“Ugh, this place sucks.” Adriana sighs in defeat just as the bell rings. Reluctantly, we start for class. “By the way, my abuela wants you to come over for dinner again. She kind of won’t shut up about it.”

“Abuela as in Abuela Rosales?” For the first time today, I finally perk up. “As in my bestest friend, Ximena Rosales, who will hopefully be making her famous guacamole?”

“Yeah, that’s her. So I can tell her you’re in?”

“Yes!” I do a little dance move, because Ximena Rosales is possibly the best cook in Fulton Heights. Mentally, I add her to the list of people I don’t want eaten. When we reach our classroom, we see the three boys sitting in the front row, and a very familiar combination of fear, envy, and horniness rolls over me.

“Okay.” Adriana rounds on me. “Fuck, marry, kill: Boyd Crandall, Dante Gardner, and Kenton Reed.”

She thinks this is a stumper, but I don’t even have to consider my answer. “Fuck Boyd Crandall, marry Boyd Crandall, and then kill Boyd Crandall and collect the insurance money.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s cheating,” Adriana says, narrowing her eyes. “And Boyd? He’s, like … he’s an assclown. And a bro. And a douche.” She shakes her head. “He’s an assdouche bro-clown, and you’re telling me you would seriously do sex to his body?”

“In my imagination, he is doing sex to my body, and the answer is emphatically yes.” My palms are sweaty just thinking about it. Adriana knows all about my lust-hate feelings for Boyd—she just doesn’t understand. Apparently, me seriously wishing I could bone someone I don’t even like is a concept she finds mind-boggling. Boyd might be an assdouche bro-clown, and I’ll never actually date him, but I am about 90 percent of the way toward developing carpal tunnel syndrome after a week of private time thinking about him making a snow angel in his underpants.

“Are you going to be hanging out in the art room after school today?” my best friend inquires now, and her tone is ridiculously casual. As if I don’t know why she’s asking.

“Yes.” I wait patiently.

“Tell Hope I said hi. Or whatever.” She acts like it’s an afterthought.

“Hi … or … whatever,” I repeat, typing it into my Notes app. “Got it.”

Her face turns scarlet, and she rolls her eyes as she precedes me into the classroom. Adriana may have higher standards than I do, but she crushes on as many girls as I do boys—and yet both of us are perpetually alone. At least it’s nice to not be the only hopeless case in Fulton Heights.