“Your chariot, my lady,” Will says as he opens the passenger door from the driver’s side with one of his freakishly long arms. The hinges creak ominously, just as one would expect for a vehicle that’s twice our age and looks like something salvaged from the set of a horror movie.

“Debrief me on Zoe Miller,” he says before I even find the sweet spot in the seat where there aren’t any springs digging into my butt.

I explain what happened in art class as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“I wonder why she’s working behind the scenes instead of in the show,” Will says. “She usually has a leading role.”

I shrug. “All I know is what she told me.” I don’t really pay attention to anything happening at school other than what’s necessary to get good grades.

“So why don’t you just do it?” he asks. “They’ll probably put your name in the play program. That’d be cool. And maybe you could put it on your college applications to make you look more well-rounded. Schools love that stuff.”

“It’s not like I’d be in the play.”

He shrugs. “It’s even better. You get credit for involvement without ever having to show your face. You should text her now.”

“Ugh,” I say, my stomach churning at the thought. But Will has a good point about college applications, which I’ve already been working on. My grades are good, but the essays are more challenging. What am I supposed to say when I have no life outside of school and gaming with Will? I have about as much interest in extracurriculars as I do in licking the inside of a trash can.

I pull out my phone and scroll down to the bottom of my paltry list of contacts, half expecting Zoe not to be there. My stomach flutters in an unfamiliar way as I reach her name and remember her eyes. It makes my head hurt thinking about all the colors I’d need to paint them. Even her eyebrows have the kind of long, sweeping arch that begs to be drawn. I’m not sure I’m ready to agree to my painting being put on display in such a public place, but I sort of want to talk to her for some masochistic reason. People sometimes notice my paintings, sure. But they don’t look at me the way she did this afternoon. Even though it scared me, I want it to happen again.

“I don’t know what to say to her,” I say.

“Might I suggest, ‘Sure, you can use my painting for the play if you go to coffee with my adorable friend Will’?” He grins impishly. “Even ten minutes with one of the most unattainable girls at school would certainly up my social standing.”