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  But I can’t read him. Once I posted an anonymous question on his Ask Me Anything with my burner Instagram. I asked who he had a crush on—I mean, I knew he wasn’t going to just name his secret crush for the entire internet to see, but I figured he’d put something a lot less cryptic than The girl of my dreams is still just in my dreams. Apparently, his dream girl doesn’t exist yet.

  I make a fuss about getting out of bed and being exhausted, and I pull back my curtains. He’s staring at me through his window. This, too, is rehearsed and expected. I know it started out as a way to get me out of bed, but that was months ago when I was pulling early-morning summer shifts at the Park. He was my alarm clock, forcing me out of bed so I could prove to my mom I’m not a spoiled princess who can’t work for her own dime.

  Now...he’s a boy staring at me in my good pajamas, because I know that, every morning, he’s going to see me.

  What does he see? Why does he keep looking?

  I lean on my window. “What do you know. It’s another sunny day in the Sunshine State. It’s probably already eighty degrees and climbing.” I cross my arms over my stomach. It’s my problem area, and this tank top is cropped a little high and the neckline a little low. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this one to bed.

  “Liv. Is it beautiful?” He’s getting weirder these days, and sometimes it makes me want to be weird, too. Even if he doesn’t like like me, is it a crime for me to enjoy this feeling?

  “Elijah Peretz,” I say like his dad does when he’s about to say something worth thinking about. “It’s beautiful.”

  He looks up, surveying the sky, and nods. “It is. See you in thirty.” He hangs up. I really hate it when he hangs up without saying bye—but maybe he does it because all we are is one long, ongoing conversation not really going anywhere.

  * * *

  I’m in Biology II when the reality of three hours of sleep starts to hit me. Dré, Eli, and I were running late again with no time to stop for coffee, and to be honest that shit never works on me anyway. I’m pretending not to slump over my desk when I hear my name.

  Everyone is staring at me.

  “Ms. James?”

  Ugh. I hate it when the teachers use that name. My dad gave me nothing but big eyes and hips. I use my mom’s name for almost everything. Johnson. The old man didn’t stick around long enough for me to remember what he looks like, so why should I have to suffer the Do you know Lebron James? questions. Okay, I got asked that only once, but Sperm Donor is the worst man in the world for leaving my mom with a freshly baked baby and a lifetime of childcare bills and worries to suffer alone.

  I look up at Mrs. Darcy, who told us on the first day that she’s tired of the Jane Austen jokes. She’s got wild frizzy hair and it’s red—box-color red—around her pink face. She’s always wearing bright-colored shirts that make her face look extra flushed, but she’s a nice lady, so I try really hard not to judge her and wonder, why these choices?

  “You’re with Ms. Baker.” Mrs. Darcy looks down at her clipboard, and I have no idea what’s happening. She goes on to the next student, calling out partners.

  I don’t know who Baker is. I don’t really know anyone in this class. I picked Biology II because I got good grades in Biology I, and I heard the physics teacher sucks on epic proportions. I can’t afford to bring home bad grades, and rumor has it Mrs. Darcy is hard but fair, so—Bio II it was. I glance around. Everyone else is slowly getting up and breaking into pairs, and I still can’t find this Baker girl.

  Someone taps my shoulder. I turn around, and Dreads is behind me. That’s what I call her in my head. She’s a skinny mixed girl with these long dreads wrapped in wires and jewels. Big, gold hoop earrings dangle from her ears and she’s wearing a red plaid button-down over a rocker tee. None of what she’s wearing should make sense, but she looks cool. The kind of cool that matters after high school. “Baker?” I ask.

  “Lennox,” she corrects with a nod of her head. She takes the now-empty chair next to me. “Olivia, right? You always raising your hand and shit.”

  I nod. I’m not embarrassed about being that kid. I want good grades, and I’m not afraid to do what it takes to get them—well, the legal stuff, like asking questions and doing my homework.

