These are the last words Julius speaks to me in over a month. And
they’re true. Or they’re supposed to be true. After I deliver the completed proposal to Principal Miller, he doesn’t bring up any more tasks for Julius and me to work on together. We go back to our own lives, our own busy
schedules and old routines. We move like two planets in orbit; both on the same trajectory, but never touching.
The only time he breaks the silence is when we get our tests back in math.
“What’s your score?” he asks, twisting around in his seat to look at my paper.
I pin it flat on the table, facedown, and try to conceal my surprise. Try to control my beating heart. It’s been so long since we’ve talked that I feel oddly self-conscious, out of sync with our old, familiar rhythm. “Not
telling.” Actually, I don’t mind showing him—I received a 100 percent. I just want to be difficult. I just want him to keep talking to me.
He regards me with an intensity that’s surprising. He’s gripping his paper so tightly it’s starting to crease. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” he says.
“Promise?”
His gaze is sharp. “Of course.”
“Fine.” I let my face break into a satisfied smile. “One hundred percent.”
The corners of his lips cut down—the subtlest of reactions, the smallest sign of irritation—but he simply turns around again.
“Hey.” I frown at his back. “Hey, aren’t you going to tell me yours?”
“I’d rather not.”
My blood heats. “You literally promised me, like, two seconds ago—” “I was crossing my fingers,” he says.
“You were what?”
He lifts his fingers to show me. “See? It doesn’t count.” “Oh, right.” I snort. “Very mature.”
“You only have yourself to blame,” he says. “Why would you believe me in the first place?”
As utterly infuriating as he’s being, part of me is almost grateful for it. This is the version of him—of us—I’m used to. Maybe everything is still the same. “Just show it to me, Julius,” I demand.
“No.”
“Then don’t blame me for this.” Before he has time to react, I lunge across the desk and snatch his paper out of his hand and flip to the front page, expecting the same score as mine or a 98 at the lowest—
86 percent.
I stare at the number in red, stuck on the impossible discovery. I have to blink fast to make sure I’m not reading it upside down. It’s the kind of score someone like Ray would be overjoyed with. The kind of score Georgina’s
parents would buy her a brand-new car to reward her for. But by our standards, Julius and I both know that any score starting with the number 8 is subpar. It’s just above average. It’s an abomination.
“Are you done?” he snaps, grabbing his paper back. There’s a tendon straining in his neck, and he quickly covers the score up with his sleeve like it’s a terrible scar.
“S‑sorry,” I stammer, at a loss for what to do, how to react. “I didn’t know— I was just—”
“You can gloat,” he says, an edge to his voice. “Go ahead. Do it. It’s what I would do.”
Even though it’s also what I would have done a month ago, I don’t feel like gloating at all. “Julius . . .”
At the front of the classroom, Mr. Kaye launches into his next lecture, effectively ending the conversation. Julius doesn’t turn around again. And just like that, the silence is back, a heavy curtain falling between us. It lasts for the rest of the class, then the rest of the day, then the rest of the week.
Funny how quickly my definition of torture can change.
• • •
I keep my eyes on the bakery door, but nobody walks in.
We haven’t had any customers so far today, and I can only blame the weather. It’s not exactly raining, but every now and then a dark cloud passes, and a few measly drops of water will dampen the cement. Like the sky can’t make up its mind.
In the dim, gray light, I stack up the trays and wipe down the glass and line up our new layered strawberry cakes behind the display. My mom’s headed off early to meet with an accountant, leaving Max and me here to
watch over the bakery. Well, I’m watching over the bakery. Max is watching a basketball game on his phone and munching on an egg tart.
“I have to ask,” I say. “Do you really just not have homework? Ever?” He replies without glancing up. “Nope.”
“I don’t believe you.” “Then why did you ask?”
I rub my hand over my face. Usually I’d drop the matter and let him
waste time however he wants. But today, I feel a flicker of irritation. “Could you maybe pretend to be productive, then? Or even, I don’t know, help out a little around the store?”
“Okay, whoa, dude. You’ve been in a foul mood recently,” Max says, setting his phone aside at last. He wipes the egg tart crumbs from his chin and leans forward in his seat. “Did you get rejected by a boy or something? If you did, just tell me—I can beat his ass.”
