“You don’t understand,” Rosie says insistently, her blue eyes wide. “I can’t. Have you seen Sofia? She—she has pink hair! She’s like a bubblegum fairy princess come to life! She’s literally the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on. I can’t spend time with her. I’ll have a gay panic attack if I even breathe the same air as her.”

I shake my head. “Just run the lines with her. She asked you to. Plus, she’s bi, isn’t she?”

Rosie moans pathetically, shoving her face in my shoulder. I stumble back in surprise before managing to regain my balance. “Yeah, but she only broke up with her ex-boyfriend like a month ago.”

“Okay, then maybe it’ll help if you just focus on the film,” I say, patting her head absently. “Keep your feelings out of it.”

“We can’t all be like you,” Rosie mumbles into my sweater.

My hand stills. For some reason, the words sting. I’m not sure why, since she’s not wrong, but hearing it aloud feels like sucking on a sour lemon.

I force myself to laugh. “The world would be a much more productive place if everyone could channel my energy.”

“Productive, maybe,” Rosie says. She doesn’t say it, but I can hear the Happy? No.

I pull away, nudging her upright, and try not to feel hurt. I know she didn’t mean it like that, but it’s not as if I chose to have depression. If I could get rid of gut-wrenching sadness that weighs most of my actions, I would. There are better weeks and there are worse weeks. This week is somewhere in the middle.

My obsession with winning the competition is the only way I know how to get through the day right now. It gives me something to keep reaching for. It gives me a purpose. Most importantly, it gives me hope.

“Productive, definitely,” I say with a flimsy smile. “Listen, I need to go to my locker, but I’ll meet you at Italian.”

I turn away before Rosie can read my expression, certain that she’ll pick me apart in less than a minute if I linger.

Given the last few days, I don’t want to know what she’ll find hidden in the lines of my face.

I’m the first person in the classroom aside from Miss Turano. Her eyes dart to the space beside me instinctively for Rosie before returning to me, a curious look in her eyes.

I don’t say anything, offering her a nod and taking my seat in the front.

Miss Turano squints, but she doesn’t press me for details. As disruptive as Rosie is—and I am, by association—we’re both arguably the best students in her class, and she adores us. She even wrote one of my college recommendations.