Carter dug through his sandwich like I’d asked him for the time of day. Not good. If he wasn’t even secretly into her, then this would take ten times longer.

“This week is kind of full,” he said.

Uh-oh. If he didn’t want to even tutor her then things were going off the rails before we’d even started.

“But I can do next week. Can I have her number?”

Phew. “Thanks, man.” I texted him the details. “I hope she knows where the library is.”

“Right?” he laughed. “Nah, it’ll be fine. I think Madison’s smarter than she pretends to be.”

Okay . . . I picked at my school-bought lunch of watery lasagna and cold peas. The lasagna I could eat. The peas would come in handy for throwing at freshmen later. Carter stashed his phone in his pocket. Across the room, which was bustling with hungry students taking their seats, Madison smiled down at her phone.

Moving right along.

As expected, the day that Carter was finally set to tutor Madison was the day the real drama started. Unexpectedly, it involved me.

An unknown number called as I hit the locker room after practice. One time, Matt Damon called my mom anonymously to campaign for some senator, and I got him to say, “How do you like them apples?” Now I always answer spam calls.

“Talk to me.”

“You have a really weird way of answering your phone,” Eliza replied.

“How do I not have your digits?” I strained to hear her over the banging from the football team shoving each other into walls.

“There were a lot of creepers blowing up my texts. It was easier to get a new number.” She didn’t sound like she was kidding.

“Sorry about that. I told Carter the prank calls were a bit much.” There was a long pause on the other end. “Did I lose you?”

The boys’ locker room, with its stone walls and cracked tile flooring, basically needed a hoard of canned goods and it would be an instant bunker. The last time someone had good cell service there was when the school was built . . . somehow only a few years ago.

“Still here. Well for that, since you basically owe me, can you come help me make curry?”

Was I being punked? A quick scan of my immediate area turned up zero hidden cameras.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“I started to make some, but I killed it and I dunno, I need someone’s opinion.”

And she was asking me. “The thing is, I don’t know anything about curry.” That wasn’t entirely true. I did know that was it was usually way too spicy for me.

I mean, not spicy enough. I can totally, without a doubt or my eyes watering, handle absolutely whatever food is being served. No problemo.

So.

Yeah.

“You know what tastes good,” she argued, “Never mind. Calling you was kind of a shot in the dark. I’d ask Carter but he has tutoring, and Hannah has too much homework or something. You were the next person on my go-to list. I’ll get someone else.”