“I’d rather you scrub a table,” I tell him, fighting to keep my expression plain, even when I can feel my skin heating.
“Now, let’s not be so extreme,” Max says. “And that time I cleaned a table, you and Mom both yelled at me for using the wrong cloth.”
“As in the cloth we use to wipe the floor—”
The door swings open behind me, and I spin around instinctively to greet them, my customer-service smile ready—
Until I see who it is.
Julius Gong is standing in the entrance. He’s still wearing his school uniform, but he’s discarded his blazer, and his tie is undone, hanging loose over his white button-down shirt. He looks different, for a reason I can’t
quite place my finger on. Maybe it’s his stance. Or the crease between his brows. The shadows under his eyes.
“Why are you here?” I blurt out.
He crosses his arms over his chest, but not before some complicated emotion flickers across his features. “Why can’t I be here?” he drawls. “I
was in the neighborhood and wanted to buy bread. Obviously I didn’t know that you would be here.”
“Obviously,” I repeat, embarrassed now by my initial reaction. Of
course he wouldn’t be here because of me. In fact, I’m willing to bet that if he’d known he would bump into me, he would have driven twenty miles to the bakery on the other side of town just to avoid this encounter.
“Are you going to turn away a customer?” he asks, a challenge in the lift of his brow. “Pretty sure I could file a complaint for that.”
I chew my tongue. The idea of having him around while I work fills me with a very specific, skin-tingling kind of dread. But business is business.
So I plaster my smile back on again and gesture to the shelves with both hands. “What would you like today?”
“Let’s see . . .” He walks up and down the bakery. Past the sweet taro buns and the pizza rolls and the flaking coconut pastries. He pauses, leans closer to inspect the displays. Reaches out, as if to grab something, then
retracts his hand. And starts walking all over again.
After ten minutes of this, I lose my patience. “Are you here to select bread or a future wife? What’s taking so long?”
His smile is sharp, taunting. “The latter.”
“You can’t be—” I take a deep breath, remembering every basic customer-service rule I’ve ever learned. Be receptive to both positive and negative feedback. Take the time to learn your customers’ expectations.
Offer solutions, not excuses. Don’t push your customer into the stack of mango pudding cups in the corner, even when they’re being difficult on purpose—
“Is that your brother?” he asks, looking past me, to Max.
“I’m afraid we don’t owe customers personal details,” I say sweetly. “If you could just focus on buying what you need—”
“Yeah, I am,” Max says, rising from the chair. Traitor. He scans Julius from head to toe like he’s sizing him up before a wrestling match. “Who’s this guy?”
“Nobody,” I say.
“Julius,” Julius says. I might as well be talking to air. “I go to Sadie’s school. You might have heard about me.”
Max scrunches his forehead. “Sorry, bro. Doesn’t really ring a bell.”
Before I even have the chance to feel grateful, his eyes narrow. “Hang on a second—are you the one who rejected my sister? Is that why she’s been so mopey?”
“What?” I hiss.
“What?” Julius asks, stiffening at once. His gaze flickers to me. “Don’t listen to him, he’s making things up,” I say, stepping firmly
between them. “Max, just go back to watching your basketball game. And Julius, just . . . get out of the way.”
Julius lifts his chin. “What if I also want to watch the game? I’m a huge fan of the—” He pauses just for a fraction of a second, and glances at the
phone on the table. “The Hunters too.”
I’m completely baffled, but Max’s stance relaxes, his face breaking into a broad grin.
“Bro, you should’ve led with that. Come, come, sit down.”
“What are you on about?” I mutter out the side of my mouth as Julius moves past me to join my brother. There’s no way this is actually happening. There’s no reason for him to be doing this except to irritate me. “You don’t even like basketball.”
He pauses. “People can change,” he says, a discernible edge to his voice. “You’ve changed.”
“How have I—”
“You’ve been moping because of a boy, last I heard,” he whispers against my ear. Heat rushes up my neck, gathering around the point where I can feel his lips. “Who is it? Do I know him?”
“I told you, nobody. Ignore my brother.”
