AS IT TURNS OUT, IT’S hard to say no to a kindhearted lady who is old enough to be your grandmother, so the dog gets to stay.

“His name is Wallis,” Nonnie told us as she scratched behind his ears. “He’s been at the Cedarville shelter for almost three years! Can you believe that? How could no one adopt this darling?”

I wouldn’t exactly use the word darling to describe Wallis. He is basically a small horse. His paws are nearly the size of my own hands and every time he pants, globs of drool drip on the floor.

When I was little, I used to beg Grams for a puppy. I swore on my favorite pajama bottoms that I’d take care of it—including cleaning up its poo.

But Grams always objected. “When you learn to make that bed of yours every mornin’, maybe I’ll believe you.”

She was right. I couldn’t even last one stinking week without forgetting, and she was always there to remind me.

“If you’re not responsible enough to make a bed, then how on earth are you going to take care of a livin’ creature?”

I screamed at her—told her I hated her—and slammed my bedroom door. Of course my dad made me apologize later. And I did, because I could never, ever hate Grams for long.

“When you’re older, I promise we’ll think about it,” she’d told me.

I stare at the slobbery beast in front of me. This is not what I’d had in mind when I wished for a puppy.

Nonnie and Saylor spend Sunday trying to teach him basic commands out in the backyard. Peach hangs outside with them and reads one of her romance novels in the hammock. She’s not wearing heels, but she is sporting a long magenta skirt paired with a cream-colored blouse. It’s very 1950s of her. I don’t know how she doesn’t suffocate from the heat.

I spend most of Sunday finishing my homework and texting Lin. She’s helping organize Earth Club’s first “Pick Up the Park” this Saturday at Winsor Lake. I was able to use my limited Photoshop skills to design flyers that we’re going to hang around school tomorrow morning.

Everyone gathered downstairs to watch a movie later in the evening. It sounded like a comedy judging by the amount of laughter coming from the living room. I knew I would be welcomed if I went downstairs to join them, but I didn’t. I still felt like a stranger in my own home.

On Monday, I get up extra early to get ready for school. It rained last night and clouds still hover thick in the air, which means it’s going to be a sticky, humid day. I pull on my favorite pale-yellow button-down paired with my floral purple skirt and slide into a simple pair of flats. Then I grab my book bag and keys before I step out of my room, grateful to have my own transportation to school.

I’m coming down the last few stairs when I hear the pounding of feet against the wooden floor. This is followed by a deep woof! Before I can turn back around, Wallis comes barreling toward me. I back up a step, but that doesn’t stop him. He jumps up and tries to lick my face, his muddy paws staining the bottom of my shirt and the entire front of my skirt.

“No, down!” I stumble under his weight, grabbing the banister for balance. “Bad dog!”

Of course, he doesn’t listen. His tongue flops out of his mouth as he continues to paw at me.

Saylor and Nonnie rush into the hall. Saylor grabs Wallis by his new collar, but the damage is done. Mud prints and clumps of dirt are smeared down the front of my carefully chosen outfit.

I. Am. Livid.

“Sorry!” Nonnie says. She has those giant curlers in her hair and her pink zebra-print bathrobe wrapped around her. “I was letting him out back—it’s really muddy out there—but he barreled inside before I could stop him. He’s a big people person.”

My blood boils. I stare down at my ruined shirt. Saylor is struggling to hold Wallis back, but it’s clear he’s ready to lunge at me again.

“Just get him out of here,” I snap.

“He doesn’t know any better,” Saylor mumbles as he turns back down the hall.

Really? The dog is getting sympathy? I suppress the urge to roll my eyes as I run back to my room. I find a clean skirt and a pale-blue top in my closet and cinch it with one of my brown belts. I adjust my lotus necklace in the mirror before heading back downstairs and out the door.

My mildly pissed off attitude spikes to high levels of annoyance as the day wears on. At lunch, Breck mentions having a party at his place this weekend since his parents will be visiting his older sister in Boulder. Then Jay says he can get these college girls to bring the beer because—and I quote—they are “obsessed” with him. This earns a well-deserved shove from Whitney, but he doesn’t apologize.

“What?” He feigns innocence. “Do you not want beer at a party?”

Whitney glares at him. “That’s not the issue.”

Jay shrugs it off, even though his tiny, overconfident smile reveals his awareness of the issue.

It’s weird. Even though he wears the same basketball tee and familiar pair of worn jeans, it’s like he’s grown into this new level of smugness that radiates some serious douche canoe vibes. I think back to when I’d caught him staring at Jana’s cleavage last week in history. I wonder if he’s still the type of guy who types out sweet late night texts or spends time building the classic model car kits he used to love.

