When Ana walks into our first class, I brace myself. For what, I’m not sure, but I’m positive this can’t go well. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she saunters across the room, passing her usual seat. She slides into a seat on the opposite side of the room from me, takes out a small lump of gray metal, and starts staring at it intently. After a while I notice that spots on the metal have turned a dull gold.

The whole period goes by, and she doesn’t look my way once. She leaves the classroom the second the bell rings. I watch her go, convinced she’s ignoring me.

The same thing happens in our next class together. And the next. She doesn’t even say anything to me in choir when she’s standing right next to me.

By the time school ends, I’m steaming mad. Is this all some plot to make me pay more attention to her? If it is, I hate that it’s working. Thankfully, she won’t be in my rehearsal today, because Mikey and I are working on a scene with Mr. B. Brittany will be rehearsing one of the dance numbers I’m not in with the rest of the cast.

I wander over to Mr. B’s classroom and text Lex, complaining about Ana ignoring me. Lex replies almost immediately.

LEX: boooooooo

SHAY: I know, it’s so annoying

LEX: just ask her if she’s mad at you.

There’s a brief pause before her next message comes through.

LEX: anyway, I can’t really talk much right now, sorry. my parents are making me look at internships for this summer.

SHAY: okay, good luck with that. let me know if you want to vent later. love youuuuu

I’m so involved in my phone that I nearly run straight into Brittany as she rushes out of Mr. B’s classroom. “Sorry!” I say, flinching back.

Brittany’s pale face is flushed and twisted with some emotion I can’t identify—misery? Anger? Embarrassment? She barely acknowledges my presence before she passes me and disappears around the corner toward the auditorium.

When I go into the classroom, Mr. B is busily rearranging the black rehearsal cubes in the center of the room. He grins at me, as if an upset student didn’t just run out of his classroom. “Hey, Shay. Are you feeling better?”

“Oh, um, yeah. Is Brittany okay?” I ask, shoving my phone in my pocket.

He looks up at the ceiling, pursing his lips. “She’s having a bad day,” he says finally. “Parents, and . . .” He waves his hand vaguely and bends down to adjust one of the pieces of tape he’s laid out on the floor to approximate the shape of the set.