Halston

My heart pounds in my ears as I head to Chem II. I’ve been dreading fourth block all day, knowing I’ll have to spend ninety minutes next to Thane Bennett, asshole extraordinaire.

He tried calling me Saturday. Texted me Sunday.

I ignored him the entire weekend.

Walking into class, I feel his eyes on me. I’m seconds from asking Caldwell for a new lab partner when a substitute takes the desk up front.

Shit.

Finding my seat, I fish my pen and notebook from my bag and face forward.

“So you’re just going to keep ignoring me?” Thane breaks the silence with a stupid question.

“Mm-hm.”

“I’m sorry. I screwed up,” he whispers, leaning close. His cologne invades my space, but I secretly like the scent so I don’t say anything. “I like you. And I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait as long as you want.”

His hand reaches under the desk, his fingers interlacing with mine.

“Think about it at least?” he asks.

The sub writes her name on the whiteboard up front, and I focus on the red ink and her terrible handwriting. Thane leaves me alone for the next forty-five minutes, but when the mid-block bell rings and the sub tells us to take five, he follows me out to the hall.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stopping short outside the classroom.

“I thought we could talk for a minute.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” My arms fold.

His hand drags along his jaw, and he wears a sad, pathetic expression which unfortunately almost makes me feel sorry for him.

“I spent all weekend thinking about how I screwed up,” he says. “I stayed home. I didn’t go out. I just lay around, thinking about you.”

“Sounds like you wasted a perfectly good weekend.”

“I’m serious, Halston. Give me another chance and I won’t screw it up this time.”

My lips part, and I’m seconds from giving him a resounding “no” when Kerouac comes around the corner.

“Is this student bothering you, Miss Kessler?” he asks, jaw flexing.

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “We’re just talking.”

He glares at Thane, sizing him up and looking down his nose. I didn’t give him any details Friday night other than telling him Thane wanted to fuck me, but clearly that rubbed Kerouac the wrong way.

“Okay. You can go now,” I say, shooing him away.

His head cocks, eyes narrowing in my direction this time. “Miss Kessler, I’m your principal, and you will speak to me with respect in my school.”

My brows lift. I can’t tell if he’s joking, so I laugh until his jaw flexes and his nostrils flare.

The halls empty just as the tardy bell rings.

“We should get back,” Thane says, reaching for my hand.

“I need a word with Miss Kessler,” Kerouac’s voice is stern yet impossibly sexy. I wonder if he has any idea how badly he’s turning me on right now?

As soon as Thane’s out of earshot, I whisper, “It’s really hard to take you seriously when you talk to me like that.”

“Talk to you like what? The way I’d speak to any other student in this school?” he asks. “I really hope you’re not expecting preferential treatment.”

“I’ve learned never to expect anything from anyone,” I say.

His expression softens. “Was he bothering you?”

“No. He was actually apologizing.”

Kerouac’s face hardens, like it’s a bad thing Thane apologized. “Just be careful.”

“Thanks, daaaad,” I say in a slow, schmoopy voice.

“And don’t call me that. I’m not nearly old enough to be your father.” He releases a heavy breath like I frustrate him. “The emotional health and welfare of my students is one of my top priorities as an administrator.”

“So you’re invested in every relationship in Rosefield High? Ensuring nobody gets hurt and everyone lives happily ever after?”

Sara Bliss, Rosefield’s notoriously ditzy art teacher, passes us in the hall, smiling when she sees Kerouac and nearly tripping over her faded Birkenstocks.

“Get back to class, Miss Kessler,” he says, watching with folded arms as I walk away.

He cares about me.

And he likes me.

He won’t admit it—not even to himself.

But I know.

* * *

“Before I forget,” Uncle Vic says at dinner that night, “I ran into Ford Hawthorne earlier. Invited him over for dinner this Friday.”

I almost choke on my mashed potatoes before reaching for my glass of water.

“Wonderful! I’d love to finally meet him. Bree talks about him so much, I feel like I already know him, but I’ve been dying to put a face with that name.” Aunt Tab flitters about. She’ll do just about anything for a chance to play hostess.

“I have a date that night,” I say.

Bree’s attention lands on me, though she says nothing.

“You’re still seeing that Bennett boy?” Tab asks. “He seems very nice. We’d love to meet him sometime. You should bring him over for dinner! You could eat here and then afterwards, have your little date.”