  “That’s lit. I’m not trying to be fucked up with a slacker. Good stuff.” She leans back and fills me in on what we’re supposed to be doing. The unit we’re on is forensics, and we’ve been given a crime scene to solve by the end of the semester. We’ve got crime scene A, and she opts to be the detective, because she can “spot a lying mutha fucka from a mile away.”

  She pulls out her binder and opens it to a fresh piece of paper. On its other side is the audition flyer for the school musical, Othello. Well, damn, you put something out into the universe and it delivers—overnight, apparently. She sees me looking and puts the flyer on my desk. “You like theatre? You should try out.”

  I know what Othello is about; we read it earlier this year in English. Basically, a really psychotic dude, Iago, was pissed he got passed up for promotion, so he manipulated his boss, Othello, into believing Othello’s wife, Desdemona, was sleeping with Cassio, the guy who got the promotion. And because it’s Shakespeare, Desdemona gets smothered with a pillow, and just about everyone dies at the end.

  Normally, I’d be all about Iago’s manipulative ass, and I know last night I said I’d sign up, but I’m getting images of me singing and dancing onstage in a costume that will make me look like an Oompa Loompa.

  A bunch of weird words come out of my mouth, and she’s looking at me like she’s spotting a lying mutha fucka right now and I settle on, “I do, but I’m not good enough to try out.” I know I’m punking out and proving that bartender right, but—a girl is not ready. I need more than three hours sleep before I start diving into the deep end. I know change requires bold moves, but this is bright, neon-yellow-jacket bold, and it’s not even ten in the morning.

  “Says who?” Lennox is the kind of girl who wears red lipstick, and it doesn’t look weird on her. Everything about her is bold, and she doesn’t know me—the me who is pretty much pastel-on-top-of-pastel bland—so I don’t expect her to understand that a chubby girl like me is hesitant about stepping onstage to do Othello. I mean, let’s face it. I made that vow last night out of desperation. I should have promised something like I will wear eye shadow to school and not wash it off before first period.

  Plus, my cousin is in the theatre program, and in my family we have an unspoken rule that music is my thing and theatre is hers. Our moms have this weird competition going on to determine whose child is the most talented while simultaneously trying to force a friendship between us. I have nothing against Cleo, but she’s about as interesting as a brick wall. We’ve never really been more than cordial at family get-togethers, and when I see her at school, we sort of wave and keep it going.

  I know she doesn’t own the theatre department, and there’s nothing to stop me, a kid on the music track, from trying out, but our moms would go into extra gear if we were both in the same production.

  I open my mouth to tell Lennox this—she seems cool enough that she won’t make fun of me or my family drama—but then I remember standing in the club with my khaki shorts. I remember the look in that bunny-eared freak’s eyes as he showered me with his rude AF pity.

  My lameness is leaking out so much that people are starting to take notice, and I’m supposed to leave my punk bitch ways behind. If I say no...I’m just perpetrating the same nonsense. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? Besides invading Cleo’s territory or looking like an Oompa Loompa while being smothered with a pillow?

  “Fuck it,” I say.

  Lennox seems to get it and nods her head. “Exactly. Fuck it.” She also puts the packet of papers on my desk. “I have drama next, I’ll get a new audition form. The girls’ section starts on page five—memorize the lines and the song. Mrs. G casts
our roles based on just those two things. It’s not a lot to go on, but she says she ‘just knows.’ That bitch is mean as fuck, but she do be knowing.”

  I don’t know much about the theatre program, but the band room is next to the theatre and we hear Mrs. G yelling all day. I set the papers aside, internally screaming. The punk in me is cursing me out so dirty right now.

  We work on our forensic project while the Othello packet burns through my desk. Lennox is looking at her phone; it’s another one of her bold moves. She does it like it’s natural and not the quickest way to get your phone snatched by some overworked, underpaid, baggy-eyed professional. Mrs. Darcy doesn’t even notice.

  Lennox makes a hmph noise and turns the phone over for me to see her Instagram. “You know Dré?” It’s the picture from last night, where he’s kissing my unamused face.

