I sigh, looking down at the screen. The clouds are clearing through the windows of the main entrance, daylight finally streaming through the wide panels. I have to shift until I can avoid the sun’s glare, but eventually I make out the words.

PROMPT 1: WAVE

DEADLINE: SATURDAY

GOOD LUCK!

“Is that it?” I ask, frowning at the prompt. “Just the word wave?”

Emmitt nods. When I look up at him, he still has an arrogant twist to his mouth, but his cheeks are rosier than usual. He’s flustered over this contest.

Huh.

Maybe this is more important than I realized.

“Let me think on it,” I say, pushing his phone back. An idea niggles at the back of my head, taking shape, not fully formed yet. “I’ll figure it out by our stats class.”

Emmitt nods, his jaw tight. “I’ll find you then.”

I shake my head, turning around and heading back toward the staircase. “We’re going the same way, dickhead. AP Italian, remember?”

He makes a low noise, clearly insulted. “You know that isn’t my name, right?”

I look at him over my shoulder. The light reflects off the studs in his left ear, casting shadows across his face. “Should I call you by your name, then?”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles.

A smile tugs at my mouth as I face forward again. If I can speak my mind while dealing with him, maybe the next few weeks won’t be completely miserable. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

12

I stare at my phone for the fifth time in two minutes. It’s ten past three, and Emmitt promised to meet me at my locker after class ended fifteen minutes ago.

Rosie is at my side, fiddling with a piece of pink glittery paper. I think she’s trying to make a crane—presumably for Sofia—but it isn’t looking too good.

“How can it be this hard to show up on time?” I ask her, lolling my head to the side to meet her blue eyes.

She shrugs, still attempting to fold the paper. “He’s probably used to showing up on set whenever he wants.”

I sigh, rubbing circles into my temple. “Well, this isn’t a film set, and he’s not paying me to wait around for his sorry ass.”

“Mina,” Rosie admonishes without looking up, “we need his help.”

“He can help us even if I lightly stab him,” I say, musing on that thought for a while.

In the back of my head, though, a worry arises. I can stay out only so late before my parents start blowing up my phone, demanding an explanation. I’m used to handling the brunt of their disappointment, but it’s not fun to deal with. I’m not eager to sit through one of their lectures tonight. If Emmitt subjects me to that fate, I really might stab him.