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What I am is squirmy, anxious. I’m a timebomb. I’m thoughts and a blank mind simultaneously. I haven’t checked my Facebook in the past hour—not the way I did thirty-six times on Sunday; yes, I counted—but my fingers are twitchy. My phone burns in my pocket.

Do you remember her?

Do you remember her?

Do youfreakingremember her?

Those four words are all I know. They are my beginning and end. Even now, as I trace a finger across the damaged spine of my book, those four words corrupt my cells, amplify the adrenaline in my blood. I can’t stop jiggling my leg or looking around the room as though someone can see my twisted-up organs showing through my clothes.

The universe is screaming, “Remy Cameron, meet your new best friend, Hyperbole.”

Two minutes remain until the bell. I want this class to end. I want to shove my earbuds in, crank up anything fast and loud, and force the noise in my head to evaporate.

“Don’t forget,” Ms. Amos begins, met by the quiet groans of my peers, “your essay presentations must include any type of medium you choose.”

Oh, yes. Ms. Amos’s last-minute addition to my educational hell. Each essay will be shared with the class in the form of a presentation, with, like, charts or artwork or photos.

“Medium? Wasn’t that a horrible TV show cancelled before I was born?” jokes Ford. “Can we cancel this essay too?”

Ms. Amos, always prepared for douche-canoes like Ford, crosses her arms. “I’m especially excited about your essay, Mr. Turner. I imagine the number of failed comedians in your family’s lineage must be staggering.”

The bell finally rings. Ford shoots Ms. Amos a disingenuous grin before high-stepping out the door.

Chloe stops at my desk. “I’m thinking about asking Nancy to help me. She does incredible presentations for clients all the time.”

Nancy is one of Jayden’s moms. She’s a graphic designer. The story is, she got hired to help redesign Tori’s, Jayden’s other mom, auto garage space. A real romantic comedy ensued with design feuds and accidental coffee dates and a rooftop proposal. I’m a sucker for the way Jayden tells it.

Jayden’s moms love Chloe. Chloe loves Jayden’s moms. They live in a happy, rainbow-coated world. And Chloe never misses an opportunity to remind everyone of this. It’s so unrealistic. Or maybe it doesn’t fit the reality shown to any of us outside of TV and movies. I’m not jealous. I’m not. But maybe I am?

Darcy pauses by my desk, giving us a long look before pushing by Chloe with a huff.

“O-kay,” says Chloe.

“I’m gonna use music,” Zac says, shrugging on his backpack. “I’m putting together a playlist. EDM heaven.”

Dear baby Jesus, no one loves electronic dance music as aggressively as Zac Liu. People like that can’t be trusted.

“No Chainsmokers,” demands Chloe. “We deserve better.The worlddeserves better.”

“I’m doing artsy stuff,” Sara says. She rubs her cheek. The back of her hand is covered in fading mehndi; the intricate designs curl to the inside of her wrist. “I need to find a boss artist to collaborate with.”

“Ian’s amazing. You should see his notebook,” Chloe says.

“Is he?”

“A-ma-zing. Ask him to help.”

“Maybe I will.”

Maybe I hope this conversation dies a quick, silent death. I’m carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone. I don’t really have an opinion. I haven’t seen anything Ian’s done except the chalk artwork for Zombie Café. Plus, my input would probably be a bunch of babbling when it comes to Ian. All I think about is thatalmost kisswith him and how nothing remotely close to that has happened since.

Ms. Amos hovers at her desk after everyone leaves. I take my time stuffing my backpack with my tattered paperback, notebook, and highlighter. Briefly, I glance at my phone—no activity, thankfully.

Ms. Amos is watching me. A molecule of panic wiggles down my spine.

“Everything okay, Mr. Cameron?”

“Everything’s great,” I lie.