I really might kill Marijke. Worst. New-friend-slash-partnerin-deception. Ever.

I’ve never had detention before. I don’t even know where to go for detention. At the end of the day, I have to stop in the front office and ask one of the secretaries. So embarrassing.

When I slip into the third-floor classroom, it’s empty except for two people. Mr. Marsden, the computer science teacher, is hunched over his desk, flipping through a stack of papers. There’s one guy in detention with me—he’s sitting at a student desk with his head buried in his arms.

“Name?” Mr. Marsden asks, looking at a clipboard.

“Lily,” I say softly, so as not to wake the sleeper. “Lily Spencer.”

“Right.” He checks something off on the clipboard and motions toward the empty desks. “Pick one and settle in. You’ll be here a while.”

I turn back around and heave my bag up onto my shoulder. When I glance around at the desks, trying to decide where to sit, my eyes lock with the now-awake student. Slowly, his green eyes crinkle and his lips spread into a smile.

My fellow detentiongoer is Joe Lombardi.

I suck in a breath but try not to make it obvious that I’m flustered. I can’t believe this is happening. I don’t know whether I’m mortified or thrilled.

“I know you,” Joe says as I get closer. “How’s the head?”

“Shh!” Mr. Marsden hushes him, scowling. “No talking!”

Joe throws him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mr. M—just being friendly.”

“That’s not necessary, Joseph. How about you focus on ways you can avoid being late to class? Then you might not land yourself in here again.”

Slowly, I slide into the desk next to him. Joe smiles at me again and I smile back, willing my face to stop going all tomato on me.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Hey yourself. Fancy meeting you here.”

I nod and start pulling books from my bag. Joe puts his head back down, but this time he’s propped it on one arm. It takes me a second to realize that he’s watching me. I glance back at Mr. Marsden, who’s just put in a pair of earbuds and is rocking out to his easy-listening jams. Way to supervise, dude. I could be plotting a bank heist and you’d have no clue.

“Is that all homework?” Joe asks, incredulous. I glance at the stack of books and papers I’ve piled on my desk and shrug.

“Some of it. Some of it’s just extra stuff for the newspaper.”

He shakes his head. “I can barely keep up with my classes and here you are taking on extra work. If you need some more, you can always have mine.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m already almost drowning in loose-leaf paper and textbooks.”

We lapse into silence and I start working on my trig homework. Or pretending to work on my trig homework, that is. I can’t think when my heart is beating this hard—it’s like attempting to do math during an earthquake. When the whole world is shifting around you, you’re lucky if you remember your own name, let alone how to work out complex equations.

“Are you taking trig too?” I finally ask Joe. He makes a face.

“Precalc. For the second time. I suck at math.”

“Math isn’t so bad,” I counter. “I mean, it’s exact—not like English or music or something artistic. I hate when there aren’t right answers.”

“Well, I’m terrible at it, exact answers or not.”

I cock my head and look at him. His mouth lifts up into a half smile.

“What?” he asks. “You’re looking at me like you want something.”

God, how am I supposed to respond to that?

Instead, I scoot my chair out and walk toward Mr. Marsden. He yanks out an earbud and glares at me.

“Miss Spencer?”

“I was hoping you’d let me help Joe out with his math homework. I’m really good at precalculus.”

Mr. Marsden leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes. Then he shrugs.

“As long as you are working, I suppose it’s okay.”

I beam at him. “Thanks.”

I start back toward my desk and look at Joe, who’s gaping at me.

“How did you know I have precalc homework?” he asks, sounding amazed. “Are you psychic or something?”

I laugh. “No, but I’ve taken the class. Ms. Owens is brutal, and she gave us homework every day of the week—even over weekends.”

“Sounds about right.” Joe nods. He reaches behind his chair and unzips his backpack, then pulls out his math book and a spiral.

It occurs to me that I didn’t even ask him if he wanted help—maybe I’d offended him or something.

“Sorry, I probably should have asked you if you even wanted help.”

“Are you kidding? Hell yeah, you can help me out—I’ve got to keep my GPA up for motocross. Otherwise I can’t compete.”

“Well, okay then,” I say, pulling my graphing calculator out of my bag. Then Joe scoots his desk closer to mine, effectively blocking me in with his body.

“Thanks for this,” he says quietly. I meet his gaze and it’s as soft as his voice. “It’s kind of embarrassing to be this bad at something. Especially when you’re repeating the class.”

I swallow hard and force myself to shake my head.

“It’s no big deal.”

Before I realize what’s happening, Joe reaches out and tweaks one of the curls close to my face. When I look at him again, he grins.

“It’s a big deal to me.”