Apparently, it isn’t enough that we do almost all of the same extracurriculars and take most of the same classes. Now we have to spend our Saturday mornings together as well.

“Do you live near here too?” Ana asks.

Too? We’re multiple cities away from school. “Yeah,” I say.

“Cool. I live behind the Publix off 441.”

That’s literally where Mom just went to grocery shop. How have I spent so much time with Ana over the last two years and never known that she lived less than ten minutes away?

“That’s . . . close,” I say.

Silence falls. She stares at me expectantly. “This is the part where you say where you live.”

“So you can stalk me?”

“I’m pretty sure we established that you’re the one stalking me.” Her dimple deepens.

I huff and walk around her to put my backpack down at the table farthest from where she’s sitting. “I live by Lyons and Southwest Eighteenth Street.”

“Cool,” she says, following behind me. She leans against the front edge of the table, looking at me over her shoulder. “Are you really going to sit back here?”

“Yeah,” I say, studiously unpacking my bag. I place my electrical meter, temperature gauge, and practice cube on the table without meeting her eyes. Maybe she’ll get the hint and go away if I ice her out. Of course, that tactic has never worked before.

“Did you see Mr. B’s email?”

I tense. Somehow, I doubt this is going to be good news. “No.”

“He changed the rehearsal schedule for next week, so we’ll be reviewing the big dance numbers again before we start doing scene work.”

Oh god, what fresh hell is this? I suppress a groan.

She chuckles. “You don’t have to look so horrified.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter.

“Everyone is having a hard time with the choreography, Shay.”

“You’re not,” I shoot back.

She flips around to face me head-on. “I spend, like, four hours dancing most days. If I couldn’t do Brittany’s fake salsa choreo, that would be embarrassing.”

“Four hours?” I repeat, staring at her incredulously.

She smiles. Not a smirk, a real smile. One that makes her dark eyes crinkle until they’re almost closed. It lights up her face in a way I’ve never seen before. For a moment, the only thing I can think about is how pretty she looks like this, all happy and unaffected. I quickly shut that thought down, of course.

“Well, I’m not dancing that much right now because of the show.” She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, still beaming. “I’m a student teacher at my dance studio.”

Who is this person, and where has Ana Álvarez gone? She looks . . . genuinely excited. I think I’ve entered an alternate universe.