“You and your uppity, snooty-ass palate. Palates don’t have anything to do with pizza. Boo, I’m super hungry, and I can’t wait until one. I went six miles this morning,” Cass whines, accentuating each word just to irritate me.

“That voice? That’s never going to work on me, just FYI. Look, wait until twelve thirty or so, and I can meet you. I’ll be done by then with whatever lame thing we’re doing in here today,” I say.

“Fine,” Cass huffs. “But you’re eating pizza then. None of that salad and rabbit food crap you pull.”

“Whatever,” I say, clicking my phone to silent and slipping it in the side of my bag. I turn to face the seat and my legs come square with another set, and when I look up I realize they belong to a pair of khaki pants and a plain button-down, tucked in to perfection—the bearded chin trimmed neatly as if to mimic the perfect lines of the horn-rimmed glasses that sit above. It’s the professor.

“Glad to know that my lame plans for the day aren’t going to interfere with whatever that was,” he says, circling his finger in the air, pointing to the pocket I stuffed my phone in. I’m not a big fan of being made an example of—clearly.

“No, they shouldn’t,” I say, lips tight as I take my seat and pull out my notebook and pen.

“Shouldn’t what?” he asks. Heads are turning now. He picked the wrong example to make.

“Your tired, decade-old lesson plans for class shouldn’t interfere with my lunch plans,” I respond. He remains in his place for a few seconds, brow lowered—then chuckles to himself and raps his knuckles on my desktop as he continues his path to the front of the class. A few girls sitting a row in front of me are still turned my direction. I don’t look up again, only raising my finger and twirling it so they know the show is over and they can face the front again.

The professor begins speaking and writing notes, most of which I recognize—from high school a year ago—about the various parts of the spine. The few times we make eye contact, there’s a silent acknowledgement of our brief interaction. Yes, young lady, I know this lesson is lame. But you’ll pass this class easily, and still others will fail.

My phone chirps again, the vibration triggering against my leg. I pull the phone up from the bag to my lap, glancing at the screen to see a text from Houston.

Nate invited us to his tournament this weekend. Cass wants you to go. I was supposed to tell you that a few days ago, but I got…distracted.

Biting my lip to hide the smile Houston puts on my face, I glance back up to the front of the class, the professor now engrossed in his own voice, the entire row in front of me staring at him with expressions of blankness—which match the notes they’ve written on their many empty computer screens. He’s right; a lot of these people are still going to fail.

I write back to Houston.

Ok. We’ll go.

I hit SEND and get a response from him almost immediately.

What are we doing here, Paige? What is this thing between us?

I liked his first question better. Yes, I’ll go to a baseball tournament with you. That’s an easy answer. The second question, unless he is expecting me to respond with we’re texting, that’s what we’re doing, which I very much doubt, is the kind riddled with expectations and pitfalls. That question is full-blown butterflies and fairytales. And I just kicked that shit out of my head. Okay, so maybe it was five minutes ago, but I kicked that shit out all the same.

Leah, Leah, Leah.

My finger is hovering over the response area when another message from him sneaks in.

Shit. That was not one of those SEND texts. That was supposed to be pretend.

Too late, Houston. It’s out there now.

Guess I can’t really take that back though, huh?

I write back quickly, because at least this part I can answer.

No.

Thank god he doesn’t text again. I check about a kajillion more times anyhow, because fucking butterflies and fairytales! But my answer is always the only thing left to see.

No.

That’s the only word I see. No, no, no, no, no! I close my eyes, morphing it into Leah, Leah, Leah, Leah, Leah.

The class begins to shuffle notes and students are getting to their feet, which means it’s time to switch rooms and move to the lab. For added measure, I pair myself with the girl who usually sits up front and asks lots of questions. She’s one of those thorough students, and even though I don’t need her help for my grade, I do need her to stretch out this dissection assignment. I also need to see my sister—and her friend Rowe—for lunch, to talk about boy problems, which makes me want to throw up. Not because I don’t like talking about guys, and plotting and gossip. I just don’t like talking about feelings. I’m actually a little grateful Rowe will be there. She won’t pry like Cass. She’ll let me pretend things are hypothetical. I wonder if I can find a way to get my sister to leave? Probably not.