We walk side by side down the hall. The final bell only rang a few minutes ago. Almost every locker is open, and the hallway is packed. I wave at London Jackson as I pass her. We share a lot of the same classes and usually pair up on projects when we can.

“So…that was weird earlier. At lunch?”

I barely register London’s returning wave, too startled by Sydney’s comment. I manage some vague hum that Sydney takes as me not knowing what she’s talking about.

“Holden coming over to our table at lunch?” she prompts. “That was weird, right? He’s never done that before. And he looked annoyed. So did you, actually.”

My eyes stay focused straight ahead as we navigate the busy hall, headed toward the main doors.

Holden isn’t a taboo topic between us. Sydney talks about him a lot. Worries about him a lot, more specifically. Most of the time, he’s the only family she has around. But we don’t discuss me and Holden. Not since Sydney noticed the space between us. She asked me, once, if something had happened. I said no—unwilling to dredge up painful details with anyone, including her—and that was that. All the years of the three of us hanging out were easily erased.

“I was annoyed,” I answer. “You know how he can be. He asked me for help and then didn’t listen to what I said.”

I’m sticking with Holden’s Calculus help story. No way am I telling anyone—especially Sydney—what we really discussed. Although it’s absolutely a situation where I could use some guidance. Where it would be helpful to have a best friend who isn’t related to the only guy I’ve ever been interested in.

“Holden hates asking for help.”

I don’t respond to the true statement. I figure the less I say about this subject, the better. Holden saying anything to Sydney is unlikely, but I’m not going to wade any deeper into this lie.

“Do you think he’s failing? Maybe he’s really struggling and he’s too stubborn to say anything.”

“I’m sure he’s doing fine.”

Sydney sighs. “I know he’s worried about college. He’s got a lot riding on this season, on getting a scholarship.”

I grit my teeth together and grip the straps of my backpack. Analyzing Holden—sympathizing with Holden—is the absolute last thing I feel like doing right now.

I’m trying to hold on to my anger toward him. It’s easier than exploring the emotions hovering underneath.

He represents my own weakness.

I want him—even though I shouldn’t. Despite the many reasons he’s given me not to. And now he knows that truth.

“He’s doing fine,” I assure her. “He figured out the homework pretty quickly.”