He fits into my life and my family so easily. Years of nothing but time together means that I don’t have to worry about how he’s going to act in front of my parents or if I’m paying enough attention to him.

Not like at Homecoming when Finn followed me around the entire night. I should have expected it given the fact that he didn’t know anyone at my school aside from me, but it was more of a chore than it was enjoyable.

Tonight is a good reminder of how much I love James and am grateful to have him as my best friend.

If Dylan were here, he’d probably be polite enough but cooler than my parents had come to expect from a teenage boy sitting at the dinner table.

My dad addresses James as “son” more often than he uses his actual name, and I try to imagine the look on Dylan’s face if he did that while putting a hand on his shoulder. His eyes would probably bug out from the affection and human contact.

I snort out loud at the thought.

When my parents and James stop their conversation to eye me, I realize what I’ve been doing.

I’ve been imagining how Dylan Archer fits into my life.

The revelation is a little jarring. He and I have had three mostly polite conversations, but I’m already visualizing a scenario of him at my dinner table?

For once, I wish I could turn off the need to solve problems and click things together—especially where they don’t belong.

Dylan and I are like puzzle pieces that seem like they might fit at a glance but absolutely do not when you look at the details.

He does not belong with me, in my neighborhood, or in my thoughts outside of our English class. This arrangement is temporary, but if I’m not careful in how I proceed, I could really damage things with James.

I blame it on my brain, creating one of those plans and sets of worries that will never come to fruition, but it still puts me in a sour mood for the rest of dinner.

After we clean up, James and I sprawl out on my bedroom floor with ice cream bars. He shoots curious glances at me that I ignore as I stare at the small television in my room.

From my side eye, I can see the tension in his shoulders, and I know him well enough to understand that he’s trying to suss me out. He’s replaying all of our interactions for the past forty-eight hours in an attempt to figure out what’s on my mind.

I try to come up with a topic of conversation to deflect him, but with my pensive silence, he covered all the usual topics at dinner with my parents.

All I can do is sit, lick the chocolate as it melts down my fingers, and wait for him to speak up.

“Is something happening with you and Dylan Archer I should know about?” James finally asks.

And there it is.

I don’t want to be deceptive, but it’d be embarrassing to tell him the entire truth.

Oh, you know, James, just fraternizing with the enemy, and in exchange for helping Dylan get his English grade up, he’s keeping my complicated feelings for you a secret.

“I’m tutoring him,” I say. “He’s struggling in our English class.”

“Dylan Archer is asking someone for help?” His skepticism is clear.

I shrug. “I guess he’s really desperate.”

“Huh.” He chews on his popsicle stick and eyes me suspiciously.

I pretend to be fascinated with whatever food competition show James put on.

“It’s just that Serena seemed really mad today,” he says.

“Oh really?” I try to sound disinterested.

“Yeah, she waited for him after practice. They had a huge argument in the parking lot, and your name came up multiple times.” James pauses to chuckle, clearly pleased with Dylan’s hardship. “But by the time I drove off, they seemed back to normal, though. I mean, you know how they are.”

I do know exactly how they are.

Just as passionate in fighting as they are making up—although usually one is verbal and the other is physical.

My stomach clenches, and I force my frown to stay neutral.

I’ve let my guard down with Dylan far too early in the process of whatever we’re doing together.

If I’m disappointed by this news now, I can only imagine what it will be like when we start spending serious amounts of time together, and I start reading too much into everything he says.

I can’t let myself be vulnerable with him; I need to be a fortress of emotion.

My skin will be a stone-cold barrier to protect my precious insides, no matter how much I want to break down and let him in.

He’s not a project. I have to remind myself of that. He’s a difficult person, not an assignment or inanimate object that needs to be put back together. I need to focus on the actual work.

“Are you sure that’s all that’s going on?” He says the words slowly, as if he’s waiting for me to crack and gush out with some emotion toward Dylan.

I’m sure he’s hoping for anger but expects heartbreak, but I just smile, shrug, and ask if he wants to watch a documentary before he has to head back home.

6

“So, I heard you officially convinced the dean to change the graduation ceremony,” James says as he pulls his ankle up, stretching out his quad.

“Where’d you hear that?” I ask him.

As the assumed valedictorian, I’ve had a few meetings with the dean and a handful of school board members to plan the graduation ceremony. I’ve campaigned in each one of them against me making a speech, trying different tactics to justify why it was unnecessary.

Finally, at my argument of it being inappropriate for one student to speak for hundreds, they relented, saying it would give time back to announce each student and their assumed college and plans after graduating.

I agreed immediately, but I selfishly spent the rest of the meeting imagining myself saying “Columbia” on stage instead of “Cornell.”

Our letters of acceptance or rejection are due to arrive any day now. Even though it costs extra mileage and gas, I drive home every day to check the mailbox before driving back out to Books & Beans.

Today, I didn’t get the chance because my yearbook meeting ran long, and I needed to get to the track before James’s first race.

I managed my time too well, though, because now I have to stand here and watch him stretch.

“Kyle told me about it. Apparently the school board had to approve it, and you know his mom is—”

“The administrator, I know,” I tell him. “I was there.”

The nepotism in this school system is unbelievable. I’m just glad I haven’t had the honor of meeting Dylan’s dad. I barely held my ground with Dylan himself, and I couldn’t imagine a version of him that had thirty years’ more experience of sneering and being judgmental.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” James asks.

“Because you’d try to talk me out of it,” I answer him honestly.

James thrives on attention and an audience, and he doesn't understand that it’s actually my worst nightmare. I’m confident in many things, but public speaking makes me want to pass out.

I much prefer putting my opinions into writing and hiding behind it that way.

James chuckles. “Look, if you’re that stressed about writing a graduation speech on top of your essay for the Press, why don’t you just use the same one for both?”