‌“How do I look?” Ellie asks, posing in my doorway.‌

“Cute. And surprisingly like Madonna,” I say, slipping on my shoes. My sister is wearing a flouncy black dress and boots, her hair is teased, and there’s a pile of silver necklaces around her throat. “Why Madonna, again?” “I was going through all the old albums Uncle Nick brought to eighties night and got inspired. Plus, when you’re Madonna, people expect you to dance with them.” Before I can ask why that matters—my sister has never been shy about dancing with whoever she likes—she steps into my room

and adds, “You look pretty. We’re, like, opposite. Good and evil.”

My dress is short, sparkly, and pale silver, and my hair is flat-ironed straight. So yes, we contrast with one another, but I’m pretty sure no one’s going to mistake Ellie for the evil Gallagher sister. I’ve been trying to keep a low profile all week, but memories at Saint Ambrose are longer than Nadia said. At least I’m not braving the Winter Dance on my own. “You sure you don’t want to squeeze in with us?” I ask. Tripp should be here soon, and then Mason will pick us up in his mother’s minivan—along with Nadia, Pavan, and the legendary Geoff.

“Nah, I’ll just let Uncle Nick take me,” Ellie says. Our mother came down with a bad cold and is currently doped up on NyQuil, so Uncle Nick heroically gave up his Saturday night to be a chaperone in her place. He twirled me in a nerdy dance when he told us, so I think I might finally be forgiven. “He has to be there early, and Paige is on the committee, so I can help her finish setting up.” She blows me a kiss and grabs the bag at her feet before turning for the staircase. “See you there.”

“Bye,” I say, and plug my straightener in again for a final pass through my hair.

When I’m done getting ready and head downstairs, my father is hovering in the hallway. “I haven’t seen Tripp in a while,” he says, adjusting his glasses. Dad and Uncle Nick are like Ellie and me; they look enough alike that if they were closer in age, they’d get mistaken for one another. Uncle Nick is essentially a younger version of Dad with more hair and trendier eyewear. “It’ll be nice to catch up.”

Oh God. My father’s idea of catching up with my friends is making science jokes that aren’t funny to anyone except him. “I think I’m supposed to meet him outside,” I say, checking my phone. Tripp just pulled into our driveway—he has his dad’s car tonight—and Mason is only a few minutes behind.

“I’ll say a quick hello,” Dad says, matching me stride for stride toward the door.

“Dad—” My protest is cut short when the bell rings.

“Always knew that kid had manners,” Dad says, grinning as he pulls the door open to reveal Tripp in a navy suit, his blond hair more neatly combed than I’ve ever seen it. “Hello, Tripp, come on in. Good to see you.” It is very good to see him, because wow, he looks great. Shane Delgado might be the king of Saint Ambrose, but Tripp is definitely strong competition in the suit he has on. His blue eyes sparkle as he takes me in before shifting his gaze to my dad. “Hi, Mr. Gallagher. How’ve you been?”

Then his eyes go straight back to me. “You look amazing, Brynn.” “You too,” I say, blushing as I grab my coat.

Dad asks Tripp about his father, and school, and it’s so remarkably cringe-free that I don’t even lunge through the still-open door when I see headlights flash behind Tripp’s car. “Mason’s here,” I say. “We should go.”

“Have fun. Be safe. Let your uncle know if you need anything,” Dad says. We’re halfway down the steps before he adds, “And whatever you do, don’t trust atoms.”

“Dad, no,” I moan, at the same time Tripp asks, “Why?”

“Because they make up everything!” Dad says, before closing the door with a satisfied smirk.

“So close,” I sigh.

“You know, I kind of missed the science jokes,” Tripp says. He grabs my hand, which is a nice surprise, as the van door slides open and Pavan sticks his head out.

“You guys get the way back,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Weren’t you two a thing once?” Tripp murmurs in my ear. “Should I be jealous?”

“You should,” I whisper back. “Pavan was smooth for a twelve-year- old.”

“Smoother than me, anyway,” Tripp says, keeping hold of my hand as I step unsteadily into the slightly-too-high-for-me van.

Mason and Geoff, who’s in the front passenger seat, both turn as Tripp and I squeeze into the back row. “Don’t you two look nice,” Mason says. “You know Geoff, right?”

“Of course.” I wave to Geoff, who reminds me of a teenage Chidi from The Good Place, before locking eyes with a grinning Nadia. Then I mime zipping my lips, because there’s no reason to embarrass Mason on his first date.

“I also answer to ‘Gorff,’ ” Geoff says, and I almost choke on my surprised laugh.

“This is going to be a good night,” Mason says as he backs out of my driveway.

I hope so. I feel loose and happy for the first time in a while, not to mention fluttery every time my eyes meet Tripp’s. He’s taken my hand

back, and is letting his thumb run lightly across my palm while he jokes with Pavan and Nadia, and I have goose bumps even though it’s warm in the van.

It’s not as though everything is suddenly perfect. I’m worried that by being with me tonight, Tripp is risking friendships that mean a lot to him, and I’m nervous about seeing Shane and Charlotte. But I’m going to try to forget all that, and all of my theories, and just have fun. It would be a crime to waste how good Tripp looks in that suit.

The Saint Ambrose parking lot is nearly full when we arrive, and Mason has to slam on his brakes as a red pickup truck swerves in front of us to snag an empty spot. “Okay, fine,” he mutters, easing the van into a crawl behind a half dozen of our classmates walking toward the entrance. “Didn’t realize parking was going to be a competitive sport.”

