Tuesday hits me like a figurative ton of bricks. The first part of my day passes by in a blur of homework submissions and deadlines and foreign topics. My fault for trying to take on more classes, sports, and community service. When I meet up with Anika for lunch, she's just as annoyed with the school system as I am.

"Then I ask him with the workload, upcoming finals, and Sat prep, how do they expect us to get anything done?" She narrates as pulls open a pack of hot Cheetos.

"And then what did he say?" I ask managing to grab a few from the bag before

she smacks my hand away.

"He goes: 'Why don't you take those questions to the administrator and take that sass into detention.' "

Nice, I think to myself.

"Was he serious?"

"Dead serious." She says laughing. "I have the pink slip to prove it."

She hands me the piece of paper and I certify that she will in fact be in detention on the Friday of this week.

We're sitting by the pool, at the bottom of the bleachers watching the swim team taking their laps around the pool.

While we talk I'm trying to work up the courage to ask Anika about the video. And the phone calls and texts Joshua told me about. It's hard to give her the benefit of doubt when I don't even know her side of the story. It's even harder to ask her about it. My friendship with Anika is built on a foundation of anime, a shared high-school experience, and one-liners. We haven't created a space where I can call her out on anything and nor she with me.

I didn't ask about her relationship with Joshua or even about how it ended. I kept all my questions shallow and surface-level. The last time I went deeper than that in a friendship it didn't end well. So I don't. I stay away from the subject entirely.

"You look nice today," I say instead.

She grins, "Don't try to flatter me, you know it works too well."

It's true regardless. She is wearing a short dress with the Japanese cherry blossoms on it dyed purple and a plain white t-shirt underneath. It makes for a Pinterest worthy photo. She is a Pinterest worthy photo. And so in blatant disregard for the school's strict rules about using phones on campus, I snap a few unfiltered photos.

"Hey, this one could go on Instagram," I add as I swipe through them.

"No, no it's too purple. My feed is all white now. But send them to me anyway." Anika says looking down at the screen over my shoulder.

Note to self, like her recents.

I open my container and shake the instant noodles I packed in that morning. The quality of my lunches always dropped the more harried I got with my workload. And because I didn't buy lunch in the cafeteria and Andrea was gone way too early to help, whatever I ate at school was left to my discretion.

We don't eat next to the pool just for the scenic overlook. Although that's just the PR approved reason. On top of being a stellar student Aaliyah is also one of the swim teams strongest swimmers. Every once in a while Anika drags me done here and we watch her train. Not creepy at all.

She breaks the surface with elegance, pulling herself up and yanking her goggles off. We both watched as Aaliyah grabbed her duffle bag and headed for the changing rooms.

I look at the timer at my phone and shake my head.

"That was nearly her best time yet." I muse.

Anika rolls her eyes. "Who cares? Isn't it crazy that I was dress coded for a spaghetti strap last week and she gets to walk around campus in a one piece?"

"You want her to swim in sweat pants?" I say and then under my breath: "That's completely reasonable."

She's doesn't respond, silent for a minute. "It's not fair that she's so beautiful."

"Hey," I say. "You're pretty too. Look at you."

She smiles and whispers, "Then why isn't he with me."

It never ceases to amaze me how the most questionable creatures have the power to make the loveliest girls doubt themselves. I'd once seen Joshua pick gum off the bottom of his shoe and then proceed to eat it. Granted it was a dare but that didn't change the facts. The boy was loud, annoying and talked with his hands.

Yet, he'd still managed to finagle his way into the lives of two objectively attractive girls. It was insane what was happening on this campus.

I think we noticed her approach us at at the same time. Because Anika stopped talking just as I decided I wasn't hungry and stuffed my lunch back into my bag.

It wasn't Aaliyah.

Leah Mendez had been in all my classes since I started at Irvine. I blame our last names. She was pretty and wry and I might have been seeing things but she was heading right towards our spot at the bleachers. Her blue and black cheerleading uniform was hard to miss. I guess that was the point of it's design.

When she reaches us whatever conversation we were having died out and the anxiety that usually came with someone of higher social standing mixing among the mortals settled between us.

"Hey Hazel, Hi Anika," For some reason I'd assumed her opening line was going to be different. More threatening somehow. Then she looks at Anika and I let out the breath I'd been holding. "I love your dress."

"Thank you," Anika says from beside me. "It's vintage."

"Can I borrow Hazel for a minute?" She asks.

"Umm sure. I need the bathroom anyway."

When Anika leaves Leah takes her spot next to me and crosses her ankles. I let the silence grow, leaving her to set the social parameters of whatever this discussion is. We both stare at the water and wait.