I wonder if I even know him at all.

It doesn’t get better after lunch.

“Miss Seneca,” Mrs. Donaldson says as soon as I step foot into Algebra II. “Will you please join me at my desk?”

My heart sinks to my toes. I know this is about Friday. As much as I’d love to bolt again, I don’t. I adjust the strap of my book bag and walk over to her.

Mrs. Donaldson ignores the students filing in the classroom. She pushes a blue slip of paper in front of me. No no no NO. This can’t be happening. My dad will kill me if I have detention.

“You are not allowed to rush out of here before the bell or before I dismiss the class,” Mrs. Donaldson says. “Furthermore, you are not to be wandering the halls without a pass while classes are in session.”

I don’t bring up the fact that there were only two minutes left of class on Friday when I bailed. Instead I mumble a faint, “Yes ma’am.”

“I expect to see you in detention at three thirty on the dot.” She leans back in her desk chair. “No exceptions.”

I swipe the slip from her desk and walk toward my assigned seat. Crap. Not only is my dad going to kill me, but I’m going to miss Earth Club with Lin.

My heart hammers with nerves as I sink into my desk. That’s when my eyes catch a blue slip sitting on top of the desk beside me. I look over to see Alex pulling his textbook out of his backpack. He glances over when he sees me staring, his eyes wandering to my own blue slip.

“Mrs. Donaldson didn’t go easy on you, either?”

I shake my head. It’s silly, but I feel like I might cry. I’ve never had detention before, and this is definitely not the way I want to start off the school year.

I can still feel Alex looking at me, so I preoccupy myself with pulling out my notebook. I can feel the tears well up behind my eyes.

“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

I don’t say anything. I’m afraid my voice might break if I try.

Mrs. Donaldson walks in front of the board and begins to talk about linear equations. I can feel Alex’s gaze lingering on me for another moment before he turns to his spiral and begins scribbling down notes.

I try and absorb the information in front of me, but I’m too upset over receiving detention. The numbers and steps are a scrambled mess of incoherence. I write down notes anyway, hoping I’ll be able to make sense of them when I do homework tonight.

In my peripheral vision, I see Alex’s hand moving as he copies Mrs. Donaldson’s steps. He doesn’t look as tired as he did last week. No red eyes or dark circles are apparent. His dark curls are still effortlessly tousled on top of his head, but they look a little tamer today. Did he get a trim over the weekend? I’m not sure.

I’m also not sure why he decided to go all Rebel Without a Cause on Friday. I overheard a few students talking about it in the halls this morning but other than that it seems like it’s old news, which is completely fine by me.

My blue detention slip stares at me from the corner of my desk. I hope it doesn’t affect my spot on the Wavettes. What if Coach Velasquez finds out and decides I’m a troublemaker? I can’t get kicked off the team. This is going to help bring me closer to Whitney and Raegan.

I suffer through my last three classes and when the final bell rings, I book it toward A hall before anyone can see me sneaking into the detention classroom.

Room 112 is a craphole. This is where all the unloved, broken teaching materials are collected and left behind. There’s a large crack in the whiteboard that hangs on the wall. Nearly all the desktops have been vandalized with some kind of sharp object, declaring things like Mr. Harris sucks old man balls. Even the clock is permanently stuck at 2:14. Probably as some kind of mental torture to make our time here feel even longer.

The classroom is empty except for Alex. Mrs. Donaldson motions me to come to her desk and when I do, she hands me a thick packet. The front page reads: Algebra II Practice Problems.

“I expect you to complete as much of this as you can,” she tells me.

Great. More math. I take a seat a few desks away from Alex and set my book bag on the ground, then I start digging around in the front pocket for a pencil.

Mrs. Donaldson stands up. She heaves a canvas bag over her shoulder and looks between the two of us.

“I need to make copies for tomorrow’s lesson,” she tells us. “I’ll be right around the corner in the teachers’ lounge. You both are to stay put and work on that algebra packet. Do you understand?”

Alex and I mumble “yes ma’am” and bend over our work. I think of what Peach told me about her mom. How she said the DMV had to be one of Dante’s nine circles of hell. I think another layer includes being stuck in this classroom doing algebra for all of eternity.

I try and concentrate on the packet. Most of the problems are from lessons we learned last week. I’m able to get through a few of the easy ones, but the majority of them stump me.

