I blink. That’s not what I expected him to say, and he’s looking at me the same way he did earlier…like he has X-ray vision clear to my soul.

“You should stop doing that,” I say. It feels like I’m standing next to a heater.

He looks confused. “What?”

“Staring at me like that.”

He smiles a little and lowers his eyes to the floor, attempting to hide the pink coloring on those high cheekbones. I feel the loss of his gaze immediately. Where I was warm before, now I’m cold. This is not a normal reaction. There is something about this boy.

“Sorry. I…didn’t mean to,” he says earnestly.

I want to cram those words back into my mouth and swallow them whole, but I can’t. What can I say anyway? I take it back. Stare all you want? This is best. Pretty boys are trouble—haven’t I learned that?

Lennon rejoins us and carries on the conversation. I keep waiting for Shy to leave, but he moves through the line beside me and invites us to sit with him at an already-crowded table. My chest tightens and my stomach flutters, but not in the good way, no butterflies. This is like a spider has burrowed deep in my belly, spun a web, and captured flies. That’s pretty much how I feel right now—like a fly, trapped. Especially when I notice Natalie at the table.

If I weren’t trying so hard for Mom, I’d have left the congested cafeteria and found a spot outside to eat my lunch where there is no fear my true self will peek through a crack I haven’t managed to seal. Then I think of that spirit who left her spot above the doors at Emerson Hall to come looking for me and decide it’s best if I stay inside.

I sit wedged between Shy and another student I don’t know. Lennon takes a seat diagonally across from me. Shy introduces me to some of the people at the table, describing how he knows them or who they are as if I can keep up. I keep my eyes on my plate. The lumpy thing at its center is called a soy burger. I’m wondering if it is edible when someone places the ketchup near my hand. I look beside me and meet Shy’s stare.

“Just douse it in ketchup. It tastes fine.”

I scrunch my nose but take his advice. It seems he’s survived a few years on Nacoma Knight cafeteria food.

Soon, Shy’s friends direct their attention to me. I let my hands fall in my lap, fiddling with the hem of my skirt as they begin their interrogation.