The next day I skip breakfast, because I’m too keyed up to eat, but between classes I dig out the emergency protein bar from my locker. It turns into a rock in my stomach as I go back and forth—should I go see Gavin or not? I did say no, but he didn’t seem to believe I meant it, and if I went I’d be proving him right. In Pilates I decide I want to know what he wanted to tell me, even though I know it’s not important—and the second the clock ticks over to noon, I hop up and grab my yoga mat to roll up on the way out the door. Avoiding Carly, who stopped me before class to assure me she was still looking for funding solutions while I shifted from foot to foot. “Don’t worry,” she told me, with her hand on my arm. “Okay,” I agreed, and she shooed me into the studio.

There’s no time to change if I want to see Gavin before lunch—I head straight to the rehearsal theater, clawing my bun down and combing the hair spray out with my fingers. My sweat cools in the frigid air, and my ears hurt without a hat. He’ll keep badgering me to talk to him if I don’t go now, I tell myself. I’m going to be cool, and poised, and witty, and he’s going to look at me with those warm eyes and want more. Ha.

When I swerve to cut across the quad, out of nowhere Christopher falls into step with me, blowing all the almost-pleasant adrenaline out of me.

“Where are you running off to?” he asks, picking up the pace when I speed up.

“That way,” I say, pointing the direction I’m walking. I don’t want to stop to talk to him—why doesn’t he notice that?

“Ha, funny,” he says. “Haven’t you heard guys don’t like funny girls?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I can’t help it.”

“Aw, come on,” he says. “You’re afraid I’m out of your league, huh?”

My face scrunches up. “Yeah, that’s right,” I say.

Still with the eternal crooked smile, pleased with himself. “I’ll tag you in!” he says, spreading his hands wide. “Let you play in the big league! Get out there on the field with the winners.”

There’s a sharp edge to his voice that scrapes over my skin, makes me think of the girls in my Florida dance classes, gathering around me with glittering eyes, telling me they wanted to be my friend. But I’m not seven years old anymore.

“Not interested in playing.”

“You’re no fun!” He glances sideways at me, his grin wider. “Well,” he says, drawing the word out, “at least send me the link to the rest of your hot videos?”

I halt. “What?” My heart thumps hard.