"It's really nice here. Is that why I don't see you that often in the cafeteria?" She asks. Her voice, her mannerisms are far more eloquent than I imagined.

"Yeah, that's one reason."

Also taking up a whole table for just two people seems excessive.

"Okay. I guess the reason I'm accosting you during lunch is to say thank you." She breathes heavily around the words thank you, drawing them out. "Darnell filled me in on what you did for me on Sunday."

"It was whatever," I should coin that line as a catchphrase. "As long as you know I wasn't trying to kidnap you or something."

Leah snorts and even that has a graceful quality to it. "I don't normally get that drunk or stupid. I don't want you to think I make a habit of it."

You weren't stupid, I want to say. It wasn't her fault that Xavier was a terrible person.

"No, I don't think that."

"Okay so now that my apology is out of the way..." She says, this time turning to me as she speaks. "I have an ulterior motive for being here."

I have mix feelings about how we're ignoring Xavier's role in all this. Part of me is glad I don't have to go over the complicated details of what really happened. Was it assault?  Was I supposed to report it to someone on her behalf? Did she want to?

The other part was worried about her. On the surface she looked fine. Bubbly, well-rested and intact. But was that because she didn't remember what had happened?

I can't answer a single one of those questions.

"Go ahead."  I say. I had thought as much anyway, all I wanted was for her to get on with it and for my moral dilemma to end.

"Friday is our first game, obviously and we want to start the season with a bang. Now the school board didn't like the idea of fireworks in an indoor court—"

"You don't say?" I mumble.

She continues: "So the cheer squad is going a little bit smaller and we were hoping you'd help us with that. What with you being the mascot and stuff."

"How would I help you?"

"Ohh, well we were thinking along the lines of a basket toss or a pyramid. Just at the start of our routine and then you can head back into the stands and do your thing. Nothing too hectic."

Nothing too hectic.

The cheer squad was notorious for their love of incredibly elaborate performances. In freshman year I'd thought about trying out for the team. Then I saw them practicing. I thought cheer was all cartwheels and cheesy rhymes. What I saw was high-level, technique based routines. It was like The Step Up movie franchise but with more glitter.

"So what? Do I need to show up to your practice or something?"

"Not at all. We haven't decided on what our set-up looks like just yet but knowing you're willing to do it is enough."

Leah thanks me again before she leaves, squeezing my arm as she walks away. The move should have been no surprise to me, she was the touchy-feely type, but I jerk. I'm not one for unwarranted physical contact. Lunch ends but I don't touch my noodles again.

*****

When school ends, I'm back on my bike riding to San Antonio. The soup kitchen works with the school each year, getting a fresh supply of volunteers, eager to get in their community service hours and polish up their college applications. I've been dreading it since I picked up my pen and wrote my name down on that list. I have nothing against volunteers but I'm not excited to be one of them.

I peddle slower than I do usually and I get there at nearly ten minutes to six. Late.

The soup kitchen is located out of the way of the bulk of Irvine's suburbs and the area is so close to the coast that you can feel the difference. Palm trees line up on either side of the street and the sun gives that pinkish glow as it lowers. There is a salty breeze in the air. It's what postcards tell you California should look like but oftentimes doesn't. The building is shaped like a giant shoebox and made up of red brick, looking more like an old abandoned warehouse than a charity. As I walk through its doors, I shake off the impression that I've been here before. I haven't but I've been to too many like it and it brings on an unwelcome wave of nostalgia.

I walk in with my community service hour sheet rolled up in my hands, crinkling the edges of the paper.

Tables are stretch across the room with chairs, each long enough to hold thirty people. I do a quick count and the kitchen must feed at least a hundred people if not more. At the end of the room, there is a small group of at least twelve people, some of whom I know, who are all wearing green t-shirts. These, I assume, are the rest of the volunteers.

In the center is a short woman with a clipboard and a pen. She's got her hair tied up in a tight pony and is wearing dark-rimmed glasses. It's easy to see that she's in charge.

"...then we'll have sandwich assembly in the middle, okay? The dinner rush is going to be wild tonight and I don't need anyone getting confused."

"Soup, sandwiches, pie. Let's go." She claps her hands and the circle disperses. I push forward until I'm in front of her.

"I'm Hazel Monroe. I'm here for community service." I say unrolling my sheet and handing it to her.

"I'm Kate, the head of the San Antonio soup kitchen." She offers me her hand to shake and I do. "We're a bit pressed on time and I won't be able to show you the ropes just yet..."

"I can help with that Kate." A voice from behind me says. I don't want to look. Because it shouldn't be possible to have so many coincidental meetings with one boy. It seems to me that those dastardly fates themselves are behind this week's events. I turn to see Darnell standing behind me.

