Maybe. If neither of us screws it up.

“Is it going to happen again?” I ask.

“Never,” he says. “Not at school. Not anywhere near a car.”

I don’t miss the subtext. Not no drinking again ever. Just…not at school or when he might be driving. That bothers me.

It’s not that I have anything against the drinking. I’m not some teetotaler who brings pamphlets to parties or who’s taken a Straight Edge pledge, but I have a feeling there’s something more going on here than just having a good time.

But, like I said, I don’t know him well enough to play therapist.

I trace my fingers along the window frame, sighing loudly enough for him to hear. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” he says, sounding relieved.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Just know that if it ever happens again—”

“It won’t.”

“If it does.” I lean forward, press my forehead against the cool glass. “You will regret it.”

He laughs. “I have no doubt.”

There’s kind of a long silence, and I expect him to say a quick good-bye. I’m not sure why I’m not saying a quick good-bye. But it’s almost like neither of us is ready to go yet.

Suddenly my room feels too small, too confined. I open my window and climb out onto the roof.

“So,” he finally says, like he’s buying time, “things are cool with your mom?”

“Yeah.” Barely. “I handled it.”

Another pause. Then, “Have you thought about it?”

“About what?”

“Getting your license,” he says. “From what I remember, you did a decent job driving stick. I could…teach you, or something.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

There is something easy—too easy—about talking on the phone with him. Almost as if I’ve forgotten how much he bugs and bothers me the rest of the time. But I can’t forget it. I can’t forget that, barring any repeats of the getting-caught-driving-without-a-license situation, I’ll be out of Austin soon. With no looking back.

“We could start—”

“But what’s the point?” I cut him off before he begins making plans for driving lessons. “I’ll be back in New York when the quarter’s over, and I won’t need a license there.”

“Right,” he says, his voice a little tighter. “I forgot.”

The long pause this time is laced with a hint of tension. I don’t know exactly what his game is here, but I know I just shot it down. I had to.

Still, I don’t like how this tension feels.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say as I lay back on the roof.

“’Night Sloan.”

“’Night Tru.”

I slip my phone into my pocket and stare up into the starry sky.

There are forty-five school days in this quarter. Two down, forty-three to go. It’s starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, I might survive my time in Texas after all.

Chapter Eight

“We are definitely going to blow up the school.” Aimeigh sets her brown-bag lunch down on the picnic table we’ve been eating at all week, the one with the best view of the Pokémon sculpture. “Art students should not be allowed to play with dangerous chemicals.”

“I think the key is actually following the instructions,” I argue. “Winging it leads to…”

“Explosions! Exactly my point,” she says, swinging her long legs—clad today in a pair of rainbow unicorn leggings—over the bench. “I’m an artist. I can’t be expected to follow rules.”

I open the boxed salad I grabbed from the cafeteria and pour the dressing onto the baby spinach.

One thing NextGen definitely has over SODA is the food choices. As a vegetarian, my options back home usually consisted of rice or pasta, dressing on wilted iceberg, and steamed broccoli. I love grains and veggies, but even I have my limits.

The dining spread at NextGen is inspired. It’s not the cheapest school lunch, but I guess they figure anyone who can afford to attend can afford to eat well. There are at least a dozen different tasty meals I can choose from.

I’m not saying that’s enough of a reason to make me like it here, but between that and the early-stages friendship between Aimeigh and me and the early-stages whatever with Tru, I’m getting by.

“My two favorite ladies in the entire school.” Speak of the devil. Tru has a huge smile on his face as he drops onto the bench next to me.

“What do you want, Dorsey?” Aimeigh asks as she unwraps a soggy-looking sandwich, like she’s trying to sound tough, but I know it’s just talk. She adores him.

“Can’t a guy want nothing more than to eat with the prettiest girls in school?”

Aimeigh and I exchange a look. Aimeigh rolls her eyes. I ignore him and swirl the dressing into my salad.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he says, leaning in. “ArtSquad team gets passes out of class. I want in.”

Well, he’s nothing if not to the point. Where most people would feign interest in ArtSquad, disguise their true motives, Tru just lays it all on the line. It’s a ballsy move. I admire that.

“I’ve been trying to get you to bring your epic film knowledge to the team for three years,” Aimeigh says, sounding skeptical. “What’s changed?”

Tru clasps his hands together on the table. “Grandig.”

“Ahhh.” She nods in understanding.

“What’s a Grandig?” I ask.

Tru turns his dark eyes on me. “Who’s a Grandig,” he corrects. “Calculus teacher. He makes the Puritans look like a bunch of free-love hippies.”

“Yikes.” I stab my fork into my salad.

“His failure rate is the highest in the school,” Aimeigh adds.

“And his boredom rate is even higher.” Tru leans across the table, closer to Aimeigh. “What do you say?”

Aimeigh tilts her head, gives him a considering look. I’m amused by the exchange between them. If I were making bets, I would say that she is just messing with him. From the start it’s been pretty clear that Aimeigh has a soft spot for Tru. I’m not sure if it’s a full-on crush, or if they’re just kindred spirits. Either way, he could ask her to burn down Building D—the math and science hall—and she would totally consider it. Especially on chemistry day.

But she’s also clever—or evil—enough to make him sweat it out.

She takes a bite of sandwich, chews, and swallows before responding.

“Okay,” she finally says, but before he can get too excited, she adds, “on one condition.”

He spreads his arms dramatically over the table. “Anything.”

I bite my lips to keep from smiling. What will she ask for? Will she ask for homework help in another class, so she can spend more time with him under the guise of school? Or will she be bold enough to ask for a date? Maybe to a school dance—if NextGen even has dances…

She jerks her head at me. “Help me sweet-talk someone into taking Ziggy’s place.”

Well that kills any questions about a crush. If Aimeigh were interested in Tru that way, she totally blew her advantage there.

“What am I?” Tru demands, acting insulted. “A body double?”

“I only want you for your cinematic skills.” She bats her eyes flirtatiously. “If we’re going to have a chance at winning the tournament we need someone to fill in the void on graphic design.”

Her big blue eyes focus on me as she takes a huge bite of her sandwich.

Wait, what? No, I already told her I wasn’t interested. I’m shaking my head when Tru turns his attention back to me.

“Huh-uh,” I hum around a mouthful of salad.

“Sloane, babe,” he says, turning up the charm to blinding, “come on. Take one for the team.”

He slings an arm around my shoulders, hugging me close. He means it as a joke. Nothing more than a tease. But between the touch of his hand and the heat of his body where it’s pulled tight against mine, I have the completely absurd urge to lean in to him. To press myself even closer. To turn my head so we’re face-to-face, so his mouth is only inches away from mine.

Something is definitely wrong with me.