“Whoever did it probably doesn’t think they’ll get caught,” Ava says, flipping her hair—bright green now for Saint Patrick’s Day—behind one shoulder.

“Does the handwriting look familiar?” Hannah leans over the note and studies it. The letters are a mix of upper- and lowercase, some big and some small. Like someone was trying to make sure they wouldn’t be recognized. Ava is always watching these true crime documentaries on Netflix, and sometimes she texts us articles. This note kinda reminds me of that—like someone is asking for a ransom.

“Don’t worry,” Danielle says. “I’ll find out who did it.” She smiles, then eats another tomato. I can hear it burst between her teeth.

“Hey.” Andrew sits down in the chair next to mine, and Danielle snatches the note off the table, putting it away before he can see. Then she leans toward him, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear, revealing a row of silver studs.

“Drew, I’m sorry about this weekend. The, you know . . . wrapper.” Her face turns pink. “I should have said something sooner. I can’t believe he didn’t throw it out.” She reaches across the table and pats his arm.

“It’s no big deal,” he says, taking a casual bite of his sandwich. But the tips of his ears turn pink to match her cheeks.

“If you could just . . .” She clears her throat. “Could you not tell anyone about it?”

“Everybody already knows about it,” Ava says, biting into a baby carrot with a loud crunch. “Clearly.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know every little detail.” Danielle reaches over and grabs another baby carrot, flicking it with two fingers so it spins back across the table, landing in Ava’s lap.

“Ouch!” Ava says, even though the flying carrot definitely didn’t hurt.

“Hey, Danielle,” a voice calls out from behind me. Chase is making his way over to our table, a backpack slung low over his shoulder. “Hey, guys.” He nods to us. “Dani, can I talk to you?” He rests a hand on her shoulder but withdraws it quickly when she turns to look at him, her gaze icy.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Ava says in a clipped tone.

“Ava,” Danielle hisses. “Seriously. We’re not in seventh grade anymore. I can speak for myself.”

“Fine,” Ava says, standing up. “I was just trying to help.” She grabs her food and walks to the busing counter, slamming down the tray just a little too hard.

Whenever Danielle and Ava fight like this, Ava usually storms off and spends the next few hours with her theater friends, who she ironically likes to say are “less drama.” But I know she’ll probably be back with Danielle by the end of the day.

“I’ll talk to her,” Hannah says. She gets up and follows Ava out of the cafeteria.