“Nah, I got enough for everyone, in case Señora Martin gets mad.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed.
“Dude,” Evan said, clapping me on the shoulder. “You in for Chipotle tomorrow? Taco Tuesday, gotta get some tac and guac!”
“No one calls it that.” I shook my head, grinning.
It was strange, my crew acting the same as they always had, and for a moment I wondered if it was really that easy. If I could go for Mexican food with a team I no longer belonged to. If I even wanted to hang out with them, now that I’d gone from leader to liability.
And then Charlotte waltzed over in an all-too-familiar cloud of fruity perfume and grabbed a handful of fries from Jimmy’s bucket. She perched on top of the desk next to Evan’s, her Song Squad skirt swishing against her tanned thighs.
“Where are my fries?” she demanded, poking Evan with her shoe.
“Well, Jimmy got enough for everyone.” Evan’s face fell as he realized he’d screwed up.
“But I didn’t ask Jimmy to get me fries, I asked you,” she said, pouting.
“Sorry, babe. I’ll make it up to you.” Evan leaned across the aisle, going in for a kiss, and if I hadn’t figured it out before, I knew it then: they were dating.
“Not right now, my hands are greasy,” Charlotte said, turning away. “Did you at least get any napkins?”
“Oops. Forgot.”
I suppose it should have been painful to see them together, my ex-girlfriend with one of my best friends. That I should have wondered not just how but when it had happened, but I felt oddly detached, as though it was too much effort to care. I sighed and took a packet of tissues from my backpack, passing it to Charlotte.
“Thanks.” She couldn’t even bear to look at me, and I couldn’t tell whether it was out of guilt or pity.
Jill Nakamura joined us then, still wearing her sunglasses. She gave Charlotte a hug before taking a seat, like they hadn’t just seen each other at lunch.
“Ugh, we have like two classes together this year,” Charlotte complained.
I allowed myself to smirk as Jill made up some excuse about Student Government screwing with her schedule. The truth was, Jill and I had been in the same honors courses since tenth grade, but we had an unspoken understanding to keep quiet about that sort of thing.
I watched as Charlotte put the packet of tissues into her handbag—my packet of tissues, actually.
“Oh my God,” Charlotte said, zipping her bag with a flourish. “Look! It’s like she robbed the lost-and-found bin.”
“The boys’ lost and found.” Jill stifled a laugh.
The new girl stood in the doorway, surveying the mostly filled rows of seats. I could see her trying to be brave about the unwanted attention. Thankfully, Mrs. Martin stepped to the front of the classroom, clapped a short rhythm for silence like we were all in the third grade, and called “Hola, class!”
I’d always been fairly ambivalent about Spanish. Usually, I could waste a good five minutes pondering Mrs. Martin’s pin-of-the-day, and occasionally we got to sit back and watch Spanish-dubbed Disney movies. But when Mrs. Martin told us that we’d be interviewing a classmate and introducing them to the class en espanol, I realized that Spanish had the capacity to be even worse than that morning’s pep rally.
I watched as everyone around me, who had been so friendly only minutes before, partnered together. In the past, I’d always had someone to work with. But clearly, things had changed. And then I caught sight of the new girl staring down at a blank page in her notebook.
I claimed the seat next to hers and grinned in the way that girls usually found irresistible. “So what’s your name?” I asked.
“Don’t we have to speak in Spanish?” she countered, unimpressed.
“Mrs. Martin doesn’t care, as long as we do when we give our presentations.”
“How challenging.” She shook her head, opening to a blank page in her notebook. “Well, me llamo Cassidy. Como te llamas?”
“Me llamo Ezra,” I said, writing her name down. Cassidy. I liked the sound of it.
We fell silent for a moment, listening to one of the groups around us struggle on in tortured Spanish. Everyone else was using English because, as I’d said, Mrs. Martin didn’t much care.
“Well,” Cassidy prompted me.
“Oh, sorry. Uh, de donde has venido de?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Dondo de la Barrows School de San Francisco. Y tu?”
I hadn’t heard of the Barrows School, but I imagined it as some sort of rigid prep school, which only made her appearance at Eastwood High even more odd. I told her that I was from here.
“So, um, es una escuela donde duerme uno con el otro?” I asked. My Spanish was rusty, and not that great to begin with.
She burst out laughing, in that unencumbered way you sometimes do at parties or lunch tables, but never in a quiet classroom. Charlotte and Jill whipped around to stare at us.
“Sorry.” Cassidy’s lips twisted into a smirk, mocking me. “But you seriously want to know if all of the students sleep with each other?”
I winced. “I was trying to ask if it was a boarding school.”
“Si, es un internado. A boarding school,” she replied. “Maybe we should switch to English.”
And so we did. I learned that Cassidy had just completed a high-school summer program at Oxford, studying Shakespeare; that one weekend, she’d nearly gotten stranded in Transylvania; that she’d been teaching herself how to play guitar on the roof of her dormitory because of the acoustics of gothic architecture. I’d never been out of the country—unless driving the three hours to Tijuana with Jimmy, Evan, Charlotte, and Jill last spring break counted. I’d certainly never been to the Globe Theatre, or had my passport stolen by gypsies at Dracula’s castle, or climbed out of my bedroom window with a guitar strapped to my back. Everything I had done, everything that defined me, was stuck firmly in the past. But Cassidy was waiting patiently, a fountain pen poised above the pale lines of her notebook.