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“And the freaking spirit week bullshit!”

I watch Rio stomp around her bedroom with one hand waving around dramatically. It’s kind of funny. I can’t disagree though. Maplewood’s homecoming scene is pretty lame. It’s all flash with no sass. Every year, I wish things would change. Just once, let the homecoming queen be anyone other than the girl with the most social media followers. And the king could be anyone other thanInsert All-Star Jock Hereguy. Why does there have to be a king and queen? And why does it almost always have to be a “popular” guy and girl?

“It’s ridiculous!” shouts Rio.

I nod robotically. My eyes shift over my bedroom.

On my bed, a pile of clean clothes wait to be put away. On my desk, an Algebra II book is open to whatever chapter I don’t care about. Linear equations are another thing not very high on my list of fun Sunday activities. Across the carpet is a colorful sea of sneakers.

My bed is tucked against a wall layered in neon-bright Post-Its. Each hanging leaf has a quote or silly doodle or lyric from a favorite song. In the middle of the Post-Its collage is a banner and brochure for my dream school: Emory College of Arts and Sciences. I plan on applying to the Creative Writing Program—if I survive junior year of high school, that is.

My heartbeat accelerates at the thought of not getting in. I force my eyes to look elsewhere.

I have this cool, geometric bedside table from IKEA. It was a pain in the ass to put together, but it’s worth it now. I nearly choke when I spot an uncapped bottle of baby lotion on it. Yeah, I better hide that before Mom comes by for her weekly cleaning session.

“And those lame chants from the cheerleaders, holy hell.”

“Tell me about it,” I say with just enough enthusiasm to keep Rio going. She won’t be happy until she gets it all out.

Rio rips into the football team’s list of accomplishments. Spoiler alert: there aren’t many checks in the W column. “Our school is like a bad version of a Disney-channel movie.”

“A very, very bad version. Edited and shortened for content.”

“Why do we even go there?”

I shrug one shoulder, but I know why. As candy-coated, made-for-TV as Maplewood is, there’s a pulse of something untouchable. Under the layers of suburbia exists a change waiting to happen, a bubble ready to burst.

I hope I’m there when it happens.

“So, it’s decided.” Rio squints, lips carefully curved. She’s thinking. “No homecoming participation for us this year.”

“Again.”

“Again. Lucy is gonna kill us.”

“Killyou,” I clarify. “I’m anticipating serious bodily harm for myself. A few broken bones.”

“Why are you the sole survivor ofThe Hunger Games?”

“Because Lucy likes me best.”

“She doesn’t,” Rio says with a sweet, humorous lift to her lips.

“Okay, okay.” I concede. “We’re both dead.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

Suddenly it’s eerily quiet on her end. Rio Maguire and silence don’t go together. They’re foreign enemies. It’s an omen. My stomach plunges to my knees just before Rio says, “And if we skip the festivities, maybe you won’t have to see Dimi.”

There it is.

I bite my thumbnail. Mom says it’s a terrible habit. I think it’s a healthy coping mechanism. I hate this topic. Honestly, who enjoys discussing breakups? Exes? The aftermath of your first real relationship? For months, I’ve done a spectacular job of avoiding any talk that involves Dimi. Rio hasn’t thrown her “I told you so” in my face—yet.

I swallow. “Sure.”

Rio’s nose scrunches. She’s holding something back. “It’d be good to, you know, not see him.”

“Definitely.”