Their puffs of grassy weed hung in the muggy air like sad balloons. Holding my breath, I nodded back and hurried past them, careful not to get any whiff of it on my clothes, or Coach Dad would run me extra hard for a month. It had never occurred to the teachers that students would start smoking that early in the morning, though you’d get suspended on the spot if you tried it in this same exact location a few hours later.

As I reached the top of the dank, dirty staircase, the door clicked open and crashed into my shin. This would’ve hurt, except all my years of soccer had shot those shin nerves ages ago.

“Oops,” came the voice of Madison Hayes. Her rosy perfume did not mix well with the smoke, making me cough when she stepped closer.

If someone were to say I was “in a relationship,” it would be with Madison. We were the total opposite of official, though we’d been known to have some PDA that could rival any other couple, Instagram relationships included. Madison was cool about it, though, and didn’t make “us” to be a whole big thing. The few times we did talk to each other, it was mostly complaining about our families.

Madison pushed her chest into mine and trapped me against the rusty railing. Her wavy black hair tossed itself onto my shoulder, sending shivers down my arms as she pulled back.

“Long time no see, handsome,” she said.

I cleared my throat. “Yo.”

“Nick Maguire, don’t ignore me.” She put her foot out, somehow filling an entire doorway with her crystal eyes and stick-thin stature.

Despite the heavy humidity, she wore an oversized sweatshirt and cut-off shorts. Other (probably jealous) girls often said that Madison tried too hard to look like she wasn’t trying hard. I had it on good authority, however, that the sweatshirt was intended to cover up whatever, um, teeny tiny little hickeys might have, uh, appeared on her neck a few days before.

“Madison . . .” I said, “I have to get to class.”

“Wow, ease up.” Her cheeks flushed pastel pink, which was her favorite bait to hook me with. “Ummm, want to do something that’ll make you feel better?”

“And miss gym?” Her rosy scent had swirled out of reach, making me long for more. “You bet—” I stopped. “Wait no, can’t. Gotta do a thing for Carter.” My two new besties were in gym class, so I didn’t really have options. She frowned and I patted her on the shoulder, swiftly sidestepping her before she had a chance to work any more voodoo.

Eerie emptiness, dirty-mop streaks, and the lingering odor of tuna sandwiches greeted me as I entered the government-funded underworld. Being late, I realized everyone else was already in class. It was me and . . . “Mr. Maguire!” Mr. Hoover, the middle-aged, balding hall monitor, called out.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to make him disappear. Had to be worth a shot—anything was. His loafers squeaked on the wet floor until he stopped in front of me. I opened my eyes to see a familiar yellow slip in his hands.