Coming out from behind the oak tree, I put one foot in front of the other. Bandit’s blue hair glistens under the sunlight, and he’s passing the basketball from one hand to the other, his movements quick, his hands nimble. His rudeness notwithstanding, he’s certainly…attractive.

Not that it matters. He could be the best-looking guy in the world, and he still wouldn’t be my type. I have very few rules, and this is one of them: no romantic entanglements in high school. My parents were high school sweethearts and look what happened to them.

I take a deep breath. This is going to be harder than I thought. My heart is racing at the idea of telling this guy anything. Bandit’s an unusual blend of jock and genius, making him one of the most popular kids at our school. Both girls and guys swarm his locker in between classes, and his ego must be through the stratosphere. It’s got to be, ’cause only a boy with supreme confidence could pull off that blue hair. He’s pretty much everything that I’m not. Entitled. Self-assured. Accepted.

This is a guy who’s never had to question his parents’ love or his classmates’ approval.

I hate that part of me is jealous. For me. For Archie. I hate that another part feels less than. And for those feelings… I kinda, sorta hate him, too.

Before I know it, I’m a foot away from the basketball court. The players are taking a break, and Bandit stands at the edge of the concrete, taking long pulls from a water bottle. Up close, his brilliant hair looks almost purple, and his T-shirt sticks to his back in sweaty patches, hinting at his solid muscles.

Now what? Do I clear my throat? Tap his shoulder? Going for broke, I do both at the same time.

He turns and lifts his eyebrows, as though wondering how a mere mortal such as myself dares to approach him. He’s tall—really tall. Almost a head above my five feet five. His jaw is chiseled, his shoulders broad. I’m so close that I can feel the heat rising off his body.

My brain scrambles. I forgot to check if I had any food in my teeth! Did I brush my hair this morning? Put on clothes?

Okay, so clearly I’m not naked, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what I’m wearing. Please don’t let it be the navy T-shirt with the faded splotches on the shoulder, from when I accidentally added bleach instead of detergent to the laundry.

I glance down. Jeans and a white tank top—my favorite shirt because it has Lin-Manuel Miranda’s autograph. More than passable.

“I, uh…” My entire vocabulary chooses that moment to flee.

His lids lower, and he looks at me, decidedly bored. “Yes? Can I help you?”