It’s evident from his expression that he doesn’t believe me.
“Fine. Think whatever you want,” I grumble, twisting around. “I have other things to do.”
The sky begins to clear as I sweep the floors and prepare the next batch of egg tarts. The remnants of rain dry up; the clouds float in rose-pink wisps over the sloping horizon, so insubstantial they could scatter with a single exhale. Golden sunlight filters through the windows, warm slants of it falling over the table where Julius and Max sit. Not that I’m looking their way often. Not that I’m sneaking curious glances at Julius or noticing the way he runs his hand ever so casually through his hair.
Definitely not.
As the weather improves, more customers trickle in. An old woman with her bags full of dragon fruit and marinated meats. A mother and her two toddlers, who press their faces right up against the cake display. A pretty girl my age, who somehow manages to make a plain white shirt and school skirt stylish. She looks familiar, and it clicks after a moment: She’s
the one that guy in my year level was stalking during the Athletics Carnival.
She doesn’t seem particularly interested in the food. From the second she enters, her attention snaps to Julius, and she drifts toward his table.
I watch their exchange silently from behind the counter.
“Woodvale Academy, right?” the girl asks, pointing to his uniform from such a close distance that it defeats the very purpose of pointing.
Julius lifts his head from the game playing on the screen. Acknowledges her with a faint smile. I grind my back teeth. “That’s right.”
“I always heard the boys were hotter at Woodvale,” she says, brushing her bangs out of her face. “And here I thought they were exaggerating.”
Julius laughs, and I feel a hot rush of violence. My fingernails dig into the counter surface as he turns fully toward her.
“I’m not sure if you recognize me?” the girl continues. “A lot of people follow me online. Not saying I’m famous, but I’m not, like, not famous either.”
“This is my first time seeing you anywhere,” Julius says.
She doesn’t seem fazed. “Well, it’s never too late. If you want to search my name . . .” Then she holds out a hand for his phone.
I expect him to decline. It’s not like this is the first time a girl has shown interest in him, famous or not. In year eight, basically everyone in the year level had a crush on him because he was the fastest runner in PE and could open any bottle you passed to him. In year nine, everyone loved him
because he was invited to do some kind of fashion shoot for the school, and in the final photos he was enviably beautiful, his shirtsleeves folded, his black hair falling long and soft over his eyes. In year ten, everyone wanted him because he just was. Because he didn’t seem to care much for anyone, which lent him a cool, unapproachable air. Because he had grown another two inches and his shoulders were broader and his jaw sharper. Because he had a way of speaking like everything he said mattered, meant something.
And while he’s always basked in the attention, he’s never seemed particularly interested in committing to a relationship.
Which is why I’m stunned to see him take out his phone now and pass it over. His gaze flits to me as the girl types out her name, like he wants to
make sure I’m watching, and I remember how much I hate him. It’s a physical kind of hatred, the kind that feels like someone’s shoved their fist into my chest. The kind that makes my gums itch.
“Okay, so this is my account,” she’s explaining, as though he’s never used a phone before. “I’ve followed myself for you. These recent pictures on the beach are so embarrassing—I mean, I know the comments all say I look super cute, but I have mixed feelings about the bikini—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’re closing,” I announce. It’s true. Well, technically, we should be closing in two and a half minutes, but all the other customers have already left.
The girl blinks at me. Julius just smiles.
“I guess I better get going, then,” the girl says, and shoots me such a friendly look I feel bad. I almost consider taking back my words, inviting her to stay longer if she really wants to—until she grips Julius’s shoulder, delicate fingers curling into his shirt, and adds, “Remember, you can
message me whenever. Tonight, if you’d like.”
Julius is still smiling at me when he replies. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
• • •
Julius doesn’t leave.
Not when I flip the sign on the door, or when I turn off the front lights, or when I tell him, quite clearly, “You should leave.”
He stands up, but only to lean back against the wall. “Are you going to make me?”
“I can,” I say. “You’re not a customer anymore. I can do anything.” His stance doesn’t change. “Do it, then. Do whatever you want.”
