Juni unlocks her car, and we sling our bags into the backseat. The three of us head across the green. Ahead, at the end of the long stretch of grass, Paloma High School’s main building looms above us like an architectural Frankenstein. They renovated the east wing two years ago. It’s three stories of glimmering plate glass and steel beams now. The west wing—brick, weathered, sixty years old—hangs off the new section like an unfortunate growth.
We cross the entire green before anyone speaks. “So, that assembly,” I say, opening the door to the east wing.
“Yeah,” Claire says. “Girl, dat shit be cray.”
I wince. “Yeesh, please don’t—you are whiter than Moby-Dick.”
Juniper laughs, and Claire flushes, flicking a curl out of her eyes. We head down a long hallway filled with afternoon sun. Light glances off the lockers, making them more of an eyesore than usual: red on top, green on the bottom. Our school colors. Also Christmas colors. Every year around the Christmas season, someone tags a red Rudolph graffiti nose onto the Lions logo out front.
“Seriously,” Claire says, pushing open the door to the stairwell, “when they figure out who’s sleeping with a teacher . . .”
“I know.” I jog up the steps after her. “We won’t hear the end of it for, like, twelve years.”
Claire aims a smirk at me over her shoulder. “It’s not you, is it?”
That stings—I bet half the school thinks it’s me—but I manage a laugh. “Go to hell.”
“Fine, fine,” she says, raising her hands. “It’s actually me. Me . . . and Principal Turner.”
Juniper mock-retches behind us. “Why, Claire?” I moan. “Why do you give us these mental scars?”
We come out on the third floor, dodging the after-school-club traffic. We pass the computer-science room, filled with Programming Club kids on their laptops, and the English room, where Poetry Society meets in a solemn-looking, somewhat cultish circle. We head into the Politics and Government room.
“Good crowd,” I say. The room’s empty.
“Three’s a crowd,” Claire says, checking her watch. “It’s just juniors today. And the girl who’s running for secretary emailed me—she can’t come. But there’s also a boy running for president, so . . .”
My heart sinks. If there’s only one other candidate, the odds of me wriggling out of this contest without hurting Claire’s feelings are way lower; and what with her hyperactive sense of responsibility, she won’t let it go for a while.
“Who’s the boy?” Juniper asks, perching in the empty teacher’s chair. Mr. Gunnar must be helping with the assembly cleanup. I bet they need a dozen people to mop up the sweat.
Claire unzips her backpack and thumbs through a folder. She draws out a sign-up sheet with one lonely name sitting at the top. “His handwriting’s terrible, but I think it says Matt something? Jackson, maybe?”
“I know him.” Juniper raises one thin eyebrow. “We did a group project together in bio, by which I mean I did the entire thing. The guy isn’t exactly a paragon of self-discipline.”
“Oh, wait,” I say, recalling the kid who slouches in late to English every day, reeking of weed. “Tall? Never talks? Kind of a pointy face?”
“That’s the one,” Juniper says.
“Well,” I say. “This’ll be, uh. Great.”
Claire scrutinizes my expression. “Something wrong, Liv?”
“What? No, everything’s fine.” I shrug. “It’s just . . . not that I don’t want to be Paloma, Kansas’s new political wunderkind, but I sort of want to drop out.”
Claire makes a dismissive tsk sound between her teeth, setting her backpack down. “Oh, come on. Don’t pull that.”
“Dude, I’m being honest. I don’t know about this Matt kid, but everyone knows there’s no contest if it’s me and Juniper.”
We both look at Juniper. She stays diplomatically silent, spinning in Mr. Gunnar’s chair.
“Well, I guess you do have a lot on your plate,” Claire says knowingly.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe your latest conquest?” Claire wiggles her eyebrows. “Dan Silverstein, huh? Ees vairy eenteresting choice.”
I know she’s not serious, but it’s been a long day of stares. “Hmm, that’s funny,” I say. “I don’t remember telling you about—”
“I mean, no judgment. But, like, did you even know he existed before last Saturday?”
“Claire, give me a break.” I try to ignore the tug of hurt. “Can you stop doing this every time I hook up with someone? I know everyone else thinks I’m, like, Slutty McGee, Queen Slut from Slut Island, but you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Whoa. First of all, it was a joke, and second, there’s not a side.” She frowns. “Although I’ll admit, I don’t get why you sleep with so many guys.”
“It’s not like my reasoning needs to be public knowledge,” I say, unsuccessfully attempting to keep my voice level.
“Excuse me? So now it’s not my business?” Her blue eyes stretch wide. Surrounded by gold eyeliner, they look like gilded windows framing a sunlit sea. “Do I need a reason to care about you and your . . .” She gestures in the vicinity of my ovaries.