With one, apron in hand he leads me away from the dining area until we reach what looks like a storage area.

It doesn't surprise me that after three years, this is still his charity of choice. If only I had remembered that when signing up yesterday.

After we pick up my green apron, we move into the kitchen. It's more of an assembly line than a kitchen. With a long table, large dishes of tomato soup on one side, bread, slices of cheese and a giant press in the corner of the room, and small bowls of pie and ice cream. The line moves like a well-oiled machine with people moving from one station to the next. Assembling, pressing, packaging. All the food looks good, very good. If there was ever a hope of me joining the culinary industry without throwing half of the meal down my throat before it reached the customer then it is gone now.

"Everyone," Darnell calls to the kitchen and the activity slows as they all turn to look at us.

"This is Hazel, Hazel this is everyone." He continues and they all murmur back greetings and Hi Hazels before turning back to the line.

Darnell points at the sink, which is already piling up with dishes and spoons. I move towards it grateful that I don't work with any of the food. I unsnap my watch, shove it into my apron pocket and get into the plates.

I make quick work of the first batch of plates and I'm just about done when the second begins building up. Most of the volunteers have moved into the dining area as the kitchen has opened its doors and more people are flowing in.

My process is simple; scrape off the food, soap, and lather. Then rinse them all at once.

Part of me is disappointed that I don't get to serve in the dining hall.

Kate walks into the kitchen whilst I'm in the throng of the third wave of dishes.

"Hazel, you can take a break now, we're almost through with the service." She says. "And I've signed your sheet so you can take off right after."

I nod my thanks and start drying my hands when she asks.

"So Hazel, I'm going to assume you're doing this for college credit."

"Umm, yeah. Sort of." I reply unsure of whether or not to admit it.

She smiles. "I don't mind. We need as much help as we can get here and if you can tell your friends and family. The more the merrier."

When it's time to leave I grab my sign-up sheet and wait by the door as I text my dad. I'm technically supposed to go home on my bike but a girl can dream. Everyone says bye when they walk out as if they know me. It's nice.

I'm still waiting on the threshold when something thumps from behind me. It's Darnell, with his backpack strapped to his back and a basketball dropping from his hands to the ground.

"Do you just carry that around or something?" I ask leaning against the door frame.

"What? No." He shakes his. "This is entirely coincidental."

I nod.  But when he doesn't go away I switch the topics.

"Are you ready for the game this week?" I ask turning from the parking lot to face him.

"Yeah, of course. It's about time I get to play on court."

I stare  out ahead of us. "It's okay if you're nervous though." We all know you should be.

He bounces the ball onto the ground again: "I'm not nervous. Why would I be nervous?"

"No reason. It's just that Xavier's a great player. Those are pretty big shoes to fill."

The ball's methodical rap-tap stops and he snatches mid-air.

He laughs but the sound is humorless, "Wow. I don't even have to ask to know that's an insult."

"It's not an insult," I say trying to backtrack. I'm not supposed to say stuff about Darnell to his face but maybe I should. I shift my weight from my left foot to my right readying myself for my next line. "It's the truth."

"Wow. You still haven't changed. Not even a little." He says.

"What does that even mean?" I fold my arms and angle my body to face him directly. Refusing to let his height intimidating.

"Nothing," He mumbles. "It just means you're still the same self-obsessed child who can't see past her own problems enough to care about anyone else. Three years later and you still think it should be you on the team and not me. Why are you even here? Don't you need a heart to volunteer?"

I hiss through my teeth at his words. "Oh wow. First of all you aren't that different either. You still bend over backwards to get people to like you. And let's not pretend you're here just because you're such a stand up guy. What else are you going to put on your Harvard application."

"Stanford."

"What?" I ask, bewildered.

"I'm applying to Stanford now." He says almost sheepishly. "I want to stay closer to home and stuff."

"Ohh," I say. "Still want to be a lawyer though?"

"Yup." He says nodding. "I was already a blood-sucking parasite—"

"—all I needed was a briefcase," I continue automatically.

When I look up at him he's smiling and it makes me smile too. And then we're both laughing at our attempts at high drama.

"That was such a good movie," He says.

"The best." I reply. It really was.

When the laughter dies down, the quiet creeps back in.

"I'm not a terrible player you know." He says finally.

"Mmmh." Is all I can say in response.

He rolls his eyes at that. "I'm just as good as you."

The high-pitched squeaking sound that comes from the back of my throat is one I've never made before. It's born of disbelief and a twisted sense of humor. The look on his face in response, stern with a fold between his eyebrows tells me he wasn't joking.

"Okay," I say. "Then prove it."

"How would I do that?"

I scan the parking lot in front of us, with a few cars and several open spaces, and smile.