Irritation floods through me. I’m seriously contemplating whether or not to drag him out by force when I notice the set of his jaw. The gleam in his eyes. He’s goading me. But it’s not just that. It’s as if . . . he’s looking for a fight, or a distraction. I remember how he’d looked when he first entered
the shop, and I feel myself hesitate.
But he seems to sense the change in me. In a heartbeat, he withdraws, his expression snapping closed. “Honestly I wasn’t planning on staying long anyway,” he says, pushing off from the wall. “See you at school.”
“Hey—”
He steps out without another word, leaving me staring in his wake, my head buzzing as if I’ve just been cramming for a final exam. There’s too much noise, too many confounding concepts. He didn’t even buy any bread.
“He’s into you,” Max remarks from behind me. I startle. “Excuse me?”
“He kept looking over at you,” he says with a little grin. “At least thirty times. I counted.”
“I didn’t know you could count that high,” I say dryly, to hide my speeding pulse.
“I’m serious. Honestly you could do worse. He’s athletic, like you, and he’s tall, and good-looking—”
“I’m not having this conversation,” I announce. “And for the record,
you’re wrong. He was probably just staring at some spot behind me; every time I looked over, he was watching the game with you.” I gesture to the
table where they’d been seated, then pause. Julius’s phone is still lying there, faceup. He’d been in such a rush to go that he must have forgotten it. I swivel my head around, squint through the window, but he’s already halfway down the street, his lean silhouette a shadow in the falling darkness.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, grabbing the phone. As I do, I can’t help noticing that it’s still open to the girl’s account—but he’s unfollowed her already. A stone dislodges from my chest, the resulting rush of relief so strong it’s truly embarrassing. Totally irrational.
Yet my whole body feels lighter as I slip through the doorway and run after him, the evening air whipping my hair. Most of the restaurants are still open at this hour, the orange light from inside spilling out in long rectangles.
I turn the next corner and skid to a halt.
Julius is standing in front of a parked sports car. For an absurd moment, I think it belongs to one of the aunties we showed around the school. But no, this car is even more expensive, so new it’s gleaming. The windows are
rolled down, and I glimpse the unmistakable face of Julius’s brother. He’s not beaming this time though; his brows are pinched together, irritation written over all the features they share.
“. . . can’t just storm off like a little kid every time you’re upset,” James is saying. “It wasn’t a big deal or anything. Our parents were merely giving you some advice—”
“How did you even find me?” Julius demands. His back is turned to me; I can’t see his expression, but the frost in his voice is clear.
“It was hardly detective work, Ju‑zi. I saw your search results.” “My—” Julius’s frame stiffens. “Those are private.”
“Calm down, it’s not like you were searching up the closest brothel. It’s just a bakery. What are you getting all flustered for?”
The restaurant lights don’t quite reach the pavement here, so I step forward quietly, hidden behind an oak tree, my body pressed to the bark. I don’t want to eavesdrop. I don’t mean to. But the words fly around my mind like hornets. Search results. Private. He’d been searching for a
bakery? For this bakery?
“You really didn’t need to come,” Julius says tightly.
“You’re still upset,” James observes, winding the windows down farther and leaning out. “Why? Just because we wanted to know—for good reason
—why you basically failed your last math test? It is a little concerning. You keep letting that Sadie girl beat you—”
My heart hits my ribs.
They’re talking about me.
“I don’t ever let her do anything,” Julius snaps, and even in the dim light, I can make out the shape of his knuckles when he clenches his fists. “She’s smart, okay? She’s a formidable force. She does everything she sets her mind to and nothing can stand in her way. Not even me.”
“That’s all?” James asks. There’s something curious about his tone, something that makes my next breath come out too short and fast, makes my heart crawl up my throat.
Julius must have detected it too. “What are you suggesting?”
“I mean, you’re sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the way you were acting around her at the bookstore? I saw the look in your eyes. I’ve never seen it before, but now—”
“You’re mistaken,” Julius says coldly.
