13

Our library is always freezing. I don’t complain though. It keeps me awake.

“You ready for the test in government?” Eric stacks his notes neatly on the library table.

I look up. “No. That’d be why I’m cramming during lunch.” I’m trying to refocus on my schoolwork. Kick senioritis to the curb. Beth’s sampling a new lunchtime club.

“Want help?”

“Unless you can magically beam the answers into my brain, I doubt any kind of help can rescue me now. I’m just bracing myself for the parental lecture I’m gonna get when I bring home a B. All about getting my priorities straight and yada, yada.” I rub my arms because the goose bumps are having a field day.

“The problem is that you’ve spoiled them by bringing home all A’s. Now they expect it.”

I grin. “Maybe.”

“If you started out with C’s, they’d be thrilled with B’s.”

“Good point. Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong.” I look back at my book. I have so much left to read. I don’t want to be rude, but I want him to leave. I really do need to cram. “I don’t think you’re a good example though. You’re in the running for valedictorian, aren’t you?”

Eric shrugs like it’s no big deal. He drags back a chair, scraping it on the ground, and sits himself down. He pulls my textbook away from me and I’m about to protest, but I see the librarian shooting us the evil eye from across the room. We are too loud.

“Here,” he says, turning the pages. “Focus on this section. If you have this part down, you’ll do fine.”

“Okay. I guess I can’t get through it all anyway.” I move the book back in front of me. He stays in his seat, watching me. “Not to be rude, but I can’t concentrate with you sitting there.”

“Okay, okay, I get the hint.” He stands up. “You’ll do fine.”

I read the section twice, and skim the headings and bolded words in the rest of the chapter. I hope Eric is right. The warning bell rings and I suddenly feel the warmth of a body next to mine. I almost laugh out loud. Has Eric been waiting for me all lunch?

But when I look up, I don’t see Eric. I see Miguel. He’s holding a single rose.

My skin prickles in an oh-my-god-is-this-really-happening kind of way. I have never been given a rose by a boy in my life.

It feels so completely cheesy that I can hardly take it from him.

But I don’t want to hurt his feelings, and he looks so vulnerable standing there holding it. So I reach my hand out and take it. I murmur something that vaguely resembles a “thank you.” It’s so awkward I can hardly meet his eyes, so I scramble to pack up my books and jam out of there. Halfway to my locker, I prick my finger on a thorn. I spend half the government test sucking on the finger so it won’t bleed all over my paper.

Chloe has perfected the art of parental manipulation. The girl should win an award. She has a whole strategy.

Step One—Secure parental sympathy (slink around in room groaning about PMS, I’m so depressed, and no one understands me).

Step Two—Spring the big question (which may vary based on situation).

One time her strategy backfired and they made her see a shrink. Today, however, she’s having a sleepover. The living room has been taken hostage by sophomores, with their pillows and blankets, nail polish, cell phones, and magazines strewn all over. I smell burnt popcorn kernels and nail-polish remover. Ice-cold sodas decorate the coffee table, and I have this irresistible urge to slide coasters underneath them so that they don’t leave rings.

Beth and I are standing in the doorway with our mouths open. We’ve got three tests next week, so we thought we’d get a head start on prepping.

Chloe waves me in, all enthusiastic. “Hey Gabi! Come kick it with us.”

I try not to groan. “Uh, no thanks. We’ve got to study.”

“It’s Friday night—live a little. We’ll give you a makeover!” She says this like it’s a good thing, then rips off a piece of red licorice with her teeth.

“You’re not touching my hair.” I tell her, sinking down onto a mound of blankets and sleeping bags. “My toes maybe, but not my hair.” Beth sits stiffly on the very edge of the couch.

“Deal,” Chloe agrees. “Does Beth know everybody?”

I look around. “I think so,” I tell her, but I introduce Beth anyway. They’re all girls Chloe has been friends with since middle school. They’re like a funky mismatch of lost socks, each without a mate, but hanging out together makes them one of a group. That girl Mel sits with a sour face in the corner, painting her toenails black. She seems like even more of an outcast than the others.

Beth watches half of Scream 4 and then takes off, mumbling about due dates for essays and upcoming quizzes. I hate to see her go, but I’m not in the mental space for studying anyway. I allow my toenails to be painted silver by a girl who is bouncing off the walls.

“God, you’re such an idiot, Chloe. When Mom sees this room, she’s gonna be hella pissed.”

“Yep.” Chloe grins. “That’s pretty much the point.”

