We round the corner and there, sure enough, are Mel and Gina, going at it so enthusiastically that it is a genuine miracle neither of them has gotten detention yet. It almost makes me worry that something has happened to our dear old friend Vice Principal Rucker, whose sonar for teenage affection usually rivals bomb-sniffing dogs.

“Hot, right?”

I put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, knowing full well it will do nothing to calm his seismic level of excitement, and also knowing full well that he’s only calling it “hot” because he thinks he’s supposed to.

“You’re going full Hefner,” I say, because we’ve talked about this kind of thing before. “Dial it down.”

“Yeah, right, right.”

If there is one person in this school I feel more sorry for than myself, it’s Paul—who, despite having all the trappings of a filthy-rich Stone Hall legacy, is basically what would happen if a Nick Jr. cartoon became three-dimensional. I think if it weren’t for the diving team being so fiercely protective of their own, this place might have eaten him alive.

“Let’s get to homeroom.”

I’m still kind of high on the buzz of my own inflated sense of ego as I sit, itching to check my phone, to see if there’s another message from Bluebird. I’m suddenly bursting to tell someone—I made this happen. I was a small part of something cool. And of all the people in my world, weirdly, it’s the person whose face I don’t even know that I want to tell most.

Well, that’s the other weird thing. I do know her face, whoever she is. I know everyone in our year. It could be Carter, who’s highlighting a set of notes in the front row, or Abby, who’s blowing an impressively large bubble gum bubble, or Hailey or Minae, whose heads are ducked down in a heated discussion about what definitely sounds like Riverdale fan fiction. In some ways, it’s like Bluebird is nobody and everybody at the same time—like every time someone looks up and notices me glancing at them, I could be looking right at her.

Or worse—she could be looking right at me.

Jack

Once the final morning bell rings, I find out pretty fast why Rucker wasn’t around to hit lovesick teens with his metaphorical broomstick.

“Good morning, eager beavers of Stone Hall,” says the nasally voice that probably haunts at least half the school’s dreams over the intercom. “By now you have seen the schoolwide email warning about the ‘Weasel’ app, and disciplinary action that will be taken for any student caught using it. Students are encouraged to report to any faculty members if they observe any of their peers communicating on the app.”

Yikes. The thing Rucker is most notorious for—aside from sporting a collection of patterned pants that even the local Goodwill would burn upon sight—is his loyal little rat pack of students. I don’t know any names for certain, but I have suspicions—namely Pooja Singh and Pepper Evans, two fellow seniors who seem to be in some kind of silent authority-figure-pleasing competition at all times, and some of the kids on the golf team, who seem to be otherwise overlooked because … well … golf. I don’t know if he’s offering them extra credit or college recs or what, but he seems to have at least three narcs in every year who are all too willing to sell the rest of us out. Ethan has taken to calling them Rucker’s “little birds” like that dude in Game of Thrones, but honestly, “complete assholes” suits them just fine.

Paul leans over. “Okay, that’s 1984 as heck.”

I try not to look over at him too obviously. Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Fairchild, is a big fan of silence. I personally suspect it’s because she is nursing a hangover most of the time, which, respect. If I had to deal with hormonal teenagers who carry black AmEx cards, I’d probably be buying out the Trader Joe’s wine store in Union Square too.

“No kidding.”

Then the door swings open, and in comes Pepper Evans herself. The only reason I’m not entirely sure that Pepper isn’t a robot is that she’s captain of the swim team, and I haven’t seen any circuits actively frying when she gets into the pool. All the other evidence decidedly points toward her being SkyNet material. She’s top of the class, has a GPA that makes mere mortals weep, and is never, ever late.

Which means that if she’s walking in five minutes after the bell, it can only be for one reason.

“So?” I ask, as she slides herself into the seat right next to mine. She either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to. “How many?”

Pepper barely turns to acknowledge me, her face flushed under her freckles and her eyes trained on the chalkboard, where Mrs. Fairchild is half-heartedly writing some reminders about volunteer hours being due by the end of the week.

“How many what?” she mutters, tucking her overgrown bangs behind her ear. Within a second, they’re fanning back over her face, a blonde curtain that, unlike the rest of her, she can never quite seem to tame.

“How many people did you rat out to Rucker?”

She scowls that uneven scowl of hers, one of her eyebrows creasing just a bit more than the other. It is bizarrely satisfying, getting any kind of reaction out of her—like when the machine at Chuck E. Cheese in Harlem used to malfunction and spit out a few extra tickets. I lean forward in my desk, forgetting for a moment about Mrs. Fairchild’s wrath.