“The rush,” Ros repeated, like they’d never heard the word before in their life. Like they weren’t made of rush. But while Ros was the sprinter on the swim team, I was the long-hauler. I did long-distance swims, the 400 IM, slow and steady. If I wanted Ros to decide they wanted to be with me—and I definitely wanted that—I needed to convince them that their relationship with Jess Orlando was a 400 IM situation. I needed them to pump the brakes so I could buy myself some time and figure out my next move.

“I don’t think there’s any harm, waiting on giving it to her,” I said.

“Maybe not,” said Ros.

“And also—not that you asked me but—I just think, outside of the poem, I do think you should proceed with caution. With Jess, I mean. I’ve heard some bad things about her from Phoebe.” This was what we called in school unethical treatment of sources, but I barreled fearlessly onward.

“Oh, come on, Celia,” said Touchstone, almost as if he sensed that I was stretching the truth.

“Bad things, how?” said Ros.

“That they’re trouble,” I said. Even as I said it, I couldn’t believe I would go so far as to twist Phoebe’s words to better serve my purpose. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just let Ros be happy with Jess?

“What does ‘trouble’ even mean?” said Touchstone.

“We didn’t really get into specifics,” I said, glaring at Touchstone. “Phoebe is very circumspect.”

“Don’t listen to her, Ros. It’s just gossip.”

I snatched my (nearly empty) bag of granola from Touch. “Look, I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’ve been through so much this past year… maybe just hold off giving it to her? And just tell her you want to be colleagues?”

“Colleagues,” Ros said, turning the word over in their mouth like they were practicing a word on our Spanish vocabulary list. They let their poem fall to the counter, chore-wheel side up. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. They looked miserable, and I was sorrier than they knew. Was this what winning felt like? Why hadn’t anyone told me that victory was going to feel so awful?

“It’s funny,” Ros said. “I know the copepod part is weird, or whatever, but I felt more like myself writing this poem than I had all year.”

At that, my stomach turned. It was one thing to persuade Ros to stay away from Jess Orlando; it was another to keep them from doing something they loved.

“You should keep writing,” I said. “Or maybe we should watch Power Jam or something? Or maybe we should go out to dinner… Touchstone wants to try the Dropped Acorn, I know.…”

“I’m pretty full from your granola,” he said.