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“You are the paragon oflame, Remy Cameron.”

I’m still not fully functioning. It’s not ten a.m., I haven’t had any caffeine, and it’s a Monday. Everything in my brain is haze and mist while I yank my unnecessarily thick anatomy textbook from my locker, shove my bookbag in its place, and eagerly turn around. It’s hard to be anything but giddy when Lucy Reyes is in front of you.

Dramatically academic insults aside, Lucy is one of my favorite sights in the morning, especially Monday mornings. She’s always busy on weekends and I miss her large, rich-brown eyes. I miss the way her inky black hair falls around her face in this ethereal-but-badass-villain kind of way, and the way she always smirks as though she’s got your number and is ready to call you on it.

Lucy’s the living, breathing definition ofcoolas she manages to angle her skateboard into the locker four doors down from mine. It’s not even supposed to beherlocker. Our assigned lockers had us on different ends of the hall, but at the beginning of the semester, Lucy used her ultimate killer instinct to gamble Luke Henderson out of this one in a game of cutthroat Spades. Card games and Lucy are a hazardous combination.

I sigh at her. “SAT Prep words before nine a.m.? Uncalled for.”

Lucy flashes that trademark quirk of her lips. “I spent my weekend preparing.”

Yeah, I’m aware. Lucy has nothing against social politics and Saturdays chugging iced macchiatos, but weekends are for the books. Studying is her priority. Lucy’s one goal is getting into a highly-respected university—Ivy League if she can. It’s not that I don’t value her choices. I just miss my best friend on weekends, when we’re not weighed down with homework or trying to stand out in the traffic jam of students clogging up Maplewood’s hallways.

“That’s beside the point,” says Lucy, waving a dismissive hand. “Rio says you’re not going to the homecoming dance.”

I mumble, “Traitor,” while tugging down my beanie.

It’s my own fault. Secrets never last long between us. Not that time Rio stole my Scooby-Doo fruit snacks in fifth grade. When I split my pants in sixth grade. Rio’s brief crush on our freshman math teacher, Mr. Nichols. Lucy’s dad picking up in the middle of the night and leaving.

Sometimes, sharing is important. However, this isn’t one of those rare moments.

I shrug lazily. “I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are.” Lucy’s mouth pinches; her eyebrows lower. It’s scary. She could easily star in a horror franchise with those eyes.

“Not happening, Lucy.”

“It wasn’t optional. Or shall I remind you…” A grin splits my face when Lucy launches into her Class President speech. I have to be real—it’s all kinds of phenomenal. Maybe because Rio and I helped her perfect it.

“I’ll think about it.”

Lucy huffs, arms folded. I’m not bothered by her dramatics. I shoulder my locker closed. A fleet of freshmen scampers past us when the bell rings. Bunch of rookies. They’re all probably still trying to figure out the lay of the land: which hallways to cut down to get to class on time, how to avoid the mob of foot traffic on the east wing stairs.

“Is this about—”

“No,” I hiss, cutting Lucy off. I look around; this stinging heat spreading through my ears. “It’s not.” I can’t say anything else. I hate how Lucy and Rio talk around the one subject I never want to discuss.

My eyes prickle with hot dampness, blurring my vision.

Lucy pins me with a stare. “You’re deflecting.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

Lucy can roll her eyes all she wants, but we know she’s the “mom” of our trio. It’d be hard for her not to be. She’s the oldest of four children of a single mother who works all the time.

“You’re the embodiment of lameness, Remy Cameron,” she says, tossing an arm around my shoulder.

We walk to class like that, not saying what’s really on our minds.

The only reason I survivethe first half of the day is that Jayden graciously slips me a can of Red Bull in homeroom. Oh, and the spike of adrenaline I experience in world history after Mrs. Thompson threatens us with a pop quiz three minutes into class. It never happens. Mrs. Thompson makes Bellatrix Lestrange fromHarry Potterseem tame. A lot of Maplewood students—and faculty—will be thrilled when she finally retires, by choice or by force.

Mercifully, lunch is right after world history. Our table of friends is the holiest random group of students ever. It’s as if someone took a handful of Skittles, M&M’s, and SweeTarts, shook them up in a bag, and then tossed them on a table. We’re a motley collection like that movie Dad loves,The Breakfast Club, except there are nine of us at a long table close to one of the main doors but farthest from the lunch line. We’re cool, I guess. Maybe subjectively?

I don’t care. I honestly love this bunch of weirdos.

I love being squished between Rio and Lucy and tossing super-greasy tater tots into Jayden’s waiting mouth. I love how his girlfriend, Chloe Parker, has one arm tucked around his shoulders while she talks about last Friday night’s game. I could care less about football, but she’s the school’s quarterback—Maplewood’s first-ever female quarterback, actually—so I listen anyway.