She tilts her head at me, as if she’s surprised that this isn’t common knowledge, which, for all I know, it might be. “Student theater? It stands for Students Take Over the Stage. In the fall we do a show that’s completely written, designed, and directed by students, with no teacher supervision. Well, theoretically, anyway.” Her expression confuses me. It’s warm and kind of conspiratorial — as if she knows me or likes me or something. I feel vaguely hypnotized, which makes me think it’d be wise to flee this situation at Mach 10.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. Something on display means visibility — the last thing I want this close to freedom. It’s finally senior year, and I’m certain my goal of never gracing the pages of the yearbook is within reach.

“We’d be super careful with it,” she says. “Everything gets locked up at night.” She turns to look at the landscape again, her expression filled with something that looks strangely like admiration or wonder. “It’s just so perfect for this play.” She raises her graceful eyebrows in a hopeful expression.

The stool squeaks as I shift my weight uneasily. I’m not sure how to respond but am increasingly uncomfortable with the intensity in her eyes. No animal, vegetable, or mineral has ever looked at me like this in the history of my entire life.

“I’m not sure,” I say, which is at least marginally better than wow you smell good please go away but maybe let me sniff your hair first.

She nods, but I can tell she’s disappointed. “Would you at least think about it?” She gives me a smile that makes me feel like my stomach is full of rocket fuel and I just swallowed a match. “Can I give you my number, and you can let me know if you change your mind?”

I pull my phone out of my messenger bag and hand it to Zoe, wondering how I fell into this alternate reality. Five minutes ago, this girl giving me her phone number was as improbable as Pegasus flying me to the moon. I peer around the canvas I was working on until Zoe interrupted me. The rest of the class is somehow completely oblivious to the rupture in the space-time continuum that made this exchange possible.

“Okay if I text myself from your phone so I have your number, too?” she says. “Not that I’m going to keep bugging you.” But she glances up as she says the last part, a tiny mischievous smile on her face that fries my few remaining circuits. I nod weakly.

“Thanks,” I manage to say as she gives my phone back.

“See you later,” she says, and walks off, leaving me gawking after her.