Juniper gives me an apologetic look. “Valentine, do you mind if I catch you later? I kind of need to talk something out with Claire. This isn’t something urgent, is it?”
“I mean, it’s—” I cut myself off. If I say it’s urgent, I’ll interest Lucas and Olivia far more than I’d like. I try to say no, but it doesn’t come out; my throat has gone tight, scared into disuse by the three of them looking at me at once. They are all taller than me and all very good-looking. This is the most woefully unbalanced conversation of my life. “Fine,” I say, lifting my chin as much as I can without feeling ridiculous. “It could be postponed if you . . . yes.”
“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow?”
“Right.”
She stops in the arch, looking back with something like determination. “Also, Valentine, I’m having a thing at my place on Saturday around nine. Feel free to come by if you want.”
My first instinct is hysterical laughter. Miraculously, I tamp it down. “Right,” I say, trying not to sound too incredulous. Me going to a party: definitely a viable option. “Thank you.”
The two girls disappear back into the cafeteria. Lucas dallies by the door, examining me.
“Good-bye,” I say pointedly.
But he doesn’t move. “I’m sorry.”
“I already said it was fine.”
“It’s just, Dean’s swim captain this year, so the rest of us kind of put up and shut up. And since regionals are only a week away, he’s twice as hard-core these days, which—”
“I don’t care.”
Lucas looks taken aback. “Uh,” he says. “Fair, I guess. But I am sorry, okay?”
There’s something not quite Kansan around the edge of his accent; he spits his consonants too hard, flattening his vowels. He has an overeager sort of voice, quick and insistent, as if he’s terrified he might lose my attention for a second. God, people who try too hard are so embarrassing.
I’ve hesitated too long. He seems to think it’s an invitation to keep talking. “I’m Lucas McCallum,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“Valentine Simmons.”
“Quite the name.” He grins, and I feel disgusted, looking at his smile. It’s stupidly photogenic, the type of Hollywood-handsome that verges on absurd. This kid is going to go through life and get everything handed to him on a silver platter because he looks like some sort of minor Greek god. I hate him a bit already, and it baffles me that he seems so desperate for validation. Hasn’t he, like every other attractive person, been trained to expect the world to fall into his lap with no effort whatsoever?
“So,” he says, “what up, Valentine Simmons?”
“Not much. Lunch awaits.” I turn on my heel and take all of one step before he says, “Not in the cafeteria?”
Over my shoulder, I give him my most contemptuous look. Some people say there are no stupid questions, but here’s a perfect counterexample if I ever heard one. “The cafeteria is filled with people I have absolutely no use for,” I say coldly.
He lets out a generous, tumbling laugh, as if I’ve cracked the funniest joke all day. I round on him, not bothering to mask my glare. “What?”
“It was funny,” he says. “Was that not a joke?”
“I mean. No.”
“Oh. Okay.” He forces a serious expression. “So, what, you eat off-campus?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“Why?” I ask.
“Just a question. Doesn’t need any analysis or anything.”
“Oh.” I frown. “Okay. Well. Analysis is sort of my modus operandi.”
He’s smiling again, for no reason. The unforgiving hallway lights illuminate the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. He glows with inner contentment, and I don’t know where he gets it, but it must be nice. He’s probably from some other planet, where the sun always shines and everybody is unconditionally nice to one another and puppies frolic around the streets.
“Outside,” I say. “By the trailers.”
“Isn’t that cold?”
“Better being cold than having to deal with what’s in there.” I nod to the cafeteria. “Shallow conversation and popularity contests—ugh.”
A line appears between Lucas’s eyebrows. What is that? Surprise? Confusion? Irritation? “Other people aren’t as cut-and-dry as you think,” he says. “Everyone’s got stuff they hide.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you have so many dark secrets under the surface.”
He doesn’t laugh. For a minute I think, Well, then, he must be a serial killer. Really, though, what secrets could this kid have? Nobody so grotesquely happy is ever interesting.
I shoehorn my hands into my pockets. “Whatever. Regardless of what people show or hide, they annoy me, and I’m weird, and no one likes me, either. It’s mutual.”
Lucas cocks his head. “Hey. I’m sorry.”
“What? Don’t be. Who cares? It doesn’t matter.” I give my head a sharp shake. Why am I still talking to this kid? Not bothering with a good-bye, I stride down the hall.
But before I get too far, I could swear I hear him say something like, “?’Course it matters.”