The bathroom fills and then empties.

Everyone has gone back to class. Except me. I'm in the last stall, too busy feeling sorry for myself.

How can I ever show my face in these halls again? What did I ever do to deserve this?

I said yes, for starters.

For the life of me, I can't remember why. Brody was never going to be a good fit for me. We have nothing in common. I'm not a cheerleader, star athlete, or all that popular in his circle. Aside from a little theater dancing, I'm about as unathletic as a girl could be. He's a year older—a senior—and likes cars I can't recall, teams I couldn't do more than name, and beer I can't stomach.

I knew of him before we started dating. The football players are treated like celebrities around here. Though undeniably attractive, I can't claim I was ever attracted to him beyond a lingering glance or fleeting thought. Our paths never seemed to cross, and no meaningful connection was ever made. I'm certainly not the type to swoon over someone so out of reach.

On Brody's end, I doubt he would have ever given me a second glance, either. There are a lot of attractive girls in this school, and there's no lack of talent. The range is truly impressive. You could find almost anything you're looking for. And most of them treat Brody as if he were some sort of God.

This all changed when I was asked to sing at the Homecoming game. I stuck the landing, musically speaking, and became the it-girl of the moment, I guess.

Our football team annihilated the competition that night, and the performance-high made Brody's forward manner seem charming.

My perfect summer ended in heartbreak, and "something different" seemed appealing for the new school year. Silas moved to California, and with his parents' support and financial backing, he's pursuing his acoustic singer-songwriter dreams and is having some success with it. Or so I've heard. Despite his promise to stay in touch, he hasn't said a word to me since his two-sentence text-message goodbye, and the appearance of his new, fun, irritatingly photogenic "best friend" on Instagram, like, five minutes later.

Dating the school's star quarterback wasn't a fair trade by any means, but for a day or two, I was "moving on" with the person who would bug Silas the most, assuming he still cared, which was no guarantee anyway.

Once the Homecoming buzz wore off, and I got a better sense of who Brody was off the field, I wasn't enamored. The red flags were many, and a new one seemed to pop up every time I turned around.

I've followed the good girlfriend rules to the best of my ability, but I don't live in a bubble. If someone is looking for trouble—like today—they can usually find it. I wasn't the intended punching bag, but it doesn't matter. I have a small cut on my face and a puffy cheekbone. Add that to my soiled sweater, water-logged singing voice, and social media assassination, and it is, by far, the worst day of my existence.

A "next time" with Brody won't ever come to be, though, and it provides the faintest glimmer of hope. If the rest of my life hadn't been ruined too, I could probably find it in myself to stop crying.

When the bathroom door opens, I don't think anything of it. I'm locked in the last stall, and there'd be no reason to come over here if any of the other stalls are still open.

I muffle my sobs, and intend to wait it out, like I've done a few times before. It's a big school, everyone has concerns of their own, and I'm about as far away from the spotlight as I could feasibly get. If it isn't interesting, no one cares.

The footsteps keep coming. I'm a bit startled by the shoes that appear. They're nice ones. Masculine. Not sneakers.

This is bad. My first thought is teacher or administrator. Just when things can't get any worse, I'm about to get into trouble for skipping class.

The knock is even more jarring and unexpected. "Is that you, Lila?"

Seriously, WTF. It's Evan, and I don't have a clue what to say to him. The first thing that comes to mind is completely idiotic. "You really shouldn't be in the girls' bathroom."

"Don't worry about me. I'd really have to try to get into trouble around here." Evan's new to school this year, and every adult seems to kiss up to him. I was never sure if I could rely on the source, but I heard that he's the mayor's new stepson and transferred from an exclusive all-boys private school in another district. Why? I have no idea. Girls, maybe? A better class rank? A more "well-rounded" high school experience? "When you're situated, can you please open the door?"

"Bad idea." I sniffle, grab another wad of toilet paper, and waste the effort trying to clean up my eyes. I put so much love and care into the extra makeup today, and now I'm literally smearing it all over my face and flushing it down the toilet. "I don't need you to see me like this. You'll laugh just like everyone else did."

