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Henry texts Portia, and we sit on the parking lot curb to wait. We end up talking about pretty much everything, and by the time the Suburban pulls up, Henry and I are deep into a discussion about our favorite Korean rappers.

“I really love RM,” Henry says. “He’s the backbone of BTS. It’s really impressive how he can speak English, too, even though he’s never lived in the US.”

“Right?” I agree. “I really like Dean and Zico, too.”

“Did you have a good time?” Portia asks when we get in the car. The almost mom-like way that she asks the question makes me realize that Portia is probably a lot older than I thought she was. People always joke about Asian people looking younger than they are, but even I have trouble figuring it out sometimes.

“Yup,” Henry replies. “You should try the tacos here sometime. They’re amazing.”

“Oh, El Flamin’ tacos? I’ve already been. Whohasn’t?”

Portia and I share a laugh. Henry rolls his eyes in a good-natured way.

As we exit out of LA to turn onto the highway, I can’t help but think that Henry is not at all like I thought he would be. I expected him to be stuck-up and obnoxious, but he’s actually sweet and considerate, to the point that now I’m even more curious about what made him so angry during his fight with Melinda.

The highway headed away from LA isn’t as clogged up as the one heading toward it, so we get to my house sooner than I thought.

“See you at the next practice,” Henry says as I get out of the SUV.

“See you.”

I get a glimpse of his smile—the real one, not the one tailored for the cameras—before he closes the door behind me.

Chapter Fifteen

ON MONDAY MORNING, I WAKE UP TO THE RATTLEof my dresser. At first, in one confused, half-asleep moment, I think there’s an earthquake. Even though severe earthquakes are pretty rare where I live, they happen frequently enough that the rattling makes me bolt up from my bed. But it’s just my phone. And it’s buzzing with so many notifications that it freezes up when I try to swipe it open.

Make it stop!Panic flashes around in my head like emergency lights, and even more so when I see that I only have fifteen minutes to get to school. Yesterday, I worked my butt off late into the night, scrambling to finish my homework. I must have been so tired that I forgot to set my alarm before I went to sleep.

The time flies by way too quickly, and my hair is still dripping wet when I run out the door. Normally, I’d do my makeup and pick out a nice outfit, but not today. I consider myself lucky that I even remember to wear pants.

I only have time to actually look at my phone when I step through the school doors. The notifications are still popping up, with no signs of stopping. This time, though, I’m ready for them. I read what each bubble says.

Most of the notifications are from Instagram, but there are also a lot of texts. I don’t recognize most of the people who requested to follow or message me on Instagram, so I go to my texts first, glancing up occasionally to make sure I don’t run into people in the hallway. Since it’s way too late for me to meet up with my friends in the cafeteria, I head straight to my locker to get my books.

Most of the texts are from Clarissa, and most of her messages are just full of emojis and long strings of “OMG.”

CLARISSA HAN:OMG. OMG OMG OMG OMG. DID YOU AND HENRY CHO GO ON A DATE? OMG SKYE, WHAT’S GOING ON???

Henry.I finally have an idea about what must have happened. I flash back to him taking photos of me. I didn’t say anything when he took a picture of me, but only because I didn’t think he would post any of them. But apparently, I wasreallywrong.

I tap away from the long string of “OMGs”, exiting out of the conversation with Clarissa to read a text from Rebecca. Rebecca rarely texts, so it’s a big deal that she did.

REBECCA NGUYEN:Um, Skye... You might want to check Instagram...

After taking a deep breath, I finally open Instagram to seea post on Henry’s account that went up just a few hours ago. It’s a collection of four photos: the picture I took of Henry, the blazing glory that is the El Flamin’ taco truck, our tacos and fries, and... me. Fortunately, it’s a pretty good picture. I don’t look weird and there isn’t any food stuck in my teeth. I’m even smiling the perfect amount, so I’m not grinning too wide in a way that—according to Clarissa—makes me look like a serial killer. The caption simply readsHad fun grabbing tacos with @newskye16.

He tagged me on Instagram. This must be where all the requests are from.

I didn’t tell Henry my username, but he must have seen it when I posted the picture of our food on Saturday.

I’m relieved that, all things considered, the post is relatively harmless. Sure, a few people stared at me when I walked past them in the hallway, but it’s not like Henry is as famous as Taylor Swift or any other mainstream American celebrity. Even still, I’m overwhelmed by how many people thought it was okay to randomly request to follow my private Instagram account just because I was hanging out with Henry. I have two hundred new requests and counting. A lot of them are from complete strangers and bot accounts, but some are from people I know at school.

I feel utterly grossed out and don’t add any of them. These people never bothered to give me the time of the day before I appeared on Henry’s feed. Why would I become friends with them now?

Before I can stop myself, I read through the comments on Henry’s post. And I instantly regret it.

Most of them are pretty harmless, with messages like, “Wow, those tacos look really good!” or “ So handsome!” But there are also endless strings of pig emojis and lots of “oink oink” responses and even some comments that say extreme things like “Go die! Henry is mine.”