But it was too late now.

Then I remembered that—hello?—there are two bathrooms in the English hall, so I ran into the boys’ room across the hall from the girls’.

As I barreled through the door, I heard a startled male voice squawk, “What the hell?” but I didn’t even glance at the figure standing by the sink. I ran straight into one of the stalls, actually thankful it didn’t have a door.

I had barely hit my knees before everything that was in my stomach came up.

“Holy crap,” I heard Sink Guy say, and then he was there in the stall with me, lifting the heavy mass of hair away from my face and neck. It felt so good, and it was such a nice thing to do that I wasn’t even embarrassed that some random guy was watching me, Harper Jane Price, SGA president, head cheerleader, Future Business Leader of America, and soon-to-be Homecoming Queen, puking my guts out in the boys’ bathroom.

I felt shaky and hollowed out when I was done, but better. Lots better.

“Here,” Sink Guy said, handing me a bunch of damp, cool paper towels. I took them gratefully and pressed them against my sweaty face. At the same time, the mystery guy laid a few more of the paper towels against the back of my neck. He was still holding my hair back.

My face buried in the paper towels, I reached up and flushed the toilet.

“Thank you,” I murmured into the wad of wet towels.

“No worries. So are you knocked up?”

I looked up and found myself glaring into David Stark’s blue eyes.

Of course.

“No,” I said, trying to get to my feet in the narrow stall without flashing my panties at him. He reached down and took my elbow to help me. “I was joking,” he said. “If there’s ever been anyone less likely to be on Teen Mom than you, I’ve never met her.” He sounded sincere, but I still shook him off.

I walked out of the stall and over to the sink, where I rinsed my mouth out about twenty times. When I was done, David reached into that stupid messenger bag of his and pulled out a tin of Altoids, wordlessly handing me a few.

“Thanks,” I said again, hating that I’d had to say “thank you” to David Stark two times in as many minutes.

He just shrugged, but he was looking at me in that weird, almost predatory way he has. With any other guy, that look would mean he was trying to get in my pants, but I doubt David even thinks about those kinds of things. He only gets that look about the stupid school paper, and I knew he was trying to sniff out a story about why “Pres” was tossing her cookies in the boys’ room the night of the Homecoming Dance.