I glance at Alex. He’s bent over his work, his thick brows furrowed together like he’s deep in concentration. But I notice he completes each problem relatively quickly. It must come easy for him. He’s already on the second page of the packet, which means he could have easily beat me in Radical Races on Friday.

So, why didn’t he?

I set down my pencil. Loudly. “Why’d you do it?”

Alex stops writing, then slowly turns to look at me. He has this expression on his face like it’s obvious, but obviously it isn’t.

He takes a moment before he speaks. “I don’t know… you choked.” He folds his arms and shrugs. “And, I don’t know.”

Humiliation sweeps over me. I can feel the heat starting in my stomach and rising to my cheeks. I shouldn’t care what Alex thinks of my intelligence, but I do.

“So you felt sorry for me? Because I’m stupid?”

Alex sighs. “You’re not stupid.”

I don’t let up. “Then why?”

Alex unfolds his arms. Picks up his pencil. Taps it on his desk. Then he looks at me again. “I was in your algebra class. Freshman year, remember?” I do. We didn’t have seat assignments, so I sat in the back, whispering back and forth with Whitney most of the time. “And no offense or anything, but you weren’t very good at those races then, either.”

So he does think I’m stupid. Shame eats away at me. Why couldn’t I come back from Portland smarter and more sophisticated?

“And I hate how Mrs. D puts us on the spot with those races. She never asks if anyone needs clarification or if we want to run through more examples.” Alex leans over and grabs his beanie from his backpack. He places it on his head. It tames his mass of curls, making his brown eyes seem a little rounder. Softer. “So yeah, maybe I wanted to prove a point. I knew I could deflect the attention away from you if I did.”

I let out a hot breath of air. How dare he think of me as charity. I don’t need anyone’s help, especially not in frigging algebra class.

Alex studies me. “You’re mad.”

“You’re observant,” I snap.

He holds his hands up in defense. “I was just trying to help.”

“Well look where your help landed us.”

“No.” Alex’s tone is harsh now. “This is where your decision landed you.” He leans over in the seat. “You never even saw my answer. You ran out too quickly.”

Dammit. He’s right, and he knows it. This would be so much easier if I could just blame him. Instead I say nothing.

We go back to our work. I can’t help but run his words back through my mind. I just wanted to help. Why? Especially after I ignored his text message all those months ago.

Unless those feelings never went away?

I keep my head down, peering at him through my peripheral vision. He has a pencil in one hand. The other is propped up on his chin as he studies his packet. He’s distant, not exactly the eager freshman who’d find any excuse to talk to me during classes and text me after each new Supernatural episode.

I’m overthinking this. Of course he’s moved on.

“Thank you,” I say.

Alex looks over at me.

I take a breath. “You’re right. I didn’t know what I was doing up there, so… thanks.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

I turn to my packet. A moment later, I hear him riffling through his backpack. When I look over he goes, “You hungry?”

I give him a confused stare.

Alex sits up in his seat. “Go long.”

He tosses a ball of foil toward me. I catch it.

“Oh,” I say. “Is this—?”

He stands up and moves a few desks closer to mine. As he sets his bag down, I peel away the foil. Inside is pan dulce—a sweet bread his mom always had ready at the restaurant.

“I haven’t had this since—”

I stop myself. I was about to say since Grams bought some from Rosita’s Place for my birthday two years ago, but I don’t want to bring her up. I don’t want Alex to think that I’m giving him an opening to talk about her. It’s still sometimes hard to talk about her without getting emotional.

Luckily Alex doesn’t mind my unfinished thought. “My mom and I made them this morning.”

Alex’s family owns Rosita’s Place—an authentic Mexican restaurant right off Main Street. The recipes are from his great-great-grandmother and have been a huge success in Cedarville.

He unravels the foil on his own pan dulce and sticks a hunk in his mouth. I do the same.

“Oh my god.” My tongue is coated in sugar and carbs and it’s the best thing ever. “I missed these.”

Alex smiles.

I wait until I’m done chewing before saying, “Wait, you made these this morning? Like before school?”

“Yeah, it was my idea. I was up early helping her make tamales, anyway. It’s kind of a long process, but we finished this morning. My mom’s running a special this week.”

“Do you work there now?” I ask. “At Rosita’s?”

His face flushes. “I, uh. Just recently. My mom needs a little more help right now.”

I can tell I brought up a sore subject for whatever reason, so I change course. “Thanks for sharing,” I say as I polish off the last of mine. “Do you normally carry pan dulce with you in your backpack?”

He crumples up his foil into a ball. “Only on theater days when I don’t have time to go home and eat.”

“So your mom thinks you’re doing theater stuff?”

