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“Sure.”

Choked laughter echoes. I don’t have to raise my eyes to know it’s Sara and the Liu twins—assholes, all of them. Tomorrow, I’m creating a Google sign-up sheet for new lunch companions.

Brook shoots me one more “what’s up with you” look before falling into a conversation with Lucy. A cacophony finally fills the cafeteria again—trays dropping and bantering and a table of choir geeks singing an old Whitney Houston song. A brush of warmth, like the fingertips of a sunrise, skims my back and I start.

It’s Ian.

He leans down close enough to whisper, “I remember you, Remy Cameron.” A mini-grin parts his lips. Then he’s nudging in next to Brook.

I slump in my chair.Okay, goodis vibrating against my jaw but it never makes it out of my mouth. It stays there, buzzing against my teeth. And I slowly start to drown in all the discussions happening around me.

Pretending the last five minutes never happened isn’t an option. Right?

4

Ms. Amos is talking. ActualEnglish words are coming out of her mouth, but she might as well be speaking a brand-new alien language. I can’t string together vowels and vocabulary and sentences, which is a shame because AP Lit is my favorite class of the day.

Today, AP Lit is like forty-five minutes of watchingLlama Llamareruns.

I’m daydreaming. Specifically, my mind’s replaying Ian’s face on a constant loop, in perfect high-def quality. The clarity is incredible. I picture his pale-gold skin. His scrunched nose and owlish eyes when I barely took a breath while rambling at him. His thick lower lip, the little tweak of his mouth after he whispered to me.

The images fade to fuzziness after a while, like sitting in the first row at a movie theater. One neon thought lights up my mind: Ian’s hot. Every shifting cell in my body is aware of it. Blood rushes to my face—and somewhere beneath my navel too. Then the train derails.No relationships. No boyfriends.

I focus on the front of the classroom. Ms. Amos is pacing. Besides Mr. Riley, she’s my favorite. She wears colorful print blouses with slacks and always has a twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if she’s trying not to smirk at something moronic a student said.

Bonus point: Ms. Amos used to be a lecturer at Emory. On the wall by her desk is a series of framed essays she’s written, photographs of her with famous authors, articles inThe Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

“Let’s talk about our new book.” In her hand, Ms. Amos holds a book with a red cover and weird stick figures. “It’s by Tennessee Williams.”

Ford, a senior football player, clears his throat.

“Wasn’t he gay?”

I swear, Ford is homegrown, southern realness. He’s freckled-face with buzzed blonde hair and electric blue eyes. He has a hard-on for plaid shirts and boots. A future Chick-Fil-A Employee of the Month.

“He was remarkably talented. A legendary playwright. A dedicated brother who loved fiercely.” Ms. Amos’s mouth begins to curl, and she has a glint in her eyes. “And if you’d like to discuss his sex life, then, yes, Mr. Turner, he was gay. I’m sure you can find further reading about that on Wikipedia, if you’re interested.”

A fuzzy melody of coos and snickers echoes in the room.

Ford’s chapped lips curl into a venomous sneer. Lucy would say Ford’s the paragon of assholes. You don’t gain extra points on the SAT for that, but I’d award ten points to the House of Reyes.

“We have a lot to learn from writers of any gender, race, sexuality, individuality,” Ms. Amos continues. “One of my favorites is Benjamin Alire Sáenz. A wonderful example of a diverse writer and poet creating classics.”

Our AP Lit classroom faces the main lawn, and the view is unobstructed by trees and foliage. Bright, October sunlight washes across the pride etched into Ms. Amos’s face. I love this part—when she dives headfirst into topics that excite her.

“Gay too, right?” Ford’s chuckle is like a cat choking on kibble.

Ms. Amos narrows her eyes; her mouth is pinched as she waves him off.

Ford and I both sit at the front of the class. Three desks separate us. He leans past Sara to leer at me. “Perfect authors for GSA, right, Remy?”

Another harmonic strum of laughter fills the classroom. None of this is new. Ford’s been a dick since middle school and probably before then. Destiny determined Ford’s douchebag legacy a long, long time ago. His popularity only stretches to the small universe of football jocks without a real brain. No one on the baseball or basketball or swim team respects the guy. I think Chloe only tolerates him because of some loyalty to the pigskin gods.

Ms. Amos drops the book on Ford’s desk. “And what could we learn from you, Mr. Turner?”

“How to pick up girls?”

Sara hisses something. In my blurred peripheral vision, Chloe’s raising her notebook as if she might assault him—death by a Five-Star.