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That’s a reasonable excuse, right?

A little smile pulls at her mouth. “That makes sense.” Annie fidgets, tapping her hands on the table, then grabs her phone. “Did you want her number?”

Do I want Margo Blakely’s number? Do I really want to give her another way to bombard me? Not necessarily, but it’s the only way. “Sure.” I pat my pockets, looking for my phone, but I can’t find it. I left it in my locker. “I don’t have my phone. Could you text it to me?”

Her smile grows, and she hands me her phone. “No problem.” I don’t know why she’s so excited to give me Margo’s number. Does she know something? Has Margo told Annie she likes me?

I take Annie’s phone, but my thumbs hover over thenumbers. I can still back out if I want to, but I remind myself I won’t relax until I talk to her again. I punch in my number and hand the phone back. “Thanks.”

Her eyes falter when I look at her. She’s so shy she can’t even make eye contact.

“I’ll send it right away,” she says.

I acknowledge her with a brief nod and a half-hearted smile. I wave slightly and start to walk away. There’s no need to keep making her nervous. I have what I need.

Instead of sitting down to eat, I head back to my locker for my phone. I pull it out of my jacket pocket and click on the message from Annie. I don’t take the time to save her number because I doubt I’ll need it again. But should I save Margo’s? She is looking for my father after all, so the chance of me needing to talk to her again is higher. Then again, if I save Margo’s number, that’s almost like accepting her into my life. That doesn’t make sense, because once she finds my father, I told her I didn’t want to see her ever again.

I take a breath and save it for some reason, but it’s okay because I can always delete it or block her later.

I stare at the keyboard, and my mind goes blank. I spent all morning thinking about what to say to her, and now I’m suddenly void of the entire English language.How are you?No. I don’t want her to think I care that much.Did you find him yet?No. Obviously, she hasn’t found him that fast, and I’m sure she would’ve found a way to tell me if she did.Hey?No. Without context that feels creepy.

Are you slacking?

I bite my lip. That’s bad too, but it’s too late. It’s already sent.

A minute goes by and my message is left on delivered, not read. I don’t know why I expected her to reply right away, but I did. She seems like the type of person that would immediately respond with long, drawn-out paragraphs.

My brow furrows, and I sigh. Did she see the notification and swipe it away, thinking it was weird? Is that why she isn’t replying?

My eyes wide grow with horror when I realize I never told her who I was. She doesn’t have my number, so how’s she supposed to know I’m the one texting her? For all she knows, that message could be from anyone.

It’s Daniel.

Now, she’ll reply. I know she will. Why wouldn’t she? She’s been spending every possible second she could with me the last week. She should be over the moon about me reaching out. Shouldn’t she?

The minutes tick by, and nothing. Was I wrong? Maybe she doesn’t like me. Maybe I did jump to conclusions. She would have replied by now if she did.

I’m on edge for the rest of the school day. I never ate lunch. I can’t sleep through any of the classes. All I do is stare at my phone, hidden below the desk and out of view of anyone else. Or so I thought.

“Mr. Hansen.” My history teacher stands with her hand extended toward me. “Your phone please.”

Heat rises on my neck. “I wasn’t on it.”

She raises her brow. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I realize you all aren’t staring at your pants. Hand it over.”

I set it in her palm, and despite my longing look, she takes it for the rest of class, setting it inside one of the drawers inher desk. The class drags on, making it seem like hours before the bell finally sounds. Once it does, I walk up to her desk.

She laughs, pulling the phone out of the drawer. “Maybe I should take this more often. I’ve never seen you sit upright in class that long.” She hands it back. “I still don’t understand how you pass every test.”

“Just because I don’t look like I’m listening doesn’t mean I’m not,” I say, taking it back.

“Well, it was refreshing to see you look like you’re listening,” she says.

I won’t take the hint. When Monday rolls around, I’ll be back to ignoring her again.

I step into the hallway, hardly paying attention to the students around me. My eyes are glued to my screen. My gut twists.

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