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Ma’am is a southern thing. Principal Moon is all grassroots. I guess I’m trying to impress her so maybe she can write me a recommendation to Emory, since clearly Ms. Amos won’t be after I fail AP Lit.

“Are we going to homeroom today?”

I whisper, “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

I push off the bank of lockers I’ve been leaning against. My heart’s raging louder than one of Zac’s EDM playlists. My nails have left deep crescents in my palms.

I’m not even halfway down the hall when Mrs. Scott yells, cheesy as a kitten poster, “We’re on the road to success, Mr. Cameron!”

I successfully stop myself from telling her to shove that “we” up her tight ass.

* * *

Message from Free Williams

Tonight’s date: Physical Chemistry of Biological Systems. Let me tell you. She’s a boring date. I think I have Momma’s poor taste in romance?

Sent Nov 13 8:02 p.m.

Message from Free Williams

BTW I’ve been thinking. Are you sure you don’t want to at least see what Mystery Donor looks like? Momma kept a lot of photos.

Sent Nov 13 8:05 p.m.

I stare at my phone for a long time. I shouldn’t be on it. The deadline until I turn in the Essay of Doom—until my dreams of attending Emory bite the dust—is getting closer and closer. But I need the distraction.

I consider Free’s question. The more we message, the more I wonder if Ruby was anything like her: refreshing and curious. The more I think about my fight with Rio, I wonder if I’m anything like Mystery Donor: selfish and oblivious and angry. I’m angry with Rio. But I’m mostly angry with myself.

I FaceTime Lucy. She picks up immediately. Her hair is a frizzy mess, and she has heavy shadows under her eyes. She’s finally registered to take the SAT in early December. She’s been possessed by panic for two days.

“You look scary,” I tell her, half-serious.

“It’s a good thing you’re gay and not my type,” says Lucy, rolling her eyes.

“Hey,” I say, then sigh. She squints at me. She can tell I’m not myself.

“Spill it, Rembrandt. You’re eating up my study time.”

“If you had the chance to see your dad again, would you?”

“You know he lives in Texas, right? I could visit.”

“Hypothetically. If you could.” I feel my throat closing up. The hand not holding my phone is trembling. “Please, Lucia.”

She twirls her hair around her index finger, eyebrows pinched. A faraway look passes over her eyes. Again, I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe a real reason why Lucy and I don’t talk about these things exists.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

Lucy pushes hair out of her face. That look returns. Then she says, “There are some people who leave our lives and it’s not our job to hold on. To ask, ‘what if,’ even if we want to. We’re supposed to let them leave.”