Wednesday, February 11

DAVID

On Tuesday, I made a whole plan to talk to Sammie right at the beginning of math, before Luke was there, and I even spent the last fifteen minutes of lunch in the bathroom across the hall from class so I could get there early. I was carrying my binder and racing from the bathroom to math, a man with a plan, when I got knocked from behind and the binder flew out of my arm and exploded all over the hallway. It was Luke, of course, who knocked into me, so instead of being early to class I was late.

If I could just get Sammie alone for five minutes, I could explain everything, but wherever I go to try to catch up with her, Luke’s right there, ready to butt in and ruin everything. He’s not a sidekick, he’s a sidestick.

I finally catch a break when Mrs. Dougherty asks Luke to stay after in English. Sammie’s in Spanish, only two doors down, so I’m packed up before the bell starts ringing, and out the door before it stops. I spot her right away, practically running down the hall, but I manage to catch up with her in front of the doors to the stairwell.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing her arm. I’m panting and a little sweaty, and my heart’s racing. “Can we talk?”

“About what?” Sammie says, pulling her arm away from me.

“About what’s going on. About why you’re not answering my texts and avoiding me at school. Are you . . . mad at me?”

Sammie stops walking and looks at me. “I’m not mad,” she says, and I feel a whoosh of relief. But then she goes on. “What happened . . .” She looks down at the floor, then back up, but her eyes don’t meet mine. “What happened on the bus on Friday—”

What happened on the bus on Friday was awkward and embarrassing and weird. But I don’t want to say that. I want to pretend that what happened on the bus didn’t happen. And I want Sammie to pretend that too. I open my mouth to try to say something, but just then, Jefferson and Spencer come walking up.

“Hey, Sammie,” Spencer says. “David told us about you and Luke.”

“What?” Sammie says, glancing at me.

“About how you were fooling around on the bus,” Spencer says. “With Luke. Are you guys going out?”

“David told you I was what?” Sammie asks, her voice high and sharp.

“He told us what happened on the bus on Friday—”

“I did not,” I interrupt. “It wasn’t—”

“You said you were giving something to Sammie,” Jefferson tells me, “not kissing her, even though all the girls on my bus said it was kissing. You said Luke and Sammie were fooling around, and that Sammie liked it.” He turns to Sammie. “Are you guys going out?”

Sammie looks right at me, and there’s something in her eyes that I can’t read. I wait for her to tell the guys that nothing happened with Luke, that she wasn’t flirting with him, that it was all a big mistake. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything.

Just then, Luke joins our little circle. “Hey,” he says, putting his arm around Sammie. “You and David making up?”

“Shut up,” I say. “We’re friends. We don’t have to make up. Sammie said she’s not mad. Right, Sammie?”

She keeps staring right at me, saying nothing. She doesn’t seem to even notice Luke’s arm around her shoulder. Or maybe she’s used to it, I think. Maybe Luke puts his arm around her all the time because she really does like him, not me, and she wants his arm around her like that.

“Cool,” Luke says. “Then maybe you want to kiss and make up with me?” He starts to leans in toward her, like he’s really going to kiss her right here in the hall, but before his lips make contact, Sammie pushes him away. She still doesn’t say anything.

Luke laughs, then lightly punches my arm. “C’mon,” he says. “We’re going to be late for drama class.” He pulls me away from Sammie and down the hall.

I can’t believe the way he moved in, so smooth, and practically kissed her right in the hallway, in front of everybody. Or the way she almost let him.

I push through the door into drama class, but before I can sit down, Carli Martin grabs my arm and whispers, “Follow me.”

She pulls me to the back corner of the room, where I’m surrounded by her friends.

“What’s going on with Luke?” Carli asks in a hoarse whisper.

“That he’s secretly a pod person?” I ask. “I’m pretty sure it’s not true—”

“No,” Sarah interrupts. “What’s going on with Luke and Sammie? We heard that something happened on the bus. Between them. And we heard that they are . . . that they might be . . .” She stops talking and looks me right in the eye, raising one eyebrow. “You know.”