“I hope I am,” James tells him. “This is your final year of school. This is the beginning of the rest of your life; you need to set the tone right. I don’t expect you to get a full scholarship to Harvard and follow in my
footsteps exactly, but come on. Our family has standards. I would hate to
see you getting distracted and losing your wits over some girl and letting all your work go to waste—”
“That’s not—”
“Because you’ll have plenty of time to date around after you get into your dream school, yeah? Once you enter college, you’ll see that there are far prettier girls out there. It’s all about timing. About priorities. And look, I understand. I do. If this is just physical attraction— If you need to hook up with her once and get it out of your system in order to focus on what matters, then by all means—”
“Stop talking about her,” Julius cuts in, and the threat in his voice almost makes me step back. Even James falters. “Don’t drag her into this. I already told you. If I underperformed on a test, that’s my own fault. I-I’ll study harder—I’ll do better—”
“I’m only saying.” James taps his fingers against the dashboard. “I never had so much trouble when I was your age. I never came second in anything. If I were you, I would be ashamed.”
I can’t explain what comes over me.
It’s like somebody has lit a flame in my bloodstream, taken control of my body. All I see is the open hurt in Julius’s eyes, the shame washing over his face, the way he hangs his head, and I lose my mind a little.
I step out from behind the tree and march straight toward the car, my
hands balled into tight fists, my pulse beating fast. “For your information,” I say, my voice so loud and sharp it sounds foreign to my own ears, “Julius is one of the best students in the year level.”
Julius blinks at me in surprise. “Sadie? What are you . . .” He flushes, his eyes flitting between me and his brother. “This isn’t necessary—”
“Shut up, Julius,” I snap. “I’m talking.”
“Yeah, let her talk,” James says, tilting his head and appraising me as if I’m an unexpected bonus question at the end of a test. “It’s good to see you again, Sadie Wen. Of course, I never imagined it would be under the present circumstances—”
I speak over him. “You’re wrong about Julius. He hasn’t slacked off on a single test in the ten years I’ve known him. He’s president of every club he’s run for. He’s the only one who could get his classmates to give him a standing ovation for a minor English presentation. And if he ever comes in second, it’s not because he isn’t good enough—it’s simply because I’m better—”
Julius coughs. “Is this whole thing building up to a self-congratulatory speech?”
“Are you unable to stop yourself from being irritating when I’m literally defending you?” I hiss.
“Yes, well, you seemed to be getting sidetracked—”
“You’re the one getting sidetracked.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Rake my hand through my hair. Catch my train of thought again. “What I was saying is that despite how annoying Julius is, and how vain, and cowardly, and insincere, everyone who’s met him knows he’s destined for great things.
Through sheer stubbornness and manipulation, he’ll find a way to make great things come to him.”
James casts Julius a skeptical look. “Are we talking about the same person here?”
“Maybe you just don’t know your brother that well,” I say coldly. I can’t remember ever feeling so angry. So tempted to smash a car with a hammer. No, that’s a lie—Julius always manages to infuriate me. The irony is that for the first time, I’m not angry at him; I’m angry because of him.
Because the only person who should be allowed to attack him is me.
James is silent for a while. Then he laughs, the sound bright and too cheery, echoing down the street. “How touching, that my little brother has a girl out here protecting his dignity. This is really very sweet.”
“It’s not about his dignity,” I tell him, articulating each and every word. “It’s about mine. By insulting my competition, you’re insulting me.”
He raises his brows. “That’s quite the bold statement.”
Normally I would shrivel up at this kind of accusation. Blush and back down. Swallow my words, relinquish the space I’ve earned. But the
adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, and it feels different when I’m speaking for the both of us. When—god knows how this happened— we’re on the same side. “And what of it?”
James laughs again, his mouth so wide I can see his back teeth. “I guess we’ll see if you’re right when the end‑of‑year results come out, huh?” Then he looks over at Julius and beckons for him with two fingers. “Stop sulking now and get in the car.”
“Wait,” I say, remembering. “Your phone. You forgot it.”
I hold the phone out and Julius takes it very carefully, but his hand still brushes against mine, the barest contact somehow torturous. He hesitates. Meets my gaze. A thousand emotions swim in his eyes, one tied to another: gratitude and resentment for his gratitude and something else. “Sadie,” he says, quiet, his voice pitched only for the space between us. “I . . .”
The headlights switch on, the harsh white beam of light half blinding me. I block my face with one hand, squinting.
