We did? Shit. So much for playing hard to get. “Of course we’re going,” Shannon says before I can get in a word. “Riss is just making Chase sweat.”

“We’ll be there,” I promise Gia, and Kiki nods in agreement.

“And after, we’ll all go to New Girl’s party,” Kiki adds. Like that, the conversation returns to Jasmine, and I contemplate whether one can literally drown herself in ketchup.

It isn’t until last period—English, because of course it would be our shared favorite subject—that I finally have a Jasmine sighting. She slips in right as the bell rings, giving me no chance to make eye contact. I don’t even know if she sees me. But it’s unmistakably her and her jangling bracelets and her smoky voice saying “Here” and God, I can’t even remember what class this is anymore.

She doesn’t say another word for the rest of it, and neither do I, but I pack up slowly, sure she’ll saunter over on her way out—maybe with a “Hey, Tinkerbell.” Heat rises in my cheeks as I imagine it, and I take my sweet time getting my stuff into my bag, waiting for the scent of her favorite peach body lotion to reach me. When I finally can’t take it anymore, I look up … and the room is empty.

Okay, what the fuck? Even if she didn’t see me when she came in, she has to have heard me respond to “Bogdan, Larissa” during roll call. I’m not letting her ignore me. A few weeks ago, we were staying up all night watching movies with our legs intertwined in the dark, tasting the salty-sweet of popcorn mixed with M&Ms on each other’s lips, and now … this? What even is this?

I have to storm all the way outside before I catch up to her, but there she is, getting into the Jeep I know better than my mom’s old Toyota. “Jasmine!”

She pauses. Steps out of the car. Slowly. Like she knew this was coming and has been dreading it all day. She doesn’t say a word, just waits. It’s her thing—she’s chased, never chases. I’d thought I was exempt. “Jasmine,” I repeat when I’m standing a few feet away, like I still need to confirm.

“Larissa.”

Not Tinkerbell, not a sing-song accented “Larotchka” to affectionately mimic my mom. Just … Larissa.

“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were moving?” I feel silly asking the most basic questions, but I don’t know what else to say.

She shrugs. “We weren’t really talking anymore when my parents decided, so.”