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English. He doesn’t look like an AP student. He
doesn’t look like someone who would consider his grades or merit.
    His locker number is printed on
the bottom of his schedule, along with the combination. At least we’re in
different hallways. I don’t think I could survive my last three weeks of senior
year being joined at the hip with him all day long.
    “We have to get to class,” I say,
pulling on his shirtsleeve. “I’ll show you your locker later.”
    He yanks the schedule from my
hand. “Going to let me see what Kath signed me up for? Good. Drawing II and
Mixed Media.”
    We blaze into chemistry with
thirty seconds to spare before the tardy bell rings. All the window seats are
taken, so we settle for a table in the back row. Mrs. Davenport takes roll
call, and when she gets to Jensen, she makes him stand up.
    “Tell us a little about
yourself,” she says with an open-mouthed smile. She shows the same kind of
enthusiasm when she talks about thermite reactions because, you know, thermite
reactions are super exciting. She pulls on her long necklace that holds a bedazzled
charm in the shape of a beaker. “I realize we’re in the final weeks of the
school year, but it’s never too late to make new friends and get to know each other.”
    Jensen stands, his head leaning
to one side and a hand on his hip. He rubs his eyebrows and clears his throat.
He is literally too cool to give a crap about all the people staring at him.
“I’m Jensen Mackey. Just moved here from Charter Springs, Arizona. Finishing my
senior year.”
    Two girls, cheerleaders, spin
around from the table in front of us. They flash toothpaste-commercial-quality smiles
and toss their curled hair over their shoulders like they share a brain.
    “Hi, Jensen,” the brunette says.
“I’m Claire Fahnlander, and this is Harper Griffin.”
    Jensen offers an off-center
smile, one that makes him look drunk and cocky all at the same time. I’m rolling
my eyes—on the inside, of course.
    “We’re glad to have you, Jensen.
You can partner up with Waverly today. Her usual lab partner is out sick. Okay,
safety kits out.” Mrs. Davenport turns to the white board, writing today’s
lesson plan on the board as we retrieve our goggles and lab coats.
    Claire and Harper giggle and snap
selfies behind Mrs. Davenport’s back, making goofy faces through their goggles
and flashing peace signs with fish-lipped pouts. Jensen watches them. Errant
heat sears through my belly, tingling and evaporating as a tiny part of me
hates that they’re earning his attention.
    “Do you have an extra beaker we
can borrow?” Claire says to Jensen, batting her lashes. She sticks a finger in
her mouth and bites the tip of her long, pink nail as she winks. Harper
giggles.
    “Probably shouldn’t put your
finger in your mouth,” Jensen says, avoiding her gaze. “You’re in a chem lab.”
    Claire blushes and spins around. Harper
is still giggling, leaning her head on Claire’s narrow shoulder. I have to give
Jensen credit for not falling for that like every other guy in school does.
She’s eager to make him hers before anyone else has a chance to. Claire is the
alpha female of a catty group of senior girls who rule the school with iron-clad , manicured fists.
    They infuriate me, especially
when I’m the target of their mean-girl giggles, but I never let it show. It’s
not worth it. In just a few short months, I’ll be trekking all over a college
campus, my English lit books in hand, with a group of collegiate peers with
more important things to discuss besides who’s dating whom.
    The period ends before we know
it. I don’t remember much of it. Jensen did most of the work, which is unlike
me, but my thoughts were jumbled all morning. I chalk it up to being thrown off
my routine that morning and promise to do better the next day.
    “You need me to show you your
locker?” I ask as we file out of the classroom.
    “Nah, just point me there. I can find
it.” His