“Get in,” James repeats. “Hurry.”
Julius’s lips part, but he settles for a nod, then climbs slowly into the car. The doors lock; the engine starts. As they drive down the road, I think I catch him turning around in the seat. Looking back at me.
• • •
I can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s mortifying. Unproductive. Unnatural. And quite frankly, it’s really enraging. He has no right to occupy this much space inside my head. Yet after I go home with Max and lock myself in my bedroom with every intention of completing my history homework ahead of time, I end up staring at my wall for eleven minutes.
“Stop it,” I hiss at myself, rubbing my face. “Get a grip.”
My brain has always been disciplined. Good at compartmentalizing feelings, separating necessary information from garbage, labeling the good and the terrible. Julius absolutely goes into the Terrible folder.
Yet tonight, my brain betrays me. Even when I try to distract myself by doing twice my usual set of sit-ups, hoping the physical exhaustion will quiet my mind, all it does is make my muscles ache.
Like a compulsion, a bad habit I can’t change, I keep imagining the ride home for him. Would Julius be fighting with his brother? Would my name
come up again? Would he be wondering about me?
Finally I give up and message Abigail. Just two words: blue dress.
It’s the code we use in every mini emergency, from breakups to bad
grades to boring family reunions. It means: Help. It means: Drop everything and talk to me. We first came up with it when I tore a massive hole through the back of my dress on a shopping trip, and Abigail immediately ran to the closest store to buy me a jacket to cover it up. I’d never seen someone whip out their credit card so fast.
Abigail calls me within two and a half minutes. “Yes, darling? What fire are we putting out?”
“Are you busy?”
“I’m in my room now,” she says, and I hear the soft click of the door, the shuffle of her pillows. “So if you’re going to tell me that you robbed a bank, nobody will overhear.”
“It’s not that,” I tell her, laughing weakly. I almost wish it were that. It would be a straightforward fix at least. “It’s only . . .” I pause, unsure how to articulate what I’m feeling when I can’t make sense of it myself. “How do you know if you . . . you know.”
“Uh, no?”
I wince. Squeeze my eyes shut. Pry the words from my teeth. “How do you know if you . . . like someone?”
“Oh.” Her tone changes instantly. The smile is plain in her voice. “This is one of those conversations. It’s been ages since you had a crush on
someone.”
“It might not be,” I rush to tell her, straightening in my chair. “I’m only.
Confused. And I was standing outside in the cold for a while tonight so there’s a chance I could just be exhibiting the early signs of a fever—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself. Let me ask you this: Do you think about him a lot?”
“Not, like, a lot . . .”
“Your voice always gets squeaky when you’re lying,” she points out. “This isn’t going to work if you’re not honest.”
“Okay. Okay, so, maybe?” I hold the phone closer to my ear and consider the question like it’s one of those twenty-mark short essay prompts on a test. “Like in the mornings, when I’m about to enter the classroom, I do . . . wonder about him. My heart speeds up, and I’m irrationally angry when I do see him, but on days when he’s not there, I’m also disappointed.
And every now and then—just like every few minutes or so—I might be curious about what he’s doing. And after we talk, I always go back and
overanalyze everything he’s said, and what I’ve said. I want to leave a good impression. I want to be better than him, but I also want to impress him . . .” “I hate to break it to you, but that doesn’t sound like a basic crush,”
Abigail informs me. “That sounds really serious, Sadie.”
“No,” I protest, panicking. “No, it’s not— It can’t be. I mean, wouldn’t I feel all those things too if I hated him? How can you even tell the difference between liking and loathing someone? Physically speaking. How do you
know if your blood pressure is rising because of how annoying they are, or how attractive you find them? If your hands are shaking because you’re holding back from strangling them, or kissing them?”
“Holy shit.”
“What?”
“It’s Julius, isn’t it?” Abigail says. “You’re talking about Julius Gong.”
I choke and wonder if it’s possible for someone to die from sheer embarrassment. Even the sound of his name is apparently too much for me. My pulse is racing so fast I can feel the blood in my veins. Pathetic. I could kick myself. “Um . . .”
