I was always perpetually angry.

On the cusp of teenagehood, I'd believed it was the shifting hormones. My body was adjusting to all those things Mrs. Spears told us about in that one PTA-induced sexual literacy class in seventh grade. I had so many questions, and my body probably thought it was unfair to suddenly be so invaded. That had to be it.

But two days into the second half of junior year, as Tate McAvoy desperately wiped at an amoebic coffee stain on the front of my beige sweater dress, I was finally willing to accept that this never had anything to do with puberty.

It was strange—the type of situations that brought epiphany.

When the ball of tissue in her hand turned brown and weak, she leaned back and joined the petite Lou next to her to observe just how much she'd worsened the stain. She wore a baby blue turtleneck tucked into white cargo pants, and paired it with chunky sneakers that made her meet my height. Her hair, deep brown like molasses, was held up in space buns, with some strands intentionally left loose. Her glittery eye makeup softly caught the morning sunlight, and combined with her spotless, even skin, she almost glowed. I hated it. I knew that much.

A moment passed in silence, and her pink mouth curled into an expression I wasn't able to attach to anything other than disgust.

"I think the universe just knew you looked cuter than me today and didn't like that," she finally said, and it took me a great deal of self-control not to scoff. Because of course she expected me to believe it was completely accidental that she lost her ability to handle a Venti.

"I mean, it could be worse," Lou added, taking a sip of said Venti, now in her care. It was most likely an iced caramel macchiato with extra caramel sauce. Tate didn't like to hear it, but she was the most predictable person I knew.

Which was why I wasn't at all surprised when, despite the fact that she'd made such a show of me in Wyland High School's parking lot, she gave Lou an appreciative look and said, "At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm your spirit animal." She made a vague gesture with her hand and tipped her chin up slightly. "You're starting to have my outlook on life."

It was barely eight a.m., and I may have been tripping, but that didn't make any sense. Lou wasn't going to tell her, even if she noticed, because that was how it had always been. Tatum was always right. She was resident wise woman. Opposing her led to you being on the guilt-tripped end of victim culture, made you feel like the wrongdoer rather than the wronged.

I released a sigh and leaned away from her Ford, hiking my backpack up my shoulder as I did. "I have that meeting with Principal Cara," I informed.

"Babe." Lou's mouth parted with the coffee cup. "No offense, but you look like a hot mess."

And for some reason, I looked at Tate so I could watch how she'd handle it. I didn't have particularly high expectations, but ever since she walked up to me in third grade to tell me how she thought my dress was ugly and I should stop wearing it, I'd trusted her to give it to me straight. It was something that sometimes kept me up—wondering why I sought out her validation like it was oxygen, even though she never really gave it to me.

She studied me for a few heartbeats, then, as if I wasn't standing right there, she turned to Lou again. "It's the hair, right? Makes her look frazzled?"

It was hair type 4A post-windy drive, and I forgot my coconut oil. It wasn't frazzled.

"That's not racist, is it?" she asked me, almost like an afterthought, and I let out another sigh.

"I gotta go. Principal Cara has seen me at my worst, and this isn't a job interview."

Lou raised a finger. "Tatum. Dustin totally fell for the thirst trap I posted on Instagram last night."

Tate gasped and grabbed her hand. "He commented?"

"Two fire emojis, which I ignored, of course."

Tate groaned. "Ugh. I wish Roman would comment on my thirst traps so I could ignore him."

"Your two-piece was so hot. He's just an idiot."

"A cute idiot, though."

Lou proceeded to show her something on her phone, and I didn't realize I was still standing there until I took note of the heat starting in my chest. I didn't think they noticed when I left, but I gave more of my attention to the ringing in my ears and the sweat that suddenly started to pool beneath my arms. Why did I wear this stupid dress?

Usually calming streams of morning sunlight pulsed in my vision as I rushed up the front stairs to the double doors, and as if I really was on something, I tasted vodka on my lips. Blood rushed fast to my lower abdomen, and I pressed my nails into my palms.

Don't think about it, don't think about, don't think about it.

I stopped in front of my locker and took in a few measured breaths, then I willed my hands to stay still, before punching in the combination.

The box was still there, at the top of my textbooks.

The silk bow that had been tied around the lid was disfigured from when I carelessly tossed it into the trash yesterday, and some of the glitter had fallen off, now dusting the top of my physics textbook. I still wasn't sure who put it there, but it was either someone with access to the main office, or someone who'd been stalking me enough to know my locker combination. Roughly, there were over five hundred suspects.

I reached in and pulled the lid off, then took the folded piece of paper in it just so I could give it another look. It had been an intricate origami lotus flower yesterday, before I followed the cursive open me instruction on it.

Tatum is a force, and we're almost as sick of her as you are. You deserve to be seen, heard, and respected. That's the core value of our club. We meet in the old AV room after school. Please do not share this with anyone.

P.S. Roman is a d*ck, and we're really sorry.

It was that last line that had me on edge throughout all my classes, that made me angrily dump the box in the trashbin down the hall, only to go back for it five seconds later because what if someone saw?

I knew for a fact that I didn't tell anyone about what transpired between me and Roman over the summer, so this being pointed out by a possible stranger was messing with my senses. How did they know? What if this was just a trap? Roman Barbieri didn't go this school, but he had friends here and had probably conspired with them to get back at me.

But teenage boys weren't smart enough to put in this much intricate effort just to confront someone they could easily intercept on the way home. Were they?

