Chapter 3

I walked into the classroom and started handing out the tests. The guys gathered around Yale scattered the second they saw me.

When I reached his desk, I noticed a fresh cut across the back of his hand.

Before, I would have immediately asked what happened. Then, during break, I would have gone to the nurse's office for some antiseptic and cotton swabs and casually left them on his desk as if it were no big deal.

He usually didn't use them. He'd just shove them into his desk along with the rest of his messy books.

This time, I simply held out his test.

"Yours."

Yale looked up at me, his dark eyes carrying their usual cool detachment.

I didn't stop. I moved on to the next desk and kept handing out papers.

At lunch, I went to the cafeteria. A few girls ahead of me in line were talking.

"Didn't Xandra go to the office with Yale yesterday?"

"Yeah. I heard she's applying through Southern University's early admissions program, and Yale's been asking about their admissions requirements lately."

"Seriously? With his grades, can he even get in?"

"That's what Zoe Shaw is for."

They burst out laughing. Then another girl lowered her voice.

"Do you think Zoe likes Yale? She's always bending over backward to give him her notes."

"Obviously. Who would go to all that trouble if she didn't?"

"She should at least look in the mirror and ask herself if she's even in his league."

"Exactly. Talk about reaching way out of your league."

I stood behind them with my tray in my hands.

The cafeteria was packed and noisy, but somehow I heard every word.

Out of his league.

So that was how everyone saw Yale and me.

The line moved quickly, and soon it was my turn.

The lunch lady looked at me. "What'll you have?"

I was about to answer when two people walked into the cafeteria.

Yale and Xandra.

Xandra wore a white dress and had her backpack and several study guides bundled in her arms. She said something I couldn't hear, and Yale looked down at her.

Then he reached over and took her backpack.

Xandra looked up at him and smiled.

For a moment, all the noise around me seemed to fade away. The only thing I could hear clearly was what people had been saying earlier.

Yale and Xandra were perfect together.

The lunch lady waited, then asked again, "What'll you have?"

I snapped back to myself and pointed at two dishes at random. "Those two. To go, please."

That night, when I got home, I pulled the notebooks out of my backpack one by one.

Math. Physics. English. Chemistry.

Every one of them was filled from cover to cover. Some sections were marked in red, while others had sticky notes attached.

On those notes were reminders I'd written for Yale, along with the occasional reply he'd left me.

[This concept is definitely going to be on the test. You got it wrong last time.]

Yale had written back:

[Okay.]

[Memorize the trig formulas.]

[Got it.]

[You can memorize this structure for English essays. It's an easy way to pick up points.]

Under that one, Yale had written six dots before adding:

[You nag too much.]

There were hundreds of sticky notes.

And somehow, those handful of words from him had been enough to keep me writing them for three years.

I peeled the notes off one by one. By the time I finished, a pile of crumpled paper covered my desk.

Without hesitating, I swept all of it into the trash.

Over the next few days, I stopped lending Yale my notes.

He never asked why.

He still walked into class right before the bell. Still borrowed tests from the guy beside him. Still stood up whenever a teacher called on him and said, "I don't know."

It was as if all those days he'd spent borrowing my notes had never happened.

Friday afternoon, Xandra suddenly appeared at our classroom door.

Someone immediately called out with a laugh, "Yale, the prettiest girl in school is here for you."