“That’s a big word for someone who needs to be tutored in English,” I say before biting my tongue, eyes wide at myself. Ace isn’t Nandini or Cora. I can’t just say whatever I want to him. I’m losing my mind.

“I have my moments,” Ace says. Thankfully, if his calm expression is anything to go by, he seems unbothered. It’s so weird, because I’ve heard the most horrible things about him.

It all began last year. Rumors started spreading that Ace tried to sabotage Xander’s presidential campaign—rumors that back Cora’s insistence that Ace is the superior Clyde brother—although no one has ever provided proof.

Before those rumors, Ace could be found hanging around the same social circles as Xander. Everyone knows that with beauty and wealth comes popularity. But even back then, it was pretty obvious he preferred to be on his own.

Aside from that, he’s been seen in detention on numerous occasions for reasons unknown. People have taken to creating ludicrous excuses—he fistfought a teacher, he blew up a chem lab, he broke into the principal’s office, he graffitied the boys’ locker room.

I don’t buy into any of it and I don’t really care, either. But I do know that he has a certain kind of intimidating aura that makes it hard to stare at him for too long, much less hold a conversation. On occasion, I’ve seen people stop by his lunch table and speak to him briefly—maybe his old friends? But they’ve never stayed long enough to still be considered that.

Most people can barely say Hi! to him in the hallways without being met with a glare. I, however, can insult him and receive nothing but apathy in return. I wish I understood anything about what was happening right now.

My confusion grows when Ace says, “So what’s your deal, Karina Ahmed?”

“My deal?” I repeat. “What do you mean?”

“I mean who are you? Obviously, you’re the best student in our English class, but that’s all I know about you.”

I don’t know how, but Cora is responsible for this entire situation. I know in my heart I’m here because of her. “We’re supposed to be studying.”

“We have three months to study,” he says, waving off my concern. His rings glint in the sunlight streaming through the shop’s wide-paneled windows.

Without meaning to, I admire his hands; how long his fingers are, the slope of his knuckles, the rings on his middle and pinky finger—and a hint of something dark on his wrist that I can’t quite see past the sleeve of his leather jacket.