“There,” Nadia calls as a Volvo backs out of a nearby spot.

Mason inches carefully in between the lines and exhales a loud sigh of relief when he shifts into park, then turns around and says, “Let’s go make some memories, kids.”

Pavan opens the door, and everyone climbs out. As Mason locks up, I take Tripp’s hand to follow the group in, but he resists the pull of my hand. “Hold on a sec,” he says, leaning against the side of the van. His hands steal around my waist. “Can I get five minutes alone with you?”

“What for?” I ask as my stomach executes a slow flip. Tripp licks his bottom lip, and my eyes follow the movement with a little thrill. It seems ridiculous, suddenly, that we’ve spent all this time together and haven’t kissed once.

“Pavan might be smooth,” he says, pulling me closer, “but I liked you first.”

A tingle runs up my spine, and I think, suddenly, of the way Nadia and I used to text a GIF of Michael Scott from The Office yelling “It’s happening!” anytime something we’d been waiting for finally came to pass.

It’s happening. Maybe I haven’t been waiting as long as Tripp has, but all of a sudden it feels like it.

“Seventh grade is earlier than eighth grade,” I remind Tripp, tilting my head up. He’s so tall, it’s a good thing I’m wearing heels.

“I liked you since sixth,” he says.

“Oh really?” My hands move up to his chest and lightly grasp the lapels of his suit. It’s chilly out and he’s not wearing a coat, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold. “Three years of homework sessions, and you never said a word.”

My tone is teasing, but his gaze is intense when he replies, “Those were torture.”

I want to keep talking about this forever, and I also want—more. It’s the most agonizingly wonderful tension I’ve ever felt. “That’s a long time to like somebody and not do anything about it,” I say.

The corners of Tripp’s eyes crinkle. “Well, there was a break in my pining once you moved away.”

I try to fake pout, but I can’t pull it off. My mouth refuses to turn down. “A break, huh?” I ask. “Till when?”

“Probably that day at the greenhouse.”

I raise my eyebrows. “When Wade Drury made fun of my name?” “No. Before that. When Ms. Kelso put us together on that committee.

Which I guess was”—he pretends to check a watch—“the first time we talked since you left.”

It’s getting a little hard to breathe. “That was fast,” I say.

“What can I say? I’m nothing if not consistent.” His eyes go soft as he pulls me closer, which I didn’t think was possible. I thought I’d eliminated all the space between us already. “Brynn. Can I—”

“Yes.” Before he can say anything further, I press my lips to his. My arms wind around his neck, and his hands grip me more tightly, lifting me off my feet as the kiss deepens. Instantly I’m breathless; Tripp isn’t just kissing me like someone who’s wanted to do that for years. He’s kissing me like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. I meet him with the same intensity, feeling feverish as my fingers twine in his hair, every new kiss so charged and fiery that it’s almost too much. If he lets go of me, I’ll fall straight to the ground.

Fortunately, he doesn’t let go. At least, not until a loud beep cuts through the blood pounding in my ears and somebody hollers, “Get a room!”

I pull back as Tripp gently lowers me to the ground, just in time to see the taillights of Charlotte’s Range Rover pass us. Of course. Nobody knows how to ruin a moment better than Charlotte Holbrook. Although, to be fair, she’s not the one who yelled.

“Sorry,” Tripp says, as breathless as I am. He rakes a hand through his hair, looking dazed. “I didn’t mean…God, that was…”

“I’m not sorry,” I say.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Me either.”

I force myself to take a step back, because now that I’m more aware of my surroundings, I realize we have a much bigger audience than Charlotte and whoever was in her car. It feels like half the school arrived at once, and most of my classmates are smirking as they pass me and Tripp. “We should probably go inside, though, huh?” I ask.

“If we have to,” Tripp says, smoothing a lock of my hair away from my face before taking hold of my hand again. I float along beside him until we get inside the main building and my practical side takes over. Nerves, plus mussed hair and what is probably now a complete lack of lip gloss, require a bathroom pit stop.

“I’ll meet you in there, okay?” I say, reaching up a thumb to wipe the pink sheen from Tripp’s mouth. “I need the restroom.”

“Okay,” he says, giving me a quick, sweet peck on the lips that shouldn’t make me swoon as much as it does. Turns out I have it bad.

—

The restroom is bustling with chattering girls, but they’re mostly focused on gossip and fixing their makeup, so there’s no line. After using the bathroom, I wash my hands, run a brush through my hair, and reapply my lip gloss.

Back in the hallway, music pounds from the gymnasium, but before I head in that direction, something catches my eye at the end of the corridor. It’s a poster of Mr. Larkin with, once again, angry red slashes across his face.

I walk toward it, navigating around a desk that’s been pushed against the wall beside the poster. It’s odd, really; there’s never been a desk in this hallway before. Even stranger, a single red marker lies on top of it, its cap lying off to one side, as if someone hastily defaced the poster and then left in a hurry. But why would a marker be here in the first place? Did the vandal bring their own and leave it behind, or…?

“There you are!” I look up to see Ellie, half walking, half dancing her way toward me, her jewelry jangling with every step. She stops when she reaches the desk, hands on her hips as she examines the defaced poster. “Oh good,” she says. “Look at that.”

“I’m looking,” I say. “Why is it good?”

“Because.” She picks up the marker and winks. “My trap worked.”