She smiles sheepishly. “It was actually very awkward when my admissions counselor called and I had to pretend to be my uncle.”

“That is a gripping story, but I’m sort of eavesdropping on—” I turn back around and they’re gone. “Wait. Where’d they go?”

“Where’d who go where?” Hannah asks as she smiles down into her phone.

I catch a glimpse of who she’s texting and the top of the screen reads my sweet clementine. I swear to God, I will never escape couples for as long as I live. “Willowdean and that Bo guy. They were right over there writing secret messages to each other.”

Hannah shrugs. “On that wall?”

I nod.

“So go read it and find out,” she says in a matter-of-fact way.

“That’s like their personal correspondence,” I say.

“Yeah, on a very public wall.”

She takes my hand. “Come on.”

We wade through the thinning crowd as the last bell for the period rings. The writing is so small that I have to squint to read it, but scrawled there for everyone to see is a private conversation.

alone

YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE

being together takes two

I’VE BEEN DISTRACTED

by who

NOT BY WHO, BY WHAT

?

CAN WE TALK

are you ready to tell me the truth

ARE YOU READY TO LISTEN

Hannah lets out a low whistle.

“What do you think it is?” I ask eagerly. “This is juicy. What if he has some kind of weird secret like he’s actually a flat earther?”

“Well,” says Hannah with a soft chuckle, “then I guess Will is better off alone.”

I decide to stay on campus for lunch so I can keep an eye on things, and honestly revel a little bit in how cool this is.

As I’m walking down the hallway with Clem, Hannah, Alex, and Kyle on our way to the cafeteria, my stomach drops.

I knew it was only a matter of time before Patrick Thomas discovered the wall, and I know that there will always be Patrick Thomases. It’s the exact reason the wall was left to a group like Prism.

“Ignore him,” says Clementine.

“When I’m dead.”

Patrick holds a permanent marker in his hand, and he makes his way across the wall, adding vulgar notes and slurs to places where he’s clever enough to think of one. And when he’s stumped, he writes something like slut or assface.

I storm toward him and yank the marker out of his hand as swarms of students circulate in and out of the cafeteria.

“What the—” He whirls around, ready for a fight. “Oh, it’s just the homo pumpkin princess.”

Hannah tugs at my arm. “Come on. Let’s let the office know what he’s doing and then we can touch up the wall after school.”

“Uh-oh,” says Patrick. “Somebody call the PC police. I pissed off an ugly lesbian.”