“No.” I looked from Bay’s bike to the door everyone from the parking lot streamed through. Twisting the lock around her bike frame, I slammed it closed, shaking my head and falling into step with the rest of the team. “Just trying to catch up with someone.” I slung my backpack over one shoulder. The whole team had their lockers down one hallway. We passed by the rest of the school. Flyers covered the walls and some of the lockers—all the end-of-school shit that always cost way more money than I had, especially when I had to pay all the bills at the house, if I wanted water and electricity. Who had hundreds to blow on prom?

Lockers slammed shut. Papers were shuffled along the floor, including a flyer for the spring musical. Wasn’t that a Kevin Bacon movie?

Classmates laughed and burned off extra energy before we were trapped in our too-small desks for the next seven hours, but everyone moved aside when we walked down the hall. I had to admit, it didn’t feel terrible having people actually give a shit about me. They looked at me like I was someone to look up to and revere, not an annoyance they’d been saddled with and were raring to get rid of.

I turned to Knox. “Did you lock my door?”

He stopped like a rock in the middle of a river with people flowing around him. “Shit.” He rushed back out the door fighting the tide.

I laughed and kicked back against the set of lockers lining the hallway.

Knox called over everyone else’s heads. “You coming, Dare?”

“I’ll catch up.” The parade would go on without me.

At the far end of the hallway, Bay and her friend talked at her locker. They pressed themselves against the navy-and-yellow lockers as everyone else passed by.

How many times had I passed her in the hall and never noticed? Why did I want her to talk to me so badly?

6

Bay

I’d made it through the week with minimal Dare run-ins. Not that he was looking to run into me at all, but just in case. I’d gone in early and stayed in the auditorium throughout play practice, organizing the audio cables and mic packs. On Friday, I came home right after school and made cookies with my mom. Well, until she’d had to leave for work—then I’d eaten enough to go to bed clutching my stomach. But this morning, before she got home, I could score a few more. She didn’t have to know how many dozens they’re been in the initial quadruple batch.

The front door opened. Mom’s voice drifted up the stairs. Was she on the phone?

I’d have to be stealthy to get my cookies before breakfast without catching an earful about how they weren’t proper breakfast food.

I bounded down the stairs covered in the ‘80s wallpaper. We’d attempted taking it down, but after two days covered in shreds of wallpaper pieces, steam, and ancient wallpaper glue, we’d said screw it and left the rest up. Knowing we’d only be renting for less than a year hadn’t made the time investment anywhere near worth it.