Random laughing kid looks surprised that I’m smiling, like he thinks I’m making fun of him or something. My cheeks heat up, and I wonder what I’ve just done wrong. I haven’t socialized much in the past eleven months; Lucy is like my second brain, and my parents…God knows if I even know how to interact with people anymore. Probably not.

I drop my eyes back to my lap and two thoughts pop into my head simultaneously: coming back to school sucks even more than I thought it would, and that random laughing guy is kind of cute.

—

I make sure to leave drama well after Laughing Boy, because I’ve already embarrassed myself enough for one millennium.

When I hit the hallway, I run smack into a wall of flesh. I flinch. My heart starts pounding. I want to take a hot shower and burn off the feeling of another human’s body on my own.

And then, when I see who I smashed into, I want to throw up: Miles Catalano. My ex-boyfriend. Literally the last person I wanted to see today, the person I hoped I’d never have to see again, except of course I knew he goes to this shitty school, and now so do I.

His eyes widen when he sees it’s me. He freezes mid-walk, and someone slams into his back, pushing him closer to me. His face is inches away.

Goddammit.

“Crap. God. Hi.” He pushes his wild curly hair off his face. “Jesus. May. Hey.”

If it were any other person or any other set of circumstances, I’d enjoy the monosyllabic nonsense falling out of his mouth, but right now I just want him to shut the fuck up and move on.

“Yep.” I take one step back from him and then another. “It’s May. Good to know your eyesight’s intact. K, cool, gotta go.” I swing around to escape, but the hallway is beyond crowded, thanks to all of us they’ve jammed in here from Carter, and I barely make it a foot before his hand clamps down on my shoulder.

“May. Wait.” My skin crawls at his voice.

“What!” I spin around, and I don’t care that I’m getting in his face or that I just screamed at him out of nowhere. I want him to let me go. If he was going to hold on to anything—anyone—couldn’t it have been motherfucking David Ecchles the morning of the shooting, when he walked by Miles on his way into the band room, carrying that big black duffel bag, and Miles glanced up from his locker and thought, That’s weird, he’s not in jazz band, but did nothing. Miles told me about that moment, sobbing, a few days after, the night of Jordan’s funeral.

I broke up with him on the spot. Told him the sight of his face made me sick.