Alex shrugs. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

I laugh. “I wish I had an excuse. My dad’s going to kill me when he finds out.”

Alex stares at me like I’ve sprouted another head off the side of my neck. “So… don’t tell him?”

“Oh.” I blink a few times. He already thinks I’m at Earth Club with Lin. I don’t necessarily need to tell him otherwise. “Um. Wow, yeah. That could work.” I give him a sideways glance. “Who knew you had a bad side?”

He shrugs. “I don’t make a habit of it.”

What does that mean? Am I an exception?

I stare at him a beat too long. He looks away.

I try to go back to my work, but I’m officially stuck. I’ve skipped around and completed all the easy problems. I’m completely blindsided by the ones that have strings of letters attached to them. Why does algebra contain so many letters? Aren’t numbers complicated enough?

Alex leans over in his desk, his eyes focused on my packet. “What’d you get for thirty-two?”

I stare down at my work. “Uh, I sort of skipped around.” Then I shoot him a playful glare. “Why are you asking me anyway? I suck, remember?”

Instead of answering my question, he reaches over and flips my packet toward his line of vision. I watch him study my work, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. I don’t know why. It’s not like my algebra struggle is a secret. It’s why we’re both here.

I take the opportunity to study his profile as he scans my worksheet. He has a really great chin. I don’t tend to notice people’s chins, so I don’t know why I notice his. It curves neatly into a sturdy plane, jutting out slightly as he concentrates.

“Okay.” His liquid brown eyes meet mine. “You’re hopeless.”

“W-what?” Shame coats every bone in my body. Am I really that bad? How the hell am I going to survive the rest of this year?

Alex laughs. “I’m joking, sorry! You’re not hopeless.” He leans in closer. He smells nice, like spicy boy deodorant and laundry detergent. “It looks like you haven’t gotten the hang of a few steps, that’s all.”

“Great,” I say, defeated.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not much better. Ana’s been helping me with my homework. She had Mrs. Donaldson last year.”

I remember Alex’s two older sisters, Ana and Marlina. Marlina graduated last year, but Ana’s a senior this year. I first met them in the sixth grade when I went to Alex’s house to complete our Ancient Egypt history project.

“She tutors, you know,” he continues. “She’s starting back up this week in the library if you ever need extra help.” I feel my face warm again. I think he picks up on this because he goes, “If I didn’t get to bug her at home, I would go. I wouldn’t have passed math these last two years without her.”

I smile at him. I don’t know why he’s being so nice to me after what I did to put us both here, but I appreciate it.

Footsteps click down the hall. Alex slides out of the seat next to me and hands me my packet. Then, quietly, he walks over to his desk. I bend over my worksheet and pretend to work.

Mrs. Donaldson returns with a stack of papers in her hand. She sets them down on the desk and says, “Packets, please.”

We hand them to her. She glances over them briefly before saying, “Thank you. You’re free to go.”

The two of us gather our things and head out the door without a word. When we’re a few feet down the hall Alex says, “How much do you want to bet she’ll look over our work tonight as a bit of late night pleasure reading?”

The corners of my mouth lift into a smile. Somehow we’ve fallen in step together as we make our way to the parking lot. “She probably dreams of polynomials and parabolas.”

“Instead of counting backwards to fall asleep, she counts backwards from the square root of fifty.”

I laugh. It feels nice, talking and joking around like we used to. Alex holds the door for me and I step outside. Our cars are some of the few left in the junior/senior lot. Everyone else has gone home.

Alex turns to me. “Here.” He pulls a piece of candy from his jeans pocket. “For the ride home.”

I don’t recognize the bright-yellow wrapper, but I accept it anyway. “Pulparindo?” I say, reading the label.

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s very good.”

I curl the packet into my hand. “Thanks,” I tell him. “For… everything.”

From the way he smiles at me, I can tell he understands.

I think about confronting him about the text to complete at least one of my steps, but my nerves stop me. We walk our separate ways to our cars. Once I’m inside, I unwrap the packaging and tear off a bite. And—it’s not what I expect. The texture is like sandpaper, but the flavors are a mixed medley of sweet, spicy, and tangy.

I send off a quick text.

ME: starbursts still hold the #1 place in my heart

His reply comes quickly. I look over to see if he’s left the parking lot. He hasn’t. His truck is still sitting there.

ALEX: blasphemy.

Then:

ALEX: glad you liked the pan dulce :)

I slide my phone into the cup holder and put my key in the ignition. I find myself enjoying the spicy, sticky sweet taste that lingers on my tongue the rest of the drive home.