In the days following my visit with Ms. Josette, I observed that the best way to trade in fear for joy was to think of Allister Burroughs. I feel ridiculous letting someone get in my head so fast, but he has smiled when we’ve passed each other in the hallway ever since that first day.

And finally, there’s another eleventh grader who gets what it’s like to swim in a pool not made for you.

Today when I walked into class, he was too busy doodling to see me take my seat in front of him. Mr. Morrison started the documentary and instantly fell asleep at his desk.

I’m awake, but barely, until Allister taps me on the shoulder and passes me a note, which I unfold in a hurry.

Cupcakes or brownies? His writing is impeccable, and honestly, that’s a turn-on.

Heart racing, I pick up my pen to respond. Everyone in the vicinity is, thankfully, minding their own business.

Depends on what flavor cupcake and the fudginess of the brownie.

Cupcake vanilla with cream cheese frosting. Brownie oozing fudge.

I don’t like it too gooey. I prefer a moist cake texture. Cupcake.

Sounds like you’ve never had the right fudge experience.

The smile that marks my face feels more powerful than me. But I also feel sad and overwhelmed. The darkness of this classroom, where everyone’s half asleep, is keeping this little rendezvous a secret. If someone caught me getting giggly over these notes, they’d get the wrong impression and . . . well, I don’t know what would happen. St. Clair assumes everyone to be straight, and these notes feel secretive and scandalous.

Maybe I’m reading into things.

I’m sure there’s a super-fudgey brownie somewhere out there that would make me change my mind.

We should find it.

My heart starts to beat loud enough to hear. Is this what they call flirting? More importantly: Is this an invitation to hang out? I write it down and cross it out. I can’t take it too far. Of course Allister couldn’t like me like me. Of course he wouldn’t be into boys that way.

Pizza or pasta?

Pizza all the way. Favorite color?

Emerald green. You?

Pink.

Hot pink?

Soft pink.

Soft pink . . . that sounds kind of . . .

I feel a pair of eyes on me, which draw my focus to Chad Roberts one seat over. He’s half asleep, half watching my business in a way that is not at all subtle.

Allister taps me under the arm with a new piece of paper. He’s so eager to talk, he hasn’t even given me time to respond, and he obviously doesn’t care who sees.

Is your next class skippable?

I don’t skip.

Oh, so you’re a nerd.

No . . . I just don’t want to get in trouble.

That’s what being a nerd is, nerd. Meet me after class.