He gave up about halfway through last period, but I’m sure he still checked his phone under his desk every five seconds.

I type: I’m not a normal person. I’m a robot.

He writes: EXPLAIN YOURSELF, ANDROID.

Everyone is grabbing coats from their lockers and pulling their hoods up before they head out into the afternoon. I glance out the window. The pickup area out front is a blur of yellow school buses against the tall evergreens thanks to the raindrops collecting on the glass. I forgot my raincoat this morning, and the walk home will be just long enough to drench me completely. The bus isn’t an option — spending ten minutes in an equally enclosed space full of space cockroaches would be preferable to enduring a bus mostly full of freshmen.

Me: Can you give me a ride home? I’ll explain on the way there.

Will: What’s in it for me?

I lean against my locker and roll my eyes. Our usual bargaining has taken a turn for the hardcore in the past two weeks thanks to his repeated attempts to get me to part with some paladin armor he’s been lusting after and can’t beat the side quest for in our current favorite game. No doubt he either wants that or for me to play meat shield in some stupid first-person shooter.

Me: First-person shooters this weekend. 2 hours without complaints.

Will: DEAL.

I open my locker, revealing a collage of rockets, shuttles, satellites, probes, and rovers designed all over the world. By the time I’m done shoveling books from my locker into my bag, it weighs as much as an adolescent hippo. I slam the locker shut, then look at my phone again.

Will: Is it cool with you if we stop by the comics store on the way?

Why? I text back.

Will: Kitty got a part-time job there . . .

If I were still sitting at a desk, I’d bang my head against it. Kitty always regards Will with the hungry gaze of a velociraptor, and he looks back at her with bloaty heart-eyes, yet he still can’t seem to ask her out. Personally, I think she smells kind of like canned green beans, but to each his own.

Me: I guess so. But I have to be home before 5, and I’m docking half an hour from the first-person shooter deal.

If he’s going to spend my time trying to grow big enough cojones to ask Kitty out, I’m setting a time limit on it.

Will: Cool. I’m in the car now.

I scurry out the front doors of the school and make a dash for the senior parking lot, where Will’s ancient Subaru hatchback is idling with the subtlety of a jackhammer. It’s a miracle the thing still runs.