Will is going to lose his mind when I tell him about this. His mom made him take choir freshman year, and Zoe was one of the star singers — he had a hopeless crush on her that he wouldn’t shut up about all of fall semester. Thankfully he came to his senses by Christmas, because no one in our social cesspool could ever hope to get a date with her.

In my haste to clean up and get to AP Physics in time to text him before class, I drop my dirty paintbrushes on the floor, ensuring my lateness unless I run. I make a mad dash through the crowded halls and text Will as soon as I take my seat in class.

You are not going to believe who just gave me her phone number.

He immediately responds: Jyn Erso? Princess Peach? Diana Prince?

I roll my eyes. Granted, any of those is about as realistic.

Me: Zoe Miller.

Will: Are you ducking with me?

I keep telling him to fix his phone so autocorrect won’t make him constantly talk about ducks, but he thinks it’s funny. Now quack has become our code word for times when profanity is best avoided.

Me: Nope. No quackery.

The bell rings and I shove my phone into my messenger bag. He’s going to have to live with the suspense of not finding out the details until physics is over.

I try to focus on the problems in front of me, but my mind keeps dredging up Zoe Miller: arching eyebrows, seafoam sweater, my humaning failure, her perfect hair. Now that she’s gotten within a few feet of me, I can see (or smell) why Will was smitten with her. Instead of launching into my explanation of Newtonian mechanics, I sketch a rocket propulsion system in the margin of my paper to try to get my head back in the game.

“Miss Jones,” Mr. Sherman barks as he paces past my desk.

I startle, then hunch lower over my desk. His tolerance of anything resembling daydreaming is on par with the hospitality Satan would offer a snowman.

I abandon the shading on my combustion chamber and start filling in the answers to the questions. I can’t afford to get any negative attention from teachers. Flying under the radar with the highest possible GPA is my one-way ticket to an aerospace engineering program at a decent college somewhere — anywhere — that isn’t here.

After class I pull out my phone as I let the flow of foot traffic guide me toward my locker and ultimately the hellpit’s exit. Will’s texted me half a dozen times.

Zoe Miller???? For real?

How the duck did you get her attention?

You better not be making this up.

WTF is going on?

WHY CAN’T YOU TEXT ME BACK IN CLASS LIKE A NORMAL PERSON?