We dare you to ask Maddie Miller on a date.
I stare blankly into my messy locker, Marcus’s words echoing in my brain, my constant companion over the last two days.
The hallway fills with students and I spot Maddie Miller at the far end, surrounded by her adoring pack of fangirls—phones out, all of them preening and fussing with their hair, pursed lips and all.
Nothing new there.
I’ve seen her videos, of course. I don’t know shit about social media, but I know it’s important to Maddie and that she has a decent following.
Rooted to the ground, I watch the girls in my peripheral, trying not to seem obvious—I wouldn’t be caught dead outwardly staring. Maddie’s feet move in a practiced dance…long legs…short skirt…cropped shirt.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
Holy shit.
I accidentally slam my locker shut, startled at the voice.
Turning my head, I see Harper Conrad twirling her locker combination. Her teasing interrupts my mental flatlining.
“I wasn’tstaringat Maddie Miller.”
We both know I’m lying.
We both know I was staring; I just wasn’t planning on getting busted doing it.
I consider my staring research for the Dare. After all, why the hell would I want to ask Maddie on a date when she’s surrounded by her minions? I have to do recon work so I’m not forced to waltz over there when she’s with other people—I’m an idiot, but I’m not crazy.
Unfortunately for me, Maddie always has an audience.
“I never said you were staring atMaddie, I said ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ ” Harper laughs, cramming a pink canvas tote into her locker. “You just outed yourself.”
Harper fidgets with her books, nodding toward Maddie. “Why don’t you just talk to her? She won’t bite.”
Is it that obvious I want to talk to her?
“I don’t want to talk to her,” I argue. “And Iknowshe doesn’t bite.”
“I mean, she might,” Harper teases. “She onlylookssweet.”
What point is she trying to make? Is she implying that Maddie isn’t nice?
Why is this any of this Harper’s business?
“Iwasn’tstaring.” I say it again in case I wasn’t clear the firsttime.
Harper yawns, busying herself by grabbing a paperback off the top shelf of her locker. Not a textbook—we barely have those anymore ’cause the school gives us computers—but an actual paperback novel. I can’t see its cover, but it’s white and blue and has the wordjockin its title.
“Whatever you say, dude.” She chuckles.
Dude?
Why does she make it sound like an insult?
I open my mouth but quickly snap it shut; I don’t know Harper well enough to continue arguing with her.
Say less.
But Harper isn’t through chatting with me.
