“I don’t even really get what we’re going to be doing,” Hilary says to Abigail during lunch on one of those January days that threaten to sacrifice your soul to winter. It’s Taco Tuesday, where we’re all united after lunch by the orange halo on our mouths.

“Doing some work at the landfill so the kids can go to school? And volunteering in the classrooms, I think,” Hilary says.

I sip my lemonade. “Probably just pretending to help out in the classrooms while actually volunteering to take our bikinied asses to the beach.”

“Cham!” Hilary says. “It’s a serious issue! Because kids have to work at the landfill to support their family, they can’t go to school and—”

“I know, I know. I’m just kidding.” My eyes drift over to Gene, who sits a few tables away from us with Doug and some other guys on the track team. “Whenever we’re in the cafeteria, I half expect a flash mob to appear and sing about how Gene wants to take me to prom. Not that I’m obsessed,” I add, poking the stringy green-tinted lettuce that’s fallen out of my tortilla shell. (Even tacos have a hard time keeping it together.) “Just healthily fixated.”

Hilary laugh-chokes as Abigail dons a frown worthy of a large, depressed fish. “Poor Cham,” she says, rubbing her tearless eyes theatrically. When she takes a bite of her taco, a glob of ketchup falls to its death on the floor.

“Nice,” Hilary says, laughing.

“Karma’s a bitch,” I say, then look up at Gene just as he happens to be looking up at me. We share a smile no one else can see in a world no one else is part of.

“Heeeeeeeey,” someone behind us says, pushing empty chairs into tables to get to our corner. “Gooood afternoon, ladiesss!” The tables closest to us have turned around, and a few people are rolling their eyes. “Sorry to interrupt,” Brendan sings, hitting the back of someone’s head with his bright red tutu. “Jeez,” the girl says, glaring at him like he did it on purpose. “I know it’s Taco Tuesday and you’re very busy, but Student Council is finalizing plans for Senior Volunteer Day.”

Hilary and Abigail look at each other, so I have no choice but to look at Brendan. I don’t know how he doesn’t mind people staring at him like he’s an annoyance from another planet. I guess humans are adaptable creatures. We can get used to almost anything.

“What are they finalizing?” I ask. His face is two inches from the Student Council iPad, and there’s a 100 percent chance his fingers are smudging taco prints all over it.

“Well,” he says, leaning over us and ignoring our lack of interest, either for the love of Student Council or because of basic male obliviousness. His hair brushes my face. It’s a soft perfect curl that’s fallen from his bun and smells like peppermint. “We’re deciding between the Breast Cancer Polar Plunge and the Brain Degeneration Walk.” My eyes widen, and a pogo stick of doom has a field day in my stomach. “Do you guys have a preference?”