"I didn't laugh the first time, and I don't intend to now. Can you please open up?"

I twist the lock and crack open the door. We're both startled again at how close we are. We're certainly more eye-to-eye than I could ever be with Brody, and I take comfort in that. I know all guys want to be "tall" and "strong," but there's something to be said for feeling "safe" and "equal."

Evan's eyes flutter, and his cheeks flush with color. "Sorry," he mutters for no reason. After a small step back, he pushes his glasses up and re-establishes eye contact once a companionable block of space is inserted. Then he hands me an ice pack. "It's for your face. It's the least I could do. And don't worry about any video footage. The principal is on top of it."

I've never seen him take an interest in any of the girls I know. I actually have two classes with him. Besides US History, we have French together. It's my strength besides music. History is certainly his strength, but I can't claim that French is a weakness. I wasn't aware he had one of those. Now I think I've stumbled upon one. Me, or girls like me—talented in some way. I thought he was a bit standoffish around people his age in general, but he's probably just shy, and I have to say, it's kind of adorable.

I'm not in any state to go out on a limb and say his weakness is me. He's just being a decent human being—also irresistible as hell—but, for the first time, I'm considering the possibility that there's more to it than that. He did seem to know a lot about me. He practically has an eidetic memory, but still, he'd need a reason to pay attention in the first place.

On top of all that, he's true to his word. He does not laugh.   

The stall door drifts open on its own. I step into the opening, drop my backpack by the wall, and accept the ice pack. "Thank you." I lean against the side of the stall and rest it against the tender spot on my cheekbone.

He nods nervously and pockets his hands. "Are you all right?"

I look down at my ruined sweater, glance at myself in the mirror across the way, and cringe at my reflection. "I'm not sure how to answer that."

He pulls out a hand to check his watch. "You still have an hour and a half." He's talking about the tryouts for The Wizard of Oz.

The laugh that bubbles up is cynical, and it triggers the release of more tears. "Do you really think I'm still going?"

"You should." He goes into the stall next to mine and comes out with a fresh wad of toilet paper. "You're so good."

"Wait." I accept the offering and dab at my eyes. They're not dry by any means, but they suddenly feel drier. "You've heard me sing?"

"I was at that game, too," he informs me, rocking on his heels, his hands back in his pockets. "You know, the one where you ended up with the quarterback?" His tone is dark, and his hypnotically blue eyes are all aflutter.

It makes me smirk, despite it all. His disdain for the "type" obviously goes deeper than just the lunch-tray incident.

"Yeah, rings a bell," I retort, matching his tone. "I would have taken the best offer, but I can't seem to recall any better ones." I casually check my nailbeds.

Yes, I'm flirting with him, but no, I'm not prepared for the consequences—good, bad, or indifferent. It's a bit too soon. Evan is what I want, and he has been for most of the school year so far, but he doesn't know that in so many words, and I was, as of half-an-hour ago, still dating the quarterback.

Still, I can't miss it. Hope seems to balloon through the room, and that's saying something. We're in a public-school bathroom. And like you'd expect, it's grimly institutional, and the smell is a combination of bleach, stale perfume, and smoke. I suppose we're lucky we're not in the men's room...

"Fair point," he acknowledges, and he corrects those glasses again. Maybe it's his way of deflecting. "Anyway, back to the matter at hand, the part is yours for the taking. It's like they picked The Wizard of Oz with you in mind. Even on a bad day, you truly have no competition."

"This is a bad day," I remind him, pulling out my sweater and angling it toward the light. "And that's not true. There's always..."

"Sadie Prescott?" he correctly recounts, and he spits her name out with such disdain. "She's probably overconfident and underprepared, and she doesn't have your range. You said so yourself."

"I was. . ." 

He really was listening.

"Trying to stay positive," I continue. "Unfortunately, she's a senior and the president of the drama club." Her resume is impressive, and she has the ego to match. And she's an amazing dancer, something I'm really not. "They could always get her a wig..."

I may "look the part" a little better, but that would only be a small point in my favor. If they prefer Sadie, they could certainly make it work.

