Eyes twinkling, she gave me one of her secret smiles. “Very lucky, especially in love.”

My face felt funny after that. Too hot. Too tingly. My chest felt tight, and I wondered if maybe this was what my dad had felt after he ate all those hot wings during the Super Bowl. Heartburn, he called it.

Pretty sure hearts aren’t supposed to burn, but what do I know? I’m just a kid. Maybe it’s one of those metaphorical things.

“...more running, Mr. Foster. Okay?”

Still bouncing on my toes as I only half-listen to Mrs. Fillmore go on and on and on, I nod impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. Can I go now?”

She sighs before waving me off.

I wait until I round a corner before taking off again, sneakers squealing across the linoleum floors. I wanted to beat Waylon to the park today, and I would have, had it not been for my nosy homeroom teacher catching me sprinting down the hall after having grabbed my backpack from my cubby.

It didn’t happen often that I’d get there before him. His homeroom is right by the doors. But today’s special. It’s his birthday and I wanted to surprise him, even though he hates birthdays.

Who the heck hates birthdays?

I adjust the backpack hanging over my shoulder as I shove my way through the front doors. Harsh afternoon light has me cringing as I blink around, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

It’s still pretty cold most days, but at least I no longer need my bulky winter coat. Tucking the sleeves of my blue hoodie over my knuckles, I stop when I reach the crosswalk. The last bus is just pulling out. Jackie—the crossing guard—gives me a wave as she holds up the STOP sign, letting me pass in between a line of traffic.

Thumbs under the straps of my backpack, I hum the lyrics to Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” under my breath as I make my way through the break in the chain-link fence. This song is always getting stuck in my head. It’s annoying, but I still like it.

I spot a couple kids hanging out by the jungle gym; now that the weather’s nice, we no longer have the place to ourselves.

Like most days, our rides won’t be here for at least an hour. Waylon’s dad is a cop and doesn’t get out ‘til at least four-thirty, and Grams has some kind of club meeting for old folks three times a week. My parents work late, so it’s her job to pick me up from school. She doesn’t care that I like sticking around so I can hang out with Waylon. Even on the days she’s free, she’ll take her time getting here. She’s cool like that.