  “Yeah. We’re friends.” This is going to go one of two ways—she’s going to ask me to hook her up with him, or she’s going to be passive-aggressive because she thinks I’m competition.

  I wait for it, but instead she drops, “Yeah, I slept with him over the summer. He’s all right. It was his first time, so he wasn’t too sure where to put his hands, but he can lay it down.”

  My jaw drops. Like, I don’t have it anymore. R.I.P solid foods. I look like a fish, but I can’t move my mouth and be a mature adult about this.

  Lennox looks up, pockets her phone, and pulls together her eyebrows. “Girl, you all right?”

  I still haven’t fixed my face. I’m usually good at pretending nonchalance. I once told my band teacher, If you strip naked and jump up and down on this table, it wouldn’t surprise me. He was highly disturbed, but in my defense, he thought I’d be shocked about placing first at nationals. Psh. Nah, I ain’t surprised. I know I’m an amazing flutist.

  But this?

  Dré alludes to being sexually active but the way he talks about it always makes me think he’s putting on a show. Why would Lennox tell me their personal business like that?!?!

  “Olivia,” she says, tilting her head. “We both have sweet lady vaginas. We’re in this game together. We can talk about this stuff.”

  No.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  No, we can’t.

  She raises her brows. “Dick not your thing? I get it, girl. I swing that way, too.”

  “I’m not gay. I just—” I get an image of them...together... Lord Jesus help me.

  “Neither am I, sis. This shit is fluid. Some days I like it—”

  I cut her off, because I don’t need to know about who and how or when this girl likes to have sex. “I’ve known Dré for forever and—I just don’t want to know about that.”

  “Oh,” she says. And to my relief, she leaves it alone, like I’d just asked her not to bring up movie spoilers.

  Dré’s first time has been reduced to an oh.

  The bell rings, and she pats on my audition packet. “Make sure to put your name on the sign-up sheet.”

  I’m nodding, because, let’s be honest, I haven’t recovered yet. But when I walk from Bio II all the way to the theatre and stop in front of the bulletin board, I pull out a pen from my bag. The tip of my pen touches the paper, and I freeze.

  There really is no going back once I put my name down.

  Just when I’m about to pull my pen away, a group of girls walk up behind me. “Hey, can I borrow your pen when you’re done?” the closest one asks.

  “Uh—yeah,” I say as they stare at me expectantly. I take a deep breath, write my name, and pass the pen. I’m actually doing this.

  I’m proud of myself—I mean, I kind of hate myself, too, because WTF am I doing?! But last week I couldn’t even take the flyer the drama teacher was handing out. Today, not only did I take the packet from Lennox, I put my name on the list.

  I’m pretty much turning my whole life around—except, in a few weeks, I have to get onstage, and I have no clue what the fuck I’m going to do.

  Chapter 4

  It’s lunch. A normal lunch except—I can’t look Dré in the eye. I’m sitting on the big staircase with my pizza, and he keeps leaning over and taking my fries, and I’m just thinking, But your hands, how the hell did you not know where to put your hands?

  “Liv.” Dré’s got a mouth full of fries and, even though he’s saying my name, he’s looking at Eli on the other side of me. “Tell him he’s fucking crazy.” They’re arguing over whether they should enter Battle of the Bands or not. Dré’s on Team We’re a band, and Eli’s on Team We’re two guys who sing covers with a keyboard and a guitar. I’m on Team I don’t give a rat’s ass because all I can think about right now is Dré’s junk.

  It’s right there, under his too-tight jeans, and it’s been inside Lennox. She said he knew how to lay it down, and now I’m freaking out all over again. Why would she tell me that? I know we’re supposed to be all open with our sexuality and fly our freak flags, but I am a prude. My sex education has been my mother randomly scaring the hell out of me with way too much personal information about her dating life.

