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“This is so predictably you, Remy. Pretending to hate the social hierarchy. The rebel who’s only rebelling because he doesn’t know what else to do,” Rio spits. “You don’t hate the system. Youfit inwith it. You’re popular.”

“So are you.”

She laughs harshly. “By association. I’m popular with an asterisk. With a disclaimer.” Her voice breaks. “And I don’t give a damn about it.”

“It’s just a dance.”

“It’s not just a dance, Remy.”

“For fuck’s sake, what do you want of me, Rio?”

“I want you to be afriend.” Her face is crimson, and not because she’s supporting Maplewood’s athletic department. There’s this little tremble to her bottom lip. It’s scary. “I want you to stop being a friend when it’s convenient. Be a friend instead of always,alwaysbeing caught up in a new boy. Elijah. Dimi freaking Antov. And now Ia—”

“Don’t,” I plead. The hallway is relatively empty now, just us and two lost freshmen. But still, I don’t know who might hear. I can’t out Ian. “This isn’t a thing.”

Rio rolls her eyes. “It’s such a thing.”

“Jesus, Rio, I’m sorry, okay? It’s been…” My throat closes. The words can’t escape. “It’s been tough.”

“Really? Tough? You look fine. Content.”

“I’m trying here.”

“Thisis trying?”

There’s something about her voice. I’ve always been pro snarky-Rio, but not today. The late bell rings, and I’m done. “Forgive me for, like, finding other ways to deal with stuff instead of being bitchy and a loner. Geez, it’s not like Lucy’s been around either,” I say, venom burning the roof of my mouth. “She’s busy too.”

Rio yanks her phone out of her back pocket. “No, it’s just you,” she says, wiggling her screen in my face. Her thumb swipes through the camera roll. Photo after photo. Rio and Lucy at the movies. At a park. At a damn pet shelter. Photos of Rio with Alex Liu too. A lot of Rio and Alex.

“Is he replacing me?”

Shock dilates Rio’s pupils into black holes with pale green rings. “No,” she says, quietly. “It’s not like that.” Something in her tight shoulders and nervous eyes says it’ssomething.

“So, you’ve been chilling with everyone but me?” I try to dilute the hurt in my words. “You haven’t posted anything about this.” I’d know. Rio’s timeline has been nothing but a collage of Mad Tagger artwork.

“Seriously?” Rio’s exasperated. “Plot twist: I don’t post every little aspect of my day on Twitter or Instagram or whatever social media platform to give my life validation. Likes don’t make any portion of my life more significant.”

“Rio.” I close my eyes. An intense veil of red—anger—forms behind my lids. “It’s a lot. The essay. My family. I have a—” The words almost fly out. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s always a lot, Remy.”

“Freaking hell, Rio. For once, let this be about me. Quit acting as if you’re the only one alone in this world because your parents are never around,” I say with a growl. “You have no clue what I’m dealing with.”

She winces. Then, with a tight voice, she says, “You’re right. I wouldn’t know. I’m only the friend you talk to about boys and meaningless romance.”

I hear her walk away. I hear the pain in her voice and the static of my heart and the world ending. I should’ve told her. She’s my best friend.

“Mr. Cameron?”

My eyes blink open. It’s Principal Moon. She’s a few feet away, standing with Mrs. Scott, who’s wearing a red-and-gray floral dress and a disappointed expression. There’s so much school spirit around here nowadays—crimson and steel streamers and pirates painted on classroom doors and homecoming posterseverywhere—that I want to vomit.

“Remy?” It’s Mrs. Scott’s “concerned” voice.

I ignore her, glaring at some art kid’s banner advertising the dance, the stupid, friendship-dismantling dance.

Principal Moon clears her throat. “Would you like to add attending detention to your class schedule today?”

“No, ma’am.”