My phone vibrated in my backpack, drawing me back to the present, and I put the note back. I would deal with it later. Tate would've known what to do, but she'd want to know what Roman had to do with any of this, and that was the part I was scared of. Nobody could know, especially not her.

I pulled my physics textbook out from under the box and slammed my locker shut. Then I dusted the glitter remnants off my fingers as though I thought people would know just from seeing it.

It was a lovely day. The blades of grass on the quad gleamed in the warm California sun. The sky was a clear, brilliant shade of blue. Student chatter was almost calming. The sandwiches my mom packed for my lunch were delicious. But my phone was in my lap, and I couldn't stop tapping on the screen to check if Tate had responded to my text.

Lunch on the quad—if we were lucky enough to find an unoccupied bench—had been our thing since freshman year. I was usually the first to get here, and I'd make sure to send her a picture of my lunch to hurry her up. Then she'd send some variation of you'll choke if you eat without me.

Yesterday, she apparently had to meet up with the girls in the Committee to draft out school events for this semester. Today, she left me on read. It had been ten minutes, and between then and now, she'd updated her Instagram Story with a photo of her baby pink manicure. Lou's combat boot was in the blurred edge of the shot, and the tiles were the same pattern as the ice cream place not too far from Wyland.

I wasn't sure what hurt more—the fact that she went off-campus for ice cream without telling me, or the fact that she took Lou Canterbury, who she became friends with just last year.

I felt equal parts stupid and annoyed at myself. Why did I even give a shit about her?

I took my phone and placed it on the bench next to me, then unwrapped another sandwich. As I took an angry bite, a shadow fell over me, and a pair of Vans came into my line of sight. I recognized them immediately, and at the thought of the owner, the embers in my chest started to cool down a bit.

Fletcher King beamed at me, a hand around the strap of his backpack, and the other in the pocket of his loose black pants. His tall, slender frame absorbed the sun's rays, and I took note of how . . . filled out he looked as he seemed to glow.

"Wow," I said. "What a dramatic reappearance, angel."

He chuckled quietly. "Well, one of us has to reappear dramatically." His voice had a nice velvety rumble to it, and I couldn't help but remember the littler version of him by the jungle gym, hurrying me away from our imaginary pursuers.

We'd lived in the same neighborhood since we were kids, and when I wasn't hanging out with Tate, I was usually on some quest with him. We caused a great deal of trouble in our neighbor's garden, and whenever things got difficult between me and Tate, he was the one I went to. Like a backup best friend, except he never told me he didn't like what I was wearing, and he called me Aspie. It was a little cringe at first, but I eventually warmed up to it.

Then we grew up and found ourselves growing apart. We stopped spending as much time together, stopped texting as much, until we started seeing each other less and it faded into this low-grade hum. But we had that type of friendship that always picked up from where it stopped. Every time we saw each other, we vibed like no time at all had passed.

I gave him a curt nod. "King."

"Keller. It's not unlike you to suddenly go MIA, so I'll save the whole long time no see bit."

I chuckled. "Yeah, well, that's appreciated."

He took his hand out of his pocket and gestured to the bench. "May I?"

"Suit yourself."

He dropped his backpack to the grass and lowered himself to the spot next to me, in a soft whoosh of sandalwood and nostalgia. I reached out to adjust the collar of his shirt and run my hand along his silver necklace just because I could, and he kept his gaze on the students fooling around a couple feet away.

"I like your haircut," I told him, observing his fade and coils. His jaw wasn't as soft as the last time I saw him, and I took a moment to really wonder about how long ago that was. I saw him during finals, but not much during the summer.

Fletcher looked at me, with his trademark smile. It always made me so happy. His eyes dropped to my dress, and his smile got more amused than genuine. "And I like that stain on your dress."

I playfully hit his shoulder, and he laughed. "You're mean, King."

"When did you start drinking . . . what is that—coffee?"

"This is just one of the consequences of being friends with Tatum McAvoy."

He nodded in realization. "Theater princess never gets out of character, does she?"

"The world would probably end the day she does." I spared a glance at my phone, and the wave of annoyance washed over me yet again. "She's been pissing me off. I don't want to talk about her."

"Is that why you're sitting out here?"

I looked down at the sandwich in my hand, then reached into the paper bag for the last one and handed it to him. He took it without question. "We were supposed to have lunch together, but she ignored my text, only to post a photo to Instagram five minutes later. She's at that ice cream place with Lou."

Fletcher didn't respond immediately, and I averted my gaze to the tree on the outer edge of the quad. I hated that I was always talking about her. My life wasn't supposed to revolve around one person.

"It's stupid," I eventually added.

"Nah. It's not." He leaned forward and placed his forearms on his knees. "It's a shitty thing."

I let out a humorless laugh. "I keep telling myself I'm done with her, but somehow, I find myself looking for her. I deserve a friend that doesn't make me feel like crap all the time, right? This morning, I was in Principal Cara's office because of the drastic plummet my grades took last semester, and I should be focusing on that, not some stupid, failed lunch with someone that doesn't care." I took a big breath at the end of my sentence, then let it out. Then I realized I'd just ranted to someone I hadn't seen much of in two months. "I'm sorry." I touched my hand to my forehead and sighed. "Hi, Fletcher. How have you been?"

And he laughed again, before lightly elbowing me in the side. I felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth, despite. "You don't have to do that, Aspie," he said, and his words were so soft and gentle and genuine that I had to look at him. We held each other's gazes for a moment, then he squinted against the sunlight. "I have time."