I climb into the driver’s seat, my wet jacket squeaking against the leather. I turn on the car and some music.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. A few seconds later, the passenger door opens and Sydney climbs in. Her blonde hair is soaked, small droplets flying everywhere as she drops her backpack in the footwell and looks over at me.

“Maggie running late?”

“Of course. I should leave her here.”

“You won’t.”

“I know.” I tap at the steering wheel, impatient.

“Graham Warner texted me last night.” The sentence bursts out in a rush, betraying the eagerness that’s also splashed across her expression.

“Really?” I ask.

“Uh-huh. Asking about a history assignment.”

“He’s president of the Honors Club.”

“Right? It’s an excuse, don’t you think?”

“Sounds like one to me.” I don’t have any other boy advice to offer.

Sydney—everyone—thinks I have no interest in a high school relationship. That I’m focused on nothing besides getting into the best college I can and pursuing my dream of becoming a veterinarian.

I am focused on that.

But the real truth behind my perceived disinterest? There’s only one guy whose actions I’m interested in analyzing, and they haven’t indicated any interest in me for years.

That’s nothing I can admit to Sydney, though, since the guy in question happens to be her older brother.

“He’s more realistic than Harrison,” Sydney says.

She’s had a crush on Harrison Baker—the star of the football team—ever since she started high school. Right along with most of Pembrooke High’s female population.

“Reality is good.”

The statement rings with sincerity. Fantasy has broken my heart more times than I’d ever admit.

Maggie streaks out from the house, her yellow raincoat a stark contrast to the gray sky and brown grass. She dives into the backseat and tugs her hood down. “You couldn’t have parked in the garage, Cassia?”

“You couldn’t have taken less than twenty minutes in the bathroom?” I counter. “I had to use Mom and Dad’s.”

“I don’t see the issue. We both got ready on time. Problem solved.”

I glance at the clock on the dash before I back out of the driveway and roll my eyes. On time is a stretch. “I figured you’d be eager to get to school. Don’t you have Ceramics first period today?”

“Yes. Which is exactly why I couldn’t show up to school looking like a troll.”

I roll my eyes again. I wasn’t nearly as dramatic as Maggie when I was fourteen. At least I don’t think I was. But we are alike in other ways. I can be just as stubborn as she is. I also make too many boy-centered decisions.

“You’re dressing up for Ceramics?” Sydney asks. “Isn’t that kind of pointless?”