My face is burning before my eyes even land on the first few of them.

lilmarvin 4 minutes ago

Omg, TELL me they’re dating!

kdeeeeen 11 minutes ago

Okay but I need ALL the AUs about this on tumblr, stat

SuzieQueue 14 minutes ago

Sry shakespeare twitter is the new r&j

And then, as if she were the moon controlling this new internet tide, I finally see what Jasmine Yang titled her video about us: “Cheese-Crossed Lovers.”

I can’t look at Jack. I can’t look at anyone. I don’t even know what this feeling is—not embarrassment. No, it’s more all-encompassing than that, something I can feel burning from the tips of my ears to the bottom of my heels. It feels like there’s a spotlight on all 360 degrees of me, like there isn’t a single part of me that isn’t exposed.

“Pepper?”

My voice sounds strange even to my own ears, like it’s underwater. “This is … wow.”

The bell rings. Neither of us moves. Pooja and Paul collect their phones and hover for a moment, before giving us harried, sympathetic goodbyes and taking off down the hall with the rest of our classmates.

Jack’s the one to break the silence: “Are we gonna make this weird?”

I let out a relieved laugh. “Oh, definitely.”

“Cool, cool. In that case, I better get ahead of the rumors that are going to spread about us by telling everyone you have cooties.”

“In that case, I’m definitely telling everyone you sleep in Hello Kitty pajamas.”

Jack’s half grin is curling. “I’m going to tell everyone you chew raw garlic after every meal.”

I can feel the laughter bubbling up my throat. “I’m going to tell them you drink pool water. Oh wait! You did.”

Jack shakes his head. “You’re just neeeever gonna let that one go, are you, Peppero—”

The bell rings, and we startle at the sound. We’ve leaned in so close to each other laughing, it’s a miracle we don’t end up knocking our heads together, our eyes both going comically wide like we’ve never heard a bell before, like they haven’t spent years dictating every second of our teenage lives.

But then for a beat, neither of us moves, staring at each other like our eyes are snagged there.

“Class.” The word comes out in a blurt; like it’s not a real word, but some gibberish I made up.

“Oh, yeah, that,” says Jack. He falls into pace with me. “Wait, no, I’ve got independent study this period.”

He turns and heads abruptly to the other end of the hall. I watch him go, all tall legs and long strides, and realize just before I turn back that I’m still smiling like an idiot. Somehow, though, I don’t have it in me to stop.

Pepper

I miss my mom when she’s gone, but it is perhaps the biggest mercy the universe has ever bestowed upon me when she calls to let me know she’ll be extending her time in California, where she’s overseeing new BLBs opening in Los Angeles and San Francisco.

“Listen,” she says, “I’m sorry things have been so … tense lately.”

I don’t say anything, aching at the sound of her forgiveness, not understanding just how badly I wanted it until she is giving it.

“I’m sorry too,” I say. I don’t elaborate—I figure if she’s letting the whole Hub Seed article thing fly, then there’s no reason for me to bring it up so she can be annoyed about it all over again.

“When I get back, let’s … have a weekend. Just for us. We’ll go upstate. Hang out on a lake.”

I open my mouth to tell her that’s basically impossible—I have swim meets every Saturday, and she’s always catching up on emails and taking calls on Sunday. And even if we could steal away for a weekend, I don’t want to go upstate. I want to see Dad and Paige.

But Thanksgiving is right around the corner. At least I have that to look forward to, even if it’s bound to be so tense when Mom and Paige finally end up in the same room that three kinds of pie won’t be enough to ease it.

“Yeah,” I say instead. “That sounds good to me.”

I don’t hear from her much for the rest of the week, which isn’t all that surprising. When Mom gets engrossed in a project, she’s like me—she’s all in and can’t split her focus. But I am surprised I haven’t heard a word about the latest Twitter debacle, especially when a final tally of the retweets declares Girl Cheesing the winner, with a whopping twenty thousand more retweets than ours.

Jack’s waiting for me Thursday morning, earlier than he usually is. There’s a to-go box propped on his desk, a sight I’m not unused to seeing—he and his brother are constantly bringing sandwiches and leftover salad they podged together from the deli. Only this time when he opens it, it looks like the candy aisle of Duane Reade threw up into it.

“What … is that?”

“Kitchen Sink Macaroons,” says Jack.

They’re crumbled either from getting roughed up on the way here or because of their very makeup, but I have to admit—however begrudgingly—they look delicious. Like the Monster Cake version of macaroons. He holds out the box to offer me some.

“Oh, man. Are these Feel Sorry for the Loser Macaroons?”