“I’d miss you too,” she says.
I tighten my scarf, careful to keep it around my neck and away from my ears, and we head inside. The sleet is just heavy enough to be annoying when it hits me in the face, but not heavy enough to get us a snow day. Not that I didn’t ask Amy like twelve times if she or Dad had gotten the robocall.
As we stomp our shoes on the mats, Jasmine gives me a nod and a “Bye!” and makes a beeline for Ellie. They link arms and head off toward first period, while I take my usual route up to my locker.
Now that swim season is over, there’s no morning practice, so Bowie isn’t there yet. But Liam is.
He smiles when he sees me. His cheeks are even redder than usual, and his nose is pink.
I can’t help smiling back. I missed him.
Even though I just listed off a bunch of made-up faults to soothe my sister’s broken heart. He doesn’t need to know that.
He eyes the shmoodies in my hand with interest, and crap, I only made two. I had gotten used to Jasmine making him her terrible ones. But I can’t leave him hanging, so I hand him mine.
“For me?” he asks, like I’ve just handed him a swimming trophy.
I nod.
He beams, uncapping the bottle to take a sip, and his lips immediately pucker. “Oh. It’s good. Different.”
“Pomegranates. They’re pretty tart.” Dad was supposed to make lavashak out of them, but he got called in for an emergency bypass and never got around to it.
So I broke them down myself—no sense letting them get all dry and hard—then blended (and strained) the arils into juice for shmoodies.
“I like it.” Even one sip has stained Liam’s lips garnet, and my stomach does a flip turn when he smiles, but then he looks past my shoulder. “Hey, Bowie.”
Bowie tromps up, their black knee-high snow boots striking the floor so hard I can feel it.
I hand them their shmoodie, and with my hands free I can shrug out of my scarf and coat. Before I know it, Liam’s tucking in my tag. I shiver, but not from his shmoodie-cold hand.
“Thanks,” I say.
Bowie looks between us, pressing their lips together. But then they shrug and ask Liam, “How was your break?”
I excuse myself. I’ve got to check in with Dr. Lochley.
***
The crowd in the Theatre Hall is bigger than usual, everyone catching up with each other after break. There’s a maze of bodies and backpacks and a dolly—laden with three giant potted plants, for some reason—between me and Dr. L’s office.
Philip is sitting below the Theatre Board, his legs splayed out, and he acts like he’s going to trip me as I pass.Asshole.
The board is still full of flyers for Christmas shows:The Nutcrackerat the Kauffman Center;A Christmas Carolat the Rep;Nuncrackersat Just Off Broadway. Plus photos fromJCSand printouts of reviews from the local news. But soon this will all come down, to be replaced with info on the spring show.
Except Dr. L still hasn’t announced what it is.
She’s at her desk with her phone cradled against her ear, working her way through a paper plate full of tater tots. The remains of several ketchup packets litter the desk; she rips another one open and squeezes it out as she listens.
I point toward myself and then the door, silently asking if I should leave, but she gestures for me to stay. The couch is fuller than usual: It looks like every script from the shelves in the props closet has been dumped on the floral print cushions.
Dr. L nods along with whoever’s on the other end of the phone. She shakes the crumbs off her hand and grabs a pen from theWickedmug she keeps on the corner of her desk, jots a few notes on the back of a napkin. She glances up at me and rolls her eyes.
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah. Got it.”
She hangs up and leans back, then grabs on to her desk as the chair nearly topples over. Once she’s righted herself, she picks up another tater tot and squeezes a zigzag of ketchup onto it.
“Jackson. How was your break?”
