Andrew looks flustered, and I roll my eyes at him, because he should be used to this by now—it’s only happened to us once a day since the start of high school. But for some reason it still ruffles his feathers. He always has to correct whoever makes the mistake: She’s not my girlfriend. Because God forbid somebody keep thinking I’m a real, datable girl.

Hannah looks flustered too, her eyes darting back and forth between Madison and me. I know she hates conflict and she’s horrified I won’t share.

“Oh, okay, sorry,” Madison says. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, brings the tip of her braid into her mouth.

“We’re not together,” Andrew says again, as if Madison is dense and needs extra clarification.

“Not anymore,” I say, smiling sweetly at Madison. “I dumped him last year after the incident with the cheese.”

“The what?” asks Madison.

“Collins,” Andrew says, a warning in his voice.

“Never mind.” I pick up the jar of glaze and hold it out in her direction. “Take the blue.”

“Sorry, are you sure?” She’s still chewing on her braid.

“Yes,” I say. If she apologizes one more time, I might lose it. “Just take the stupid jar.”

I slide it toward her, but it’s too forceful, my arm is too tense, and before I can stop it, the jar is flying through the air. It lands with a crash on the tile floor, and blue glaze sprays everywhere—all over Madison, all over my nice birthday sweater.

She shrieks, the braid falling out of her mouth. Hannah runs to the sink to grab some towels. Miss Blanchard, our art teacher, runs over in a panic. Andrew is laughing deep belly laughs, and then I’m laughing too, because his laughter is contagious. I look down at my ruined sweater and realize I’ve forgotten to be nervous about James Dean. For a while I wasn’t even thinking about him at all.

•  •  •  •  •  •

That disappears the second Hannah drops me off in front of the store.

“You’ll do great,” she says. “Now off you go.”

She practically shoves me out of the car. I’m wearing my coat so my ruined sweater is hidden, but I know I’m going to have to take it off at some point. I didn’t wear anything underneath the sweater, and I’m definitely regretting that decision now.

Hannah drives away, and I stand for a moment outside the door, trying to psych myself up. Then I push it open. My nerves calm down when I get inside because James Dean isn’t there. Instead it’s a heavyset, balding white guy behind the counter—probably the owner, Mr. Roth.

“Welcome,” he says when he sees me, breaking out into a smile. “How can I help you?”

I raise my hand up to awkwardly wave. “I’m Keely. Your new—”