Right after my French class, there he was, with his back against my locker, holding the small pink box in one hand and checking something on his phone with the other. Almost everyone who walked by greeted him, and those who didn’t watched him all the same. It wasn’t just his looks, either—although, admittedly, they were a big part of why everyone was so immediately drawn to him—but his demeanor, the way he acknowledged those who greeted him without ever being anything but kind. Some people were like that. They had their own atmosphere, one that made it almost impossible for others to not get pulled in by their gravity.

“Hey!” I said, holding back my initial urge, which involved jumping.

He smiled. “Here.” He handed me the box. “Before we’re interrupted again.”

I took it and gently opened it. There was a rather large cookie inside it. “You got me a cookie?” I asked, biting my lip.

“I wanted to find one of those large, coin-shaped chocolates, you know? Something that resembled a medal. I couldn’t, so I got you the cookie instead.”

“Looks tasty.”

“It’s a very good cookie.”

“I can tell; it weighs a ton.”

“Who weighs a ton?” Dean asked, walking over. He clapped his hands together and pointed at me. “Trevor, yeah?”

“Thomas.”

“Thomas! Right. At least I didn’t call you Psycho Kid.”

“I’m pretty sure you just did.”

“You’re the one who called him psycho?” Ethan said, looking surprised.

“He was even in a ward or something. Isn’t that right?” Dean turned to me again.

I chuckled. I couldn’t believe the nerve; it was almost impressive.

“Yep, I was. I’m actually late for therapy too,” I said, more to Ethan than to Dean. “Do you want to tag along, maybe work over some of those issues?”

That was entirely directed at Dean.

“I don’t have issues,” he said defensively.

“Right.” I closed my locker and adjusted my backpack on my shoulder before walking away.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I heard Ethan say to Dean, his voice fading away as I approached the exit to Grant Academy.

When I’d almost reached the sidewalk, I heard him call my name.

“Thomas! Wait up!”

I stopped, but didn’t turn.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was Dean?”

“’Cause I don’t care about a text?”

“Well, I do,” he said, serious. “He’ll apologize.”

“Listen, I don’t need you to—”

“Go out with me,” he blurted out.

“What?”

“Like a date. A proper date.”

“As in—”

“As in I pick you up, we grab a bite, go to a movie or something, and then talk all night. That kind.”

“A date?”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve been on one before.”

“Sure, I just…never got asked,” I confessed.

It felt kind of nice, to be honest.