I feel the outline of my phone in the front pouch of my backpack and clutch it tightly. I remind myself there’s nothing to be nervous about. He was a gentleman back at Florence’s party. Ten minutes later, we arrive at his house. It looks more like a country club than a private residence, with tennis courts, a huge pool, and a Jacuzzi.

“Is this your host’s house?” I ask, eyes widening, as I get out of the car.

Jay shakes his head.

I look around the driveway. There are no other cars. “You live here? By yourself?”

He click-locks his Lamborghini. “My mom comes and visits sometimes,” he says. I follow him inside.

The inside of the house looks even more immaculate than the outside. The floors are white marble. The furniture is sleek and modern, and light pours in from the two-story glass windows.

Jay throws his backpack onto the couch and goes into the kitchen. He comes back with two bottles of Pellegrino. He tosses me one. As I drink, he gazes at me.

“You wanna go for a swim?” he asks.

“I . . . I didn’t bring my swimsuit,” I tell him.

He runs up the spiral staircase. “Hang on.”

He comes back with a brand-new navy-blue Stella McCartney swimsuit, which he swears his mom ordered but has a million of and won’t care if I take it. He himself is shirtless and in trunks. He has such a nice body, and I try not to stare.

I take the swimsuit and change in the upstairs bathroom.

He’s already in the pool waiting for me when I come out. The afternoon sun stretches across the sky, and beads of water glisten off his chest. Jay smiles when he sees me.

I jump in. The water is warm and soothing. I close my eyes, thinking about how the past week has turned around. Mrs. Wallace is gone, I have a new English teacher, and now I’m swimming with Jay Li. I let the happiness wash over me as I enjoy the first minute underwater. My toes and fingers stretch.

I do laps, back and forth. Jay tries to catch up with me, but I’m too fast.

“You’re a good swimmer,” he says when I finally catch my breath.

“Thanks,” I say. “I used to train until . . .”

“Until?”

“Until my mom said I should quit,” I tell him. “She said swimming doesn’t look good on girls. Gives them broad shoulders.”

“She’s right. It does,” he says, pretending to examine my shoulders. “But you don’t look too bad.” He swims up close to me and playfully splashes me with water. “I wouldn’t have invited you here if you did.”

I laugh.

Later, we get out of the pool.

“Hey, you hungry? I know a great place in Santa Monica, right on the beach,” Jay says, tossing me a towel.