I tried skipping school on Monday, but my parents didn’t buy my “I’m sick” routine. So I scooped my unbrushed hair into a ponytail, threw on a sweatshirt and jeans, and drove to Eagle View.

When I walked into homeroom, there was Margot, sitting in the same seat as always. And when I saw her—drawing a Sharpie design on her backpack—I didn’t think about how she’d called me Robobitch. I thought about how on the first day of school this year, she was waiting for me by my locker. How she talked me into auditioning for the musical and cheered me on at callbacks and danced with me at Winter Formal. How, during the worst months of my life, she had somehow become my best friend.

Margot didn’t look up, but she went very still. I walked slowly to my seat in front of hers. When I was close enough to touch it, she unzipped her backpack, tossed the Sharpie in, and took out her economics textbook. She flipped it open, never looking up. Margot had once told me that she’d rather eat goose shit than read her economics textbook, so the message was clear. Of course she didn’t want to talk to me. I knew she felt lonely and friendless after the Izzy thing, and I’d stuck a knife right in that wound. I’d wanted to hurt her, and I had.

I pivoted and took a seat in the back corner. When homeroom ended, I bolted, went straight past the senior lockers without waiting for Ethan, and walked through the tunnel by myself.

“Rough night?” Paul asked after I plopped into my seat in English. “You like rough nights, don’t you, Princess?”

Ethan walked in then, but just like Margot, he didn’t look at me.

“You’re ignoring us more than usual,” Paul said, pouting. “We thought after you got some, you’d thaw a little. And she definitely got some,” he whispered loudly to Jake. “Look at that sex hair.”

Paul was right about one thing. I was ignoring them more than usual. I couldn’t even be distracted by their garbage today. All I could think about was Ethan’s furious expression at the rink. The same way he looked right now. Jaw clenched, shaking his head. He pulled a notebook out of his bag, knocked open the cover, and started writing. He didn’t care anymore. Like at the beginning of the year, no one in here cared.

Somehow I made it to the end of the day, which meant rehearsal, and the prospect of that was even worse than school. My stomach spasmed as I stood outside the doors. A pair of sneakers squeaked to a stop as someone came around the corner into the lobby.

Jude.

“Oh. Hi,” he said quietly, shifting his backpack to his other shoulder.

“Hey.” I hugged my elbows and looked at the floor.