Mel surprises me by joining our conversation. She drops down onto the couch. “Why do you want to piss her off?”

“Have you seen her get worked up? It’s hilarious. True entertainment.”

“You’re lucky she gets worked up,” Mel says. “One time I went on a silent shower strike. I didn’t shower or talk for a week, but no one noticed. I’d planned to wait until someone said something, but no one ever did.”

“What finally happened?” Chloe asks.

Mel shrugs. “I got so tired of my own stink that I gave up and showered.”

Chloe and I laugh at this, but not for long because Mel isn’t laughing. Dad walks in just then. I can tell by the way his gait falters and then speeds up that he is as surprised as I was to have our living room taken hostage. He covers it up, though, with a curt, “Hi there, girls,” followed by a brisk walk to the stairs.

“He even walks like a cop,” Chloe says.

“How exactly does a cop walk?” I ask.

“The way he does. Like with his whole body.”

“Does your dad have a gun?” Mel asks, all curious. Her fingernails are nonexistent. Either she bites them or she files them down really low. It looks ridiculous, because she’s painted them black, and all you can see are these tiny blobs of black on each finger.

Chloe answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “All cops have guns.”

“No—I mean one that he keeps at home?”

“Yeah.” I kind of thought all cops had guns they kept at home.

“Trippy.” Mel chews on her lip, and then she whispers, “Have you ever touched it?”

“No,” I answer fast, and then wish I hadn’t. I wonder how Chloe would answer that one. “He keeps it locked up.” I don’t mention that I know the combo. And then because I can’t help it, I ask Chloe, “Have you ever touched it?”

She doesn’t make eye contact right away, and that tells me all I need to know. She slides her eyes up toward mine, and then she says, “Nope. Never touched it.” If she hadn’t looked away, I’d have believed her. But she did look away. And now I know she’s a liar.

I can tell Mel knows too. She makes this strange mmhmm noise and gets this glimmer of a smile, so slight that after a minute I’m not sure if it was really a smile at all. First time I’ve seen her smile today.

It creeps me out.

“Want to grab a pizza after our shift?”

Miguel has asked me out ten times in the last week. In ten different ways. To ten different places. I’ve made up ten different excuses.

I sigh. I’ve been considering asking Paisley to swap partners, but maybe I should just be a grown-up and talk to him.

I face him. “Miguel, this may sound strange to you, but I’ve never really dated anyone.”

I can tell by his expression that he thinks this is just excuse number eleven. It’s not. “Look, my dad’s a cop, and he sees all kinds of crazy things out there, so he’s super strict.” Plus Mom has always wanted me to stay focused and avoid drama. Keep my “eye on the prize.”

So I don’t date.

Not that I’ve had a lot of opportunities anyway, but I don’t tell Miguel that. He’s nodding again, and I can tell he’s not going to give up on this one. What, is he waiting for his quota of rejections?

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not interested?” I ask Miguel. I feel brave because Janae’s in the office with us. She’s beading and she has her earphones in, but I can tell she’s really listening to our conversation anyway.

“Only once.” He sits down close to me.

“I’ve already told you a million times!” I almost scoot away. But his bare arm is touching my bare arm, and it makes me tingle. I’m not sure if it feels nice or uncomfortable, but I stay anyway.

“You’ve lied to me a million times. I know you’re interested.”

“You’re full of yourself.”

Miguel stops, and I think maybe I’ve offended him. He repeats what I said. “Full of myself? I am not familiar with that expression.”

Janae snorts. She unplugs her ears. “You’re a riot,” she tells Miguel.

He winks at her. “A riot? What does that mean?”

Janae throws a bead at him. “In case you didn’t know it, Gabi, Miguel likes to play the new immigrant thing. It’s his dating act.”

“What you mean by ‘new immigrant thing’?” Miguel holds his hands up flat, all innocent. Then he reaches over and grabs Janae’s foot.

“He thinks it makes him cuter.” She kicks her leg to try to get him off. “Has he tried the rose shtick yet?”

I look back and forth between Janae and Miguel. Miguel’s face has turned a dark shade of purple, which is hard to do since his skin is so dark in the first place. But he’s not pissed. His eyes are practically twinkling. He turns to me. “Anyway, I know you’re into me. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Screw you,” I tell him as firmly as I can. I try to ignore the tingling on my arm from where our skin connected.

“Okay.” He grins, palms flat up in the air again. “That sounds fun.”