Let the record show that Evie Hooper is not my girlfriend.

I mean, she’s not not my girlfriend. And she’s definitely not just a friend who happens to be a girl either. It’s, er, tricky.

“That is not my problem,” Corinne says, arms crossed. “An unreliable teammate is something that should factor into your scheduling, not mine.”

I roll my eyes at the drama. It’s not that I don’t feel bad about being late, but no NYC subway line is above the occasional fourteen-minute delay. And beyond that, Yadira has a personal driver who parks right in front of the school in a giant black SUV every day and a trust fund waiting for her twenty-fifth birthday, so I’m not going to lose any sleep for needing to squeeze in my dog walks after school and being late to practice.

Eventually, Yadira and Greg concede to wrapping things up, already knowing that there’s no point in putting up a fight with Corinne Troy.

“Don’t forget to collect the wreckage of your presence,” Corinne adds, motioning to the bags of takeout in the corner while already scrubbing the dry-erase board of Greg’s scribbles. Honestly, who talks like that? I swear there’s a regime in this girl’s future.

“Sorry, Corinne,” Greg says as he scurries—actually scurries—to collect the greasy brown paper bags and bundle them into the recycling.

“What do you even do in here?” I wonder out loud, finding it all a little amusing. Her temper is so high with the stakes so objectively low: after-school debate practice in a school with dozens of empty classrooms right now.

“This room has the best projector. I rehearse my flash cards.”

“You what?” Yadira asks, balling up napkins and hurriedly zipping her backpack.

“I’m a visual learner.” Corinne sighs as though explaining it is a bothersome waste of vocal cords. “Seeing the material in a gigantic font makes it easier for me to retain it. Plus, it’s proven that recalling material is easier when said material is studied in the same environment in which it will later be recalled. Mr. Shapiro’s weekly quizzes are in this room.”

“That’s intense.” I snort.

Corinne Troy’s eyes are on me like a hawk’s, which is intimidating, yes, but unfortunately for Troy, I don’t tremble as easily as poor Greg.

“Why did you just say that?”

“Er, because it is?” I blink. “I mean, kudos to you. Shapiro’s quizzes are brutal, but that is still—I don’t know—an intense amount of studying.”

The answer doesn’t seem to lighten her mood.

“That word,” she says through clenched teeth. “Why did you use that word?”

“Uh . . .”

“Intense,” she snaps. “Why did you just call me that?”

“You’re kidding, right?”