I shake my head no, because if there is one lesson I will take away from my four years here, one definitive thing I have learned, the hard way, it is to beware the smiling sweet talker.

Stop while you’re ahead, Petra.

You have more important things to accomplish this weekend.

* * *

Graduation Girl’s got her own set of tricks. No name. Won’t give me her number. Smells like that fancy soap store in the mall where all the girls get their bath bombs. “Seriously though, how have we never met?” I ask her.

Ms. Hornsby, resident terrifying math teacher, walks by to shush us. Graduation Girl gets all flustered, which makes me laugh. “What can she do to us for talking?” GG doesn’t answer. “I’ve got a lot of bucket list items to cross off with you,” I say, trying to puff out my voice so it sounds bigger. More confident.

“Martin!” Ms. Hornsby scolds. “Be quiet!”

“Yeah, Martin,” GG jokes, “be quiet.” She plays it like she’s kidding, but I can tell she means it. Her chipped-­off nail polish is all over the lap of her gown, and she’s going to town on the little that is left on her nails.

My mind runs through all the ways I could get her to notice me again. There’s always flicking her arm. Eh. Being annoying doesn’t seem like the right move. I look around for another idea and accidentally make hard eye contact with Hornsby, which makes me sweat, which makes me overcompensate, which makes me start humming, which is actually the perfect solution. It’s not talking. It’s fair game.

After a big throat clear and a good neck crack, I push air through my teeth to recreate the synthesized greatness of Van Halen. No human being can resist the musical mastery that is “Jump.”

I check in on Graduation Girl. The ridiculousness of my humming should be at least a half smile’s worth of points from her.

Nope. She is stone-­faced. Royal guards would be jealous.

I amp up my effort, hammering the song’s rhythm into my leg and humming louder. I did choir in grade school, so I know I’m nailing my pitches (boy sopranos represent!), but the end of the introduction is nearing, and the magic of the music doesn’t seem to be affecting her. Still, I hit the final majestic synth high notes, burying my head into my neck to give the kind of commitment the song deserves, and sweet-­holy-­patron-­saint-­of-­Cubs-­baseball-­Ernie-­Banks, I catch sight of movement on the ground.

It’s her foot. Tapping along.

Like David Lee Roth and Sammy Hagar and every other random lead singer they’ve had, she comes in for the first line. “Dog it off,” she sings under her breath. The rest comes out as an incoherent mumble.