“Oh my god,” she says hoarsely. Repeats it over and over in a hundred different variations, like she’s trying to reinvent the phrase. “Oh my god, oh my god. Oh. My god. Oh my god—”
“At this rate you’re literally going to call God down to earth,” I hiss, pressing a hand to my burning face.
“No, no, you know what, darling, I’m not judging. Not at all,” she says. “I was genuinely attracted to a cartoon lion at thirteen. Like, something about his claws really worked for me.”
“I can’t believe you’re drawing parallels between these two bizarrely different situations,” I say. “First, Julius is a person—”
“He’s also been making you miserable for ten years,” she cuts in. “Don’t you remember when you were assigned to the same group project, and he secretly worked ahead of you so he would look more prepared in front of the teacher? Or when he beat you in the spelling competition and followed you around the school just to rub the trophy in your face? Or when he got all those roses for Valentine’s Day and put them in a vase right above your locker to taunt you for not receiving any?”
“All fond memories, yes,” I say. “I remember clearly. But . . .”
But I also remember the softness of his blazer around my shoulders. The look on his face tonight, the quick violence in his voice when his brother
spoke of me. His breathing, quiet beside me, as he swept confetti from the floor after the party. His hands, firm but warm around my wrists after the race. The shine of the medal, the light in his eyes, the curve of his lips. So beautiful and infuriating and confusing. So ready to split me open with a single word, stitch me up again with a fleeting touch.
“Do you think there’s any chance . . .” It feels so foolish, even asking it out loud. “Any chance he would like me?”
“Wow, yeah, you’re in deep,” she says. “And I don’t see why he wouldn’t. You’re the whole package. You’re smart and good at everything and you’re totally hot in this kind of successful future-executive way—”
I snort out a laugh despite myself. Then I come to a sobering realization. “But you’re not factoring in the emails,” I tell her. “You should’ve seen how upset he was when he first received them. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for them yet. I don’t know if he ever will.”
“Right.” She pauses. “About those emails—”
“Like, would you ever want to be with someone who once expressed to you, clearly, in written text, that they would rather listen to someone
perform slam poetry about corporate income taxes in an auditorium without ventilation on the hottest day of summer while a baby plays
tug‑of‑war with their hair from behind than have to sit through your speech for school captain again?”
There’s a long silence. Then, in a voice of forced optimism, she says, “Maybe he’ll wake up one day and lose half his memories.”
“So it’s pointless how I feel.” I slump back in my seat again. “Because he’ll never be able to move past this.”
“You can’t be certain,” she insists. “You can’t be certain of anything unless you tell him, face‑to‑face.”
I cough. “Tell him? Tell him what? Oh, hi, I know we’ve hated each
other’s guts for a decade and you find me insufferable, but I think we should make out.”
“It’s a pretty convincing pitch,” she says. “And you know what? The retreat will be the perfect time to do it. You’ll be in the same place, and you’ll have time to yourselves, and there won’t be as many teachers around. The only shame is that the retreat isn’t set at, like, a beach or something. It would be so cute—”
“It was going to be,” I say grimly. “But Julius rejected the idea on the
terms that it would be too romantic—and yes, I know, the irony is occurring
to me as we speak.”
“He really shot himself in the foot with that one, huh?”
“Or saved himself,” I tell her. “Maybe he was protecting himself in advance from the chances of someone cornering him with a confession. Maybe he’s, like, opposed to relationships in general, and even more opposed to a relationship with me, specifically.”
She clucks her tongue at me. “Where’s your confidence disappeared to?”
“You realize that, according to the laws of physics, something can’t disappear if it never existed in the first place, right? Matter can’t be created or destroyed—”
“Just talk to him, Sadie. Really. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I sigh. Grip the edge of my desk to steady myself against the overwhelming tide of possibilities. “Everything,” I say. “He could laugh at me. He could weaponize my feelings against me in every test and competition to come. He could mock me for the rest of my lifetime. He could recoil with horror and disgust—”
“Or he could surprise you with his response,” she says. “Just consider it, okay?”
I chew the flesh of my cheek until it stings. Somehow, I feel even more disoriented now than I did at the beginning of the call. “Okay. I will.”
