At GHS, the extracurricular offerings were pretty standard, and since I didn’t have the athletic ability to do volleyball like Sierra, or the musical talent to do marching band like Claire, I resigned myself to afternoons of studying, crappy TV, watching Craig and his friends play video games in his basement, or playing poker, when I could get a decent game together. (And before people got sick of me taking their money.)

At Camden, extracurriculars—well, cocurriculars, technically—are mandatory from four to five every weekday afternoon, and judging by the club fair, there’s plenty to fill the time. Who needs tennis or debate when you’ve got baking and board games? (Yes, I obviously sign up for both of these.)

I’m trying to size up both the Book Club and Quiz Bowl tables at once when I realize I know the pair standing in front of the Business Investors League booth. Sure enough, there’s a French braid grazing the sign-up sheet as Heather bends over to scrawl her name, and next to her, Lucas’s deep dimples are in high relief as he chats with the besuited upperclassman rep.

I immediately head in the opposite direction, but I don’t get far before I hear my name being called, and slowly turn to find Heather smiling and waving me over. I have no choice but to drag myself to the Business Investors League table. “Hey, Heather. I didn’t take you for the investor type.”

“I’m not—yet,” she says with a hint of the warm smile that seems permanently affixed to her face. “But it seems like something I could stand to learn. My mom’s always saying she wishes she knew more about the stock market, so I figured I could learn for us both.”

“Love that,” I say, and the way Lucas is looking at her, it seems like he loves that too.

Or maybe he’s simply trying to avoid eye contact.

And then, because the bile in my stomach hasn’t come all the way up yet, her smile widens and she says, “Evie, have you met Lucas?”

“Met” is just such an interesting word for what I’ve done with Lucas, and when I meet his eyes, I expect to see them widen in fear or prayer or something. But there’s no reaction, like either he’s so confident I’ll play along, or he’s already forgotten who I am.

Either way, fuck that guy.

“He’s in my English class.”

He swallows, nods, jerks his thumb toward the table. “You joining up too?”

“Not my type of gambling, personally. But I expect to make a mean cinnamon bun by the end of a semester of Baking Club.”