“Going out?” I say, feeling a sudden, hot rush of frustration. It’s unfair, the way Luke’s so smooth, the way everything that’s hard for me is so easy for him. “Why don’t you ask him. They were practically kissing in the hall just now.”

Carli starts crying, big, fat tears rolling down her cheek. I’m kind of amazed that anyone can make tears appear that fast, but I ignore her and push right past Carli’s wet face and Sarah’s open mouth, and sit back down next to the person who’s ruining everything.

“What was that about?” Luke asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

Sammie doesn’t come to lunch, again.

SAMMIE

David Fischer is telling lies about me. My best friend is saying stuff he knows isn’t true. I don’t know what to do.

So I decide to ask two girls who are a lot more experienced with flirting and drama and boy problems than me: the Peas.

They’ve been picking me up from school every day this week, and even being nice about it.

Today, Rachel’s in the driver’s seat and Becca’s riding shotgun. I open the back door and slide in, but neither one says a word. I don’t take it personally. They can’t talk because they’re both looking in the little mirrors on the backs of their sunshades to reapply their lipsticks.

Becca flips her sunshade up and caps her lipstick. “How was your day?”

“Okay,” I say.

“That doesn’t sound very Sammie-like,” Rachel says. “There must have been at least one A-plus on a paper, or a quiz you killed.”

“Classes are fine,” I say. “I mean, they’re the same.”

“Hmm,” Becca says. “Is it personal? What’s going on? C’mon, dish.”

I take a deep breath and try. “There was this thing on the bus Friday—” I stop, not sure how to say what happened.

“Like someone threw up?” Rachel asks. “Remember when we had to ride the bus, Bec? It always smelled like barf.”

“Oh my gawd,” Becca says, making a gagging face. “That stink, I can still smell it.”

“No. No one threw up,” I say. “Friday, well, I always sit in the same seat. I sit in one seat and David and Luke sit across from me. But Friday, Luke was sitting in my seat, and David was in the other seat, so I sat with David because Luke—”

“Middle school,” Rachel says to Becca like it means something.

Becca shakes her head. “Gawd.”

“It was weird. He started touching my leg.”

“Luke was touching your leg?”

“No, David was.”

“Did you tell him to cut it out?” Rachel asks.

“No. I moved my leg away but then he moved his hand so he was touching me again. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t even sure he was doing it on purpose.”

“Seventh-grade boys,” Becca says like she’s talking about something gross. “They have no sense of personal space. They’re like puppies, all wiggly and awkward but not nearly as cute.”

“Seventh-grade boys are the worst,” Rachel says. “They’re so handsy. Half of them haven’t figured out deodorant and they stink.” She pinches her nose with one hand and waves the other like she’s waving away a really bad smell.

“Nobody smelled,” I say, “but Luke—”

“Luke?” Becca interrupts. “That cute boy from the fro-yo place? I bet he’s figured out deodorant.”

“I don’t know about the deodorant,” I say, “but a lot of girls are flirting with him, and David told everyone that I was too, and that Luke likes me—”

“You go, girl!” Rachel says, taking a hand off the wheel to air high-five me. “Flirting with the cute new boy!”

“Look,” Becca says, turning around to look at me. “Seventh grade is the worst, but you’ll get through it. Don’t let those other girls push you around about Luke. If the two of you have something going on, that’s your business, not theirs.”

“We don’t—” I protest, but the Peas aren’t listening.

“First it’s boy trouble,” Becca says to Rachel. “Next thing you know, she’ll want us to take her shopping for thongs.”

“Urban,” Rachel says. “They have the best.”

“Our little angel,” Becca says.

“She’s growing up,” Rachel says, pretending to wipe away a tear.

I turn and stare out the window, wondering if maybe there’s something wrong with me. I have boy trouble, but not the kind the Peas think I have. And no one seems to understand that.