I dodge a skateboarder flying down the hall and skirt around a couple devouring each other’s lips for breakfast. Huh, maybe humans are more similar to praying mantises than I thought.

“Hey,” I say, moving into my best friend’s perfume-scented airspace. No matter how early or late, Lalana always smells like jasmine. “What’s up?”

She snaps her mouth shut. “Were you just flirting with Bandit Sakda?” She picks up my hand. “And you painted your nails blue. With sparkles! Why?”

“Not you, too.” Groaning, I pull my hand back. I knew the nail polish was a bad idea. I’m taking it off the minute—no, the second—I get home. “The color was next in the rotation, okay? And we weren’t flirting. He was just antagonizing me.”

“Why?” Her high voice becomes shrill. “I thought I asked you to stay away from him.”

I run through our previous conversation. I did promise never to speak to him again, but I was joking. I also never expected it to be an issue. “You never explained why.”

Her dark eyes flash. “I shouldn’t have to. I’m your best friend. Shouldn’t my wishes be enough?”

Yes, of course. But this isn’t how our friendship normally operates. I stopped talking to her ex-boyfriend Julian after he cheated on her. I even disinvited Abby Moore from my birthday party when she made fun of Lalana’s “paper-slit” eyes. But both were my decisions. Not once has Lalana ever asked me to excommunicate someone for her sake. Until now.

I look at her more closely. Her face is pained, and she’s holding her shoulders so tightly, they vibrate. “What’s going on?” I ask. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing.” Sighing, she turns to her locker and begins to load binders into her backpack. “Forget I said anything. I’m just in a bad mood. Probably because of that.” She gestures to the top shelf, where a blown-glass butterfly sits. It’s stunning, with delicate wings swirled with colors that should clash but don’t—purples, reds, turquoises, yellows.

“Apparently I have a secret admirer,” she says shakily. “All week, things have been showing up in my locker.” She bites her lip. “It’s kinda creeping me out.”

“Really?” I ask. “I think it’s sweet that someone’s leaving you little presents.”

She groans. “You would, Betty Crocker.”

I flush. Okay, so I might have a bit of experience being the gift fairy. Last year, for Valentine’s Day, I baked a yellow cake with chocolate frosting for my mega crush, Dev. He was so thrilled, he proceeded to eat it during lunch…with someone who wasn’t me.

Which pretty much cured my infatuation with Dev.

“That was the best cake I ever made, too,” I mutter.

“It came from a box!”

“Yes, and I measured everything perfectly. They ate every last bite.”