The thought is cut short by the thump of the bathroom door. The girl coming in seems the bossy, busybody type. Sixteen going on middle-aged . . . that sort of thing. Surprisingly, though, when she sees a boy in the girls' room, she just scoffs and rolls her eyes, and then goes about her business, closing herself into the first stall.

"And you're just going to bow down and let her have it? No..." He answers his own question. "You're braver than that, and I'm grateful for it. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for everything . . . just . . . not the breakup part." His cheeks go pink again, but he digs up some courage too and meets my eyes directly . . . for the third time today. I'd call it a new record. "That, I'm proud of. The best part of my day is knowing that you're free of that asshole."

"Wow, tell me how you really feel."

He responds with a slight laugh. There's more to that story, but he seems to change gears. "I have an idea..." He's already reaching for the hem of his sky-blue Polo shirt. Though he takes the extra care to keep the undershirt down, I get a glimpse of some nicely toned abs. It dawns on me that I don't know much about him and what he does in his spare time. It'll be the first thing I ask, when it's not so obvious that the glimpse is the reason I'm asking.

Before I'm caught staring, I toss the ice pack and toilet paper to the sink countertop and reach for my sweater. I attempt to pull it off with a similar degree of caution. I have a sheer white cami underneath, but it's only something I'd wear lounging around my room on a ninety-degree day. It was never meant for school, or boy, or anyone's eyes. It's definitely not something I would ever wear to impress our new theater director.

Evan has his shirt off before I do. And I catch his eyes lingering on me for a millisecond too long. If I blinked, I would have missed it. I'm glad I didn't, because, now I know.

It's more than just the voice. He likes what he sees, too. And it's like the wave of a magic wand. The atrociousness of the day seems to dissipate. I was getting better as soon as he knocked on the stall door, and now I think I am better. Hopefully, my voice will rise to the occasion, too. I can't make any promises, though. It can handle straightforward stage fright as well as can be expected, but during times of crisis, it can be more sensitive and volatile than I am. I'm not sure calming down and cleaning up can really fix that by the end of school.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" I drop the sweater on my backpack and take the shirt he's so generously offering.

He shrugs one shoulder. "I have a lightweight jacket in my locker. It really isn't a big deal. I'm happy to help. And please, don't cry," he says to me while I'm trying to sort out the armholes and neck-hole and get his shirt over my head without completely ruining my hair. "He really isn't worth your tears."

In the mirror, I tame a few flyaways and tuck in the shirt. It may be too long, but it's snug where it counts, and honestly, it doesn't look half bad. With the plaid skirt, it's very prep-school chic. The colors aren't a match, but they complement each other decently enough.

My skirt earns one minor frown. There's some crud on it too, but luckily the pattern is more forgiving. I don't think anyone else would really notice. 

I wait for the girl in the bathroom to wash her hands and leave, and then I turn to Evan and correct the one strand of his hair that's out of place. "I know," I say to him, almost intimately close.

He doesn't back away. "And you'll do fine," he says after a visible gulp. 

I look up and attempt to smile. "Thank you."

He smells so good, and now I smell like him. It draws me to him, the chemistry practically sizzling, at least from my standpoint. He lets me hug him, and I tear up again, but for a much different reason. It's because I'm reluctant to let go. Sensing my hesitation, or experiencing something similar, he takes my back in his hands and lets the embrace linger.

The bathroom door opens and closes again. We break apart fairly quickly, but we receive a "get a room," nonetheless.

High school rears its ugly head once again. It brings on the awkwardness, but Evan has a knack for getting us around it. "Can you meet me in the courtyard later?"

It should be empty. Sports and other activities let out on the other side of the building.

"Sure," I answer without a pause for thought. "I can give you your shirt back." I tag on, hoping I didn't sound overeager.

"Right," he agrees. "That's exactly why." And there's the sarcasm. "I can't live without it and will need it back as soon as you're done with it."

"In that case, I'll hurry," I play along.

"You do that."

"Cool..."

"All right..."

"See you then..."