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Ian’s five feet away and bravery is such an easy thing to grab before eight a.m. “Cool,” falls out of my mouth, accompanied by a choked, “hair.” It’s a perfectly acceptable, almost legendary compliment. Usually, I’d be proud of such fine vocabulary usage, except it’s a chillier-than-normal Monday morning. Most of Ian’s hair is hidden under a beanie. The longer bits catch on the soft wind, teasing his low, flat cheekbones.

He pauses mid-step, looking around. Evidently, I didn’t make it apparent I was talking tohim.

“I mean, like, it’slong.” My mouth has lost control. “And you do that thing where you tie it up—”

“Topknot.” Rio, the traitor, coughs in the least discreet way possible.

“Yeah, topknot-thingy!” Mortification clearly has no side effects on my tongue. “It’s really cool—your hair. Not that your hat—um, beanie?—isn’t cool. It is! Your beanie is so awesome.”

Ian’s beanie is plain and black. Not even one of those retro woven ones: ribbed and ordinary, very I’m-trying-not-to-look-commercialized.

I feel detached from everything, except my heart. My wild, rampaging, rave-music-loud heart.

Confused and eyebrows wiggling, Ian says, “Uh, thanks?” I love his voice. Chill and a little nasally.

Ian’s fingers curl white-knuckled around the strap of his messenger bag. His hands are nice. A splash of sunburn-red spreads across his nose. He swallows; I do too. Then he says, “Sick shoes.”

I beam without thinking. Then he’s jogging toward the mass of bodies clogging the school’s entrance. I turn to Rio. Her smirk is lethal and unwanted.

“Keep your filthy comments to yourself, Rio Maguire.”

Rio’s hands are up, palms out in surrender. “Nothing to see here.” Damn liar. “I won’t say a thing to Lucy.” Another disgusting, dirty lie. “This entire conversation will be filed under evidence for the prosecution’s use at a later date.”

“No more marathons ofTrue Detectivefor you.”

In a monotone narrator’s voice, she says, “The suspect was a six-foot, curly-haired, innocent-looking, young black male with blue heart-eyes the size of Saturn, and…”

I stomp away with a one-fingered goodbye to myformerbest friend.

* * *

The squeak of a nicepair of classic slip-on Vans against Maplewood’s terrazzo flooring isn’t the best soundtrack to a Monday afternoon, but whatever.

I’m running late. This is all Ms. Amos’s fault. Well, sort of. This AP Lit essay has spiked my adrenaline, sent my heart into a permanent residence at the bottom of Knotted Stomach Lane. It’s thirty-effing-percent of my final grade. It’s the “hello future” or “sorry, you’re too basic for us” decision-maker in my Emory dreams.

Welcome to junior year in high school, where college is suddenly the only topic on everyone’s brain. It’s all Lucy talks about. Rio has already started application essays. Chloe has all but guaranteed an athletic scholarship. Jayden is a shoo-in for some Ivy League institution. And I just… don’t want to be left behind.

That’s why I stayed after class to talk with Ms. Amos. “Remy, don’t overthink things,” she told me in the world’s most calm voice. Being scarily serene while discussing every major assignment with a student must be a pre-requisite to becoming a teacher. She gave me a few tips. I jotted them down. But it was nothing mind-blowing. She didn’t unlock any major secrets to life—my life.

Now I’m late for GSA. My body is pretty much all long legs and arms but I’m history’s worst runner. Sprinting toward Mr. Riley’s classroom, I must look like a drunk giraffe. Sweat dampens my eyebrows. Stuffed with books, my backpack weighs me down. Room 302 is so close.

“Watch it!”

I swerve; the rubber soles of my Vans squeal like tires losing traction on a wet highway. I barely avoid slamming into Darcy Jamison ten feet from the door. She has an armful of poster board, Sharpies, and… jars of glitter?

Gasping, I say, “My bad, Darcy.”

Darcy immediately rejects my breathless apology with squinted eyes, pinched mouth, and scrunched pug nose. She sizes me up like some fairy tale wicked queen in a pale pink cardigan, knee-length skirt, and perfectly-knotted blonde ponytail. Then, her eyes trace over the infamous poster tacked onto the outside of Mr. Riley’s door.

“The FRIENDLY, SUPPORTIVE, & FUN Gay-Straight Alliance welcomes ALL!” The corniness of that slogan needs to be addressed during the meeting’s agenda, like, yesterday.

“Yeah, so.” My throat stops working when her death-glare falls on me again. I palm the back of my neck; my eyes shy away from her gaze.

Without another word, Darcy stalks off. No shocker. She probably has important GTFO stuff to do.

Mr. Riley’s classroom is all set up for the meeting. The beakers and Bunsen burners and periodic tables are stashed away. Members fill a semi-circle of chairs. The meeting hasn’t started yet. Were they waiting for me?

I drop my backpack next to Mr. Riley’s desk, then eye the tower of Krispy Kreme donuts parked on the edge: three dozen glazed. The singular reason people can’t deny Mr. Riley’s epic status—the guy is incredible at providing snacks.