  Then there is my sister, who is gay. Amber doesn’t know I know this, but I do. She’s so painfully awkward about keeping everyone in the dark, and we all know but are just waiting for her to be comfortable. And no, I don’t mean she’s in the closet—she’s very obvious about being gay—I think the thing is she’s just as terrified as I am of being openly romantic around the family. I’d die before announcing I have a boyfriend. All our family would hear is, I’m having sex, and they’d want to meet said significant other and—it’d be a whole thing and sometimes it should just be a small quiet thing.

  Anyway, we’ve never talked about this stuff. She’s just as prudish as I am. We do have the same traumatizing mother. My mother is the worst when it comes to having private conversations on the phone. She’s loud—and once I heard her loudly talk about how much she likes oral.

  I nearly ended it right then and there. No one should have to live through hearing their mom’s sexy voice.

  Anyway, I am not ready for this. I want sex, but at school, sitting between Eli and Dré and thinking about Dré’s stuff in Lennox’s stuff—it just makes my stomach turn. How was Lennox so open? Am I the weird one here?

  “Liv, stop staring at my junk.”

  I snap my head up and meet Dré’s eyes. He’s smirking, and I swear if I was a white girl, I’d look like a tomato right now. I mumble something about looking at ants, and he and Eli keep arguing, accepting that they’ve lost me somewhere to the clouds. I am literally staring at the clouds right now. Our school is an open-to-the-elements campus. Though we are inside, we are also outside.

  There’s a palm tree next to our staircase, and I’m pretending to be interested in a squirrel chewing on a burrito wrapper when Dré puts his arm around me and squeezes my side. Eli’s already gotten up to throw away his trash.

  “You home?” Dré is touchy like this because he’s Puerto Rican. That might be a gross overgeneralization of an entire group of people, but I swear he, his mom, his cousins, his aunts, and the other Puerto Rican kids at school—they are all handsy. HOW DID HE NOT KNOW WHERE TO PUT HIS HANDS?

  I move out of his embrace and put my pizza down, then pull a notebook out of my bag. “Yeah. I’m just thinking. Behind on homework.”

  Dré rolls his eyes. “Homework is institutionalized racism.”

  “Is that why you don’t do it?”

  “It’s for white kids who don’t have to work jobs to support their families.” He’s back in his personal space, and I’m back in mine with my Bio II notebook on my lap. Eli is settling in again and putting earphones in. His music blares. He doesn’t want to argue about the band thing anymore. Eli’s way of resolving confrontation is to hide from it.

  “Dré, you work because your mom wouldn’t give you $500 for clothes and cologne.”

&
nbsp; He takes a bite of my pizza. We’ve been sharing since forever. “And because the ladies like a man with independence. I can’t have my mama paying for my dates.”

  Or condoms. I hate Lennox right now, because I’m looking at Dré in a way I didn’t before. I’m looking at his arms and thinking about them around me. I have hormones and wants and needs. And Lennox should have thought about that before planting seeds of sex with Dré in my mind. I feel both intrigued and nauseated—not to mention I’m thinking about his arms around her tiny little body and how mine is much bigger.

  And then there is Eli. I can’t even think about sex with Eli; it just leaves me feeling embarrassed and overexposed.

  “What’s that?” Dré says, reaching into my binder. Thinking about where and when he’d done it means I forgot to be stealthy about the Othello audition packet. It’s in his hands before I can explain it away. “Damn, Liv. You trying out?”

  Dré leans over me and flicks Eli.

  Cautiously, Eli takes out one earphone and raises one of his bushy eyebrows into his thick, curling hair.

  “Liv’s trying out for the musical.” Dré’s announcing it like it’s a thing.

  “I didn’t say that.” I don’t want them to know. Dré is still that cat, purring one minute, then shredding your couch the next. He’s bound to say something to make me feel stupid about it, and I don’t want Eli to know because—I just don’t.

  Eli takes out the other earphone. The look on his face is...almost offensive. “Wha—?” He laughs. “Why?”

  I roll my eyes. This is why I don’t do things. “Because I want to,” I say.