“Are you serious right now?” He’s still watching me even as I wash my hands. “You act like you’re spaced out all the time, Jake. I think you’re just a horrible friend.”

He storms out of the bathroom.

Well, I guess it’s over. Maybe it’s for the best. Grady’s just been waiting for a forbidden adventure to my house all this time. I never got much from the friendship anyway.

Then again, am I a horrible friend? Maybe that’s why I don’t have more of them.

The stall doors open while I’m leaning on a sink, thinking about if I’m wrong and if there’s something I’ve missed.

“That sounded messy.” It’s the other Black kid. Caramel skin; skin clearer than mine; haircut fresh, short, and even. He’s an inch taller, and his sweater hugs his big arms.

“It’s okay. I didn’t like that guy anyway.” I catch myself in the shiny silver paper-towel dispenser, where a dent distorts my reflection.

I can’t ever seem to use one paper towel only, so I take down four. The boy turns off his sink and takes two off my hands.

And then he dries his hands. And holds one out to me. “Allister.”

“Jake Livingston.”

Oh, God. Your full name? For what reason?

When our hands touch, green light blossoms between our thumbs, curls around our fingers, and spirals up our arms. Like a breath of ivy creating one aura between us. Pink flowers sprout to dress the vine and . . . I can honestly say, in all my years as a medium, I have never seen a garden grow between me and another person.

When we break hands, the aura travels to his head to shape into a misty wreath of soft pink.

What does someone have to think about themselves to wear a crown in their aura? To be a king?

“So, you’re new?” I ask.

“Yeah. I was supposed to start last month, but there was a problem in admissions. They put me on a wait list but then forgot to notify me that I got in. My dad’s an ethical hacker. Builds security systems for network penetration purposes. He went digging and found out my family’s contact info had been knocked off their mailing list. Had to nudge them twice to get a response.”

“That’s . . . awful.”

I face myself in the mirror and remember how much I hate being the one Black person in every classroom. I never sit with this feeling, because my declining GPA is stressful enough on top of the fact that I’m confused by how to make friends I really like. And maybe . . . just maybe, I’d want a boyfriend at some point. The only issue is another boy would have to like me back.

Allister’s been watching me like he knows what I’m thinking.