I mean, I hadn’t decided if I was going to forgive him yet, but I’m not in the mood to explain the intricacies of the past week to my aunt and uncle over a plate of quiche Lorraine.

“That’s a great idea.” Vic nods. “Bree, you’re awfully quiet over there.”

“I have a headache. May I please be excused?” she asks, monotone.

“Of course, darling.” Tab places her hand over Bree’s.

I’m finished as well, so I excuse myself, only by the time I round the corner by the front door, Bree’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed.

“I saw you come home Saturday morning,” she says, lips puckered like the asshole she is.

“So?”

“You weren’t walking from Emily’s house. You were coming from a different direction.”

“And your point?”

Bree huffs. “You lied about where you were that night.”

“You lie about shit all the time.” I point at her chest. “Your entire fucking bra situation is a lie.”

She covers her chest, jaw hanging, and I push past her, heading up to my room, but she follows.

“I’m going to find out what you’re up to.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask, keeping my voice down. “Because you don’t want to go there with me.” Stepping back, I smirk. “Wait, this is about Thane. You’re jealous.”

Duh.

“No, I’m not,” she says, chin tilted up.

“You are so jealous.” Chuckling, I shake my head. “Doesn’t quite make up for the money you stole from me, but it’s somewhat vindicating.”

“I stopped liking Thane years ago, when he dated one of my best friends. We don’t double dip in my group.” Her nose lifts in the air.

“Best Friend? As in one of those girls you follow around like a lost puppy because you don’t actually have any real friends because you’re a boring little poser that nobody wants to hang out with?”

“I have friends,” she says, her words staccato and brusque, like she’s trying to convince herself as well.

“How come you don’t ever hang out with them outside the cafeteria? Why aren’t they blowing up your phone on the weekends?”

Her eyes water and her slender lips quiver. For a sliver of a second, I see Bree as a human being with feelings and not a humanoid Stepford daughter with a heart as black as coal.

“You’re such a bitch,” she says, wiping tears with the back of her hand. “I hate you.”

“For once we have something in common.”

“I wish you would just leave!” Bree runs to her room, slamming the door.

I don’t get the chance to tell her that the money she stole would’ve helped with allowing me to leave at will, but that’s neither here nor there.

Ambling toward my room, I lock the door behind me and yank my phone off the charger.

I miss talking to Kerouac.

On a whim, I reinstall the Karma app and unblock him just to see if he’s still around. Lo and behold, his profile is still there and the app tells me he hasn’t been active in four weeks … since we last spoke on the phone.

Settling into my bed, I compose a message:

To: [email protected]karma.com

From: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Oh, you.

Time: 6:35 PM

Message: Uncle Vic says he invited you to dinner on Friday. My aunt then suggested that we make it a thing and I bring Thane because everyone’s under the impression we’re still dating. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Guess I thought maybe you’d get a kick out of it. I know you don’t like him, and now you get to sit across from us at supper later this week while we hold hands and play footsy. Just kidding. I don’t do that shit. But don’t think I won’t be eye-fucking you every chance I get. Okay, kidding about that too. Kind of. You know I like to tease. Anyway. I don’t even know if you still get push notifications from this stupid app. For all I know I’m talking to dead air.

To: [email protected]karma.com

From: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: Oh, you.

Time: 6:38 PM

Message: I really don’t like that guy.

I laugh out loud, my stomach fluttering when I read his email.

To: [email protected]karma.com

From: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: Oh, you.

Time: 6:41 PM

Message: I know you don’t. I don’t either. I’m just using him to piss Bree off. No intentions of screwing him if that makes you feel better. Boys use girls for worse things than that all the time, so I figure it’s okay.

To: [email protected]karma.com

From: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: re: Oh, you.

Time: 6:43 PM

Message: You’re better than that. Not sure why you’re wasting your time.

To: [email protected]karma.com

From: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: re: re: Oh, you.

Time: 6:45 PM

Message: Is there a reason your responses are only one or two sentences? You know this app is 100% anonymous. There’s no way our conversations could ever be traced back to us.

To: [email protected]karma.com

From: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: Oh, you.

Time: 6:46 PM

Message: Well aware. But we shouldn’t be conversing at all.

To: [email protected]karma.com

From: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: re: Oh, you.

Time: 6:47 PM

Message: Then stop responding!

I bite my thumbnail, my lips overtaken by a mile-wide grin as I await his response.

But it never comes.

It’s all right. I got my Kerouac fix for tonight.