Mom laughed. “Strong feelings.”

“To put it lightly.”

“Well, we’ll see how that goes,” she said. She had that annoying tone, though. The all-knowing, wise bringer-of-enlightenment tone adults got when they thought they knew you so much better than you did.

I was about to retort, when my phone buzzed against the wood of my desk. I glanced at it, assuming it was Brougham updating me on the Winona situation, but it was Brooke. I snatched my phone up and opened the message.

Soooooo I have a lot to tell you.
Long story short, Ray came around
to help me write my essay. A Lot
Happened. When can I call?

“Oh my god,” I murmured. I half-expected Mom to ask what was wrong, but a brief glance up told me she’d already left. I reread it silently once, twice, three times. Each read-through, my stomach sank lower and lower, and my heart started a funeral march thud.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

I tried desperately to think of another explanation for “A Lot.” A Lot Happened, we got the whole essay done? A Lot Happened, Mom got into a fight with Ray over her bad attitude and stupid face? A Lot Happened, we got to talking about our family trees and realized we’re cousins?

I told myself any of the above could be true. But I didn’t really believe it. Because something that should’ve occurred to me much earlier had finally become obvious.

Ray.

Ray of Sunshine.

Ray of Godforsaken Sunshine had found an excuse to talk to “her,” the her in question being Brooke, my Brooke. To hang with her. Realistically, there was only one thing A Lot was likely to be. Ray of Sunshine had made her move, like I’d instructed her.

And I rarely had to give people their money back.

With trembling hands, I started to bring up Brooke’s number, then I paused to breathe. I didn’t know if I was ready to hear what she had to tell me.

Seven months or so ago, at the end of sophomore year, Brooke had written in to the locker gushing about a girl she’d kissed. She wrote that it happened suddenly, while the two of them were setting up for an after-school event, and they hadn’t had the chance to debrief because others came into the room. And then in Brooke’s familiar, bouncy, cotton-candy handwriting, came the words “I think I really like her. What do I do next?”