I shut my locker and Yaz is there. She’s freaky close. Her nails, silver with green question marks, pick at the buttons of her shirt. She sees me staring and drops her arm. Her rainbow bangle bracelets cling-clank on her wrist. I have a pack, too. We won them at a street fair in fifth grade. In between the bouncy hut and sharing a fried turkey leg and a giant blue Slurpee.

Yaz doesn’t say nothing, which is good. I don’t want her to.

I walk away.

“Mari, wait.” Her hand touches my shoulder.

I whip around, throw an icy Slurpee glare at her. She takes her hand off me.

“Don’t,” I say, breaking my promise to never speak to her again.

I turn to go.

“I want to talk, Mari.”

I pivot, arm sailing. I drive my fist into the locker next to her face. It slams shut with a sound like a car crash. Everyone in the hallway gets quiet and looks to see if there’s blood.

Yaz’s eyes are real big, mascara-lashes hitting cheeks and eyebrows. She’s twisting her lips around, mucking up her lipstick.

I point my fist at her, extend one finger. Don’t. I say it with my stare.

She releases her lips. They’re bitten and bloated under all that gloss.

Okay. She says it with her feet.