wryly. “You and your nonalcoholic self.”
“Hey, sassy, I can rage without dousing myself in Miller Lite.” Olivia slurps her Capri Sun. “So, what’s our move?”
“Hate to burst the raging bubble,” I say, “but nothing’s happening this weekend. Like, zero things. Dan’s sister is having a birthday party, but if he’s persona non grata now, I’m guessing that’s not your first choice.”
“Nothing at all?” Olivia visibly deflates, chewing her straw. “Damn. There’s this one super-handsome guy on baseball I was talking to last week. Thought maybe I could ‘run into him’ this weekend.”
“How about we hang out, the three of us?” Juniper suggests.
Olivia brightens. “Ooh, yes, excellent.”
“My afternoon’s open,” I say.
“I actually can’t do afternoon,” Olivia says. She tosses her hair, looking off into the middle distance. “I have a clandestine meeting with a gentleman.”
Sharp disapproval runs through me. God, how many guys is she juggling at one time? Hasn’t she ever heard of restraint?
I clasp my hands tight. Stop, Claire. She can go on dates. She can do what she wants. Who cares if she has eighty boys falling at her feet?