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I don’t trust her. And I don’t like that Asher Feige snagged the most coveted seat, the front-row window desk.

Lucy pulls me to the second row, the Pretend Geeks Row. We find desks, and she tugs a rolled-up poster from her bag. “I already have a game plan. I called in a favor and had this mock-up done over the weekend.”

“‘Called in a favor.’ What’re you, a mob boss?”

Lucy’s hair is plaited into a neat braid. She flicks it over her shoulder and flutters her eyelashes.

I almost drop the poster. It’s a drawing of me done up like a character in a manga: large eyes, small mouth, blushing cheeks. Manga-me is waving. Above my curls reads “VOTE 4 REMY” in rainbow colors. A glitter bomb exploded around the edges. And… “Is that a freaking unicorn?!”

Lucy smirks down at me.

I scowl back. If I glare long enough, maybe she’ll catch on fire—or the poster will. I’m good with both.

“Ian drew it. Well, you. I added the unicorn and glitter. Muy en fuego.”

“Obviously,” I say, deadpan. “Did it have to be so…”

“Gay?”

I swallow the sharpness of that word. I’m not ashamed. But it’s a label, and my mind drifts back to what Free said. Then a T. rex of guilt gnaws at my heart because I haven’t told Lucy—anyone—about meeting Free, so I focus on the poster.

“We’re playing to your strengths,” says Lucy.

Perfect. I’m the Superman of gayness. Clearly Lucy’s dubbed herself my campaign manager. Outside of the glitter and rainbow and ridiculous unicorn, the drawing of me is amazingly accurate. Ian nailed my smile and the brightness of my eyes, and my curls appear purposefully unmanageable.

I want to kiss him. Then, I remember. I already have kissed him—five times. Number six could be just around the corner.

I shake my head. “I don’t want any part of this, Lucia.”

“Too late, Rembrandt.” Lucy’s cockiness is in full swing. “You’ve already been voted onto the official ballot by a committee of your peers and constituents.”

“You lie.”

She puts a hand over her chest and says, “It’s true.”

I squint at her. “I’m telling Rosa Maria Reyes you’re spending too much time watching CNN instead of Netflix like a normal teen.”

Lucy pats my head before taking her seat. “Normal is overrated, Rembrandt.”

* * *

“All hail Prince Cameron!”

The hallways are empty after school, save for a few students running to a practice, a club, or detention. That doesn’t stop my jaw and spine from instantly locking.

But it’s just Brook. He leans against the locker next to mine, smiling smugly. A “VOTE 4 REMY” pin is fastened to his letterman jacket, rainbow letters and unicorn included.

I put away my Algebra II book and mumble, “Your girlfriend is dead to me.” He chuckles. “No, seriously,” I say, shutting my locker, “I’ve already planned the funeral. Open casket so everyone can see I had her buried in that stupid Sailor Mars T-shirt.”

“She loves that shirt.” Brook has this dreamy heart-eyes look. It’s gross. “Come on, little dude. Join the parade.”

“What parade?”

“The homecoming parade! You have to admit this place is kind of magical around homecoming.” He still has that same dreamy expression. “Go Marauders!”

“Brook, the only parade I’m joining is the Pride parade.”

“Like the button!”