I feel great. I can do this.

Unfortunately, this is high school. As soon as I think I have things figured out, it inevitably has other plans.

Maybe I did fail that Precalculus test, or perhaps I'll be forced into a confrontation with Brody. We've only been together for three weeks, but it's long overdue.

You might wonder why I've been putting it off.

Well . . . I wanted to get today over with and . . . I'm not sure how he'll take it.

I wouldn't usually go for a football player, but what can I say? I was reeling from my breakup with Silas, the only boy I've ever loved, and "trying something new" was supposed to take my mind off him.

It didn't.

But you can't say I didn't try.

I sang The Star-Spangled Banner at Homecoming, Brody made a point to talk to me afterwards, and the rest is possessive, controlling, territorial history.

And speak of the devil, Brody turns around the moment I enter the lunchroom. He glares at me, like, where were you, and then pats the tiny seat he saved for me between him and one of his odious teammates.

It's uncanny how in-tune he is to my presence. Is it fear he smells or the mental betrayal? He isn't the boy I'm thinking of when I close my eyes at night. To be honest, that isn't Silas, these days, either. It's too emotionally draining to think of him. To think of them both. I'd rather be calm, content, and, well, sleeping.  

I force a smile and give Brody a one-minute signal. I may be late, but it's not by much. I just spent a few too many minutes with my head in my locker, looking over my lyrics. I think I've got it down, but I like to quiz myself throughout the day.

Regarding my lunch, I'm not quite as lucky. I was fussing with my hair for too long this morning. Brody arrived early and began leaning on the horn of his truck as if a fog was coming in, and I didn't have a chance to put one together. I never eat school lunch if I can help it, but I dug up an emergency twenty-dollar bill, and I suppose it's in my best interest to locate something edible.

I check one pocket and then the other. . .

Did I lose it?

On the third try, the folded corner catches on my wrist. The bill drops to the floor, and when I turn to pick it up. . . 

Someone runs into me with a lunch-tray full of food.

With the weather cooling off, I finally found a reason to wear the cream-colored sweater I splurged on last spring. It's an important day for me, and it was so meticulously and lovingly selected to match my favorite skirt.

I look down and want to cry. I'm covered in pizza, minestrone soup, and a splash of chocolate milk.

Looking up is a mistake, too. We make eye contact. It's brief but intense. He's terrified. I'm horrified.

Evan has these haunting blue eyes that his glasses do nothing to hide. It's certainly not the first time I've noticed, but it is the first time I've been this close to him. I'd need weeks to prepare, and yet here I am, speechless and dumbfounded, with a greasy glob of cheese stuck to the fuzz of my sweater.

I wish I could just yell at him and be done with it, but I can't find the words, because a) it was technically my fault, b) I just don't have it in me. This "nice girl" tendency is amplified by c) my secret crush on him—he is the boy I'm thinking of when I shouldn't be, and d) the sentence he's able to spit out first. "I am soooo sorry."

He hands me his crumpled napkin and squats down to pick up the mess.

While he's busy with that, I go to work on my sweater. "It's okay," I reply, even though it isn't.

"What the hell just happened?"

Brody arrives in time to make everything worse. It's the exact moment Evan is on one knee, handing me the twenty-dollar bill. He proceeds to stand up with the tray of spoiled lunch teetering in his grip.

"Uh..." His eyes drift upward. For a boy of medium build—if I'm being generous—the angle would suggest that death is imminent. I've never seen him at such a loss for words. "It's not, well . . . you see..." I've seen him take on my US History teacher on almost any topic and win, and he's one of the best teachers in the district.

Brody looks at the splotch of tomato sauce on my breast and his face flushes to match. "Maybe you should watch where you're going, Dumbass. She has a choir thing later."

"Drama tryouts," Evan corrects him. "For The Wizard of Oz, the winter musical. She's going for Dorothy."

These details would be extraneous and inconsequential to Brody. Singing is a big part of who I am, and "choir" would be the safest guess, sort of like stating the obvious, but I'm still impressed he linked it to my plans for the afternoon. It means, to a degree, he was half-paying attention to me on the drive to school this morning.

"What did you just say to me?" Brody looks the fool by comparison, and he's smart enough to realize that.

Evan is not only more precise; he's also accurate. He must have gleaned this information from the brief conversation I was having with my friend, Reagan, at the start of History.

My intentions weren't a secret or anything, and I wasn't making any effort to keep my voice down. Still, as brilliant as Evan is—he'd only have to hear it once—it comes as a shock that he bothered to tune in. From what I can remember, he was reviewing his notes. The sun was hitting the back of his perfect haircut. If he had turned around at all, or acknowledged my existence at any time prior, I definitely would have remembered.

I stop blotting my sweater. It's hopeless, anyway. "It's fine." I put a hand on Brody's chest when his body lurches forward.

Not knowing anything about Evan, Brody would consider this encounter a declaration of interest. On his "territory," it would be trespassing. He'd feel compelled to even the score. It's in his wiring. It's what the school loves him for.

My intervention works until he realizes that I'm protecting Evan. Pushing past me with a grunt, he takes a swing at Evan's messy tray. It goes flying to the side.

"Hey!" some other girl shouts as the tray finds its next victim.

Half of the lunchroom was already staring. At this point, we're probably going "live." A notorious class prankster is hovering next to us, his phone up, and he has that spry, ready-for-anything stance.

"Look." Evan takes another step back. "I'm sorry. I don't want any trouble."

I slip into the gap he left. "Brody. . ." I'm standing directly in front of him, looking way up. My raised hands are just a symbolic gesture. That's probably why they're shaking. "It was an accident. Don't do this."

He keeps prowling closer. Evan and I are forced to inch backwards. We slip into an alcove, free of any higher authority.

Everyone starts chanting fight, fight, fight. The trash-talk feeds the fire and fans the flame.

"She's cheating on him!"

"Kick his ass!"

As untrue as that may be, our time is up. Detonation has been triggered.

Brody attempts to nudge me out of the way, but the momentum goes awry. It's the chocolate milk I've been tracking with my shoes. Plus, I'm determined to stay put. And when he attempts to hit Evan, I'm not where he anticipated. His elbow clips my cheekbone, and while I cringe to the side, wincing from the pain, Brody stumbles into me, and I go flying sideways.

My arms go up in time to protect myself from face-planting, but I hit my knees really hard and collapse to my stomach. The moment I feel a breeze on my ass, the crowd bursts out laughing. Before I even come to a full stop, I'm fumbling for the back of my skirt. It takes an excruciatingly long time just to locate the damn thing. Of course it flipped all the way up. Of course I'm wearing cheeky underwear with a heart print and have a major wedgie.

I have no doubt the cameras are zooming in. I'll be everyone's favorite meme for the rest of my known life.

By the time I get my skirt beneath me and my ass on the floor, my clothes are filthy, my hair is a mess, and I'm ugly-crying.

It seems Brody is no longer in the mood to quarrel. My disgrace is apparently the extinguishing agent.

He's still smirking when he offers me his hand. I swat it away and intend to tell him exactly how I feel. How I've honestly felt for a while now. I just couldn't find the right time or place. I was just too nervous, too scared, too inexperienced. There were never enough witnesses, and I was never quite angry or feeling reckless enough to speak the truth. Now I am, and it changes everything.

"We're done here. I never want to see you again!"

Then I find my feet and storm off to avoid the fallout. I've already been burned enough for one day.