There’s no way any of this is real.
“I’ve gotta get going,” Zan continues. “We’ll talk soon, Mr. Zoughbi.” They shake hands, and then he comes over to me.
“Rico, pleasure to see you as always.” He stretches out a hand for me to shake. There’s no mistaking the rascally twinkle in his eye. It’s the same look Jax gets just before bragging about getting away with something mischievous.
When our hands touch, he presses a piece of paper against my palm…and yanks me forward. “C’mere, you.” I collide with his chest—then he’s wrapping his arms around my waist and lifting me off my feet.
What on earth?
He sets me back down, and I slip the note in my pocket, legitimately hot all over and so not okay with it.
“Wonderful citizens of Norcross, GA, I bid thee adieu!” He waves, and then the bell chimes as he exits.
What a weirdo.
When I turn around, Mr. Z is staring at me. “Rico Danger, you scoundrel! Why did you not tell me of your friendship with Mr. Macklin?”
“Zan is fine, Mr. Z.”
“He is a very humorous young man, eh? Told me many stories of your shared childhood!”
Shared childhood?!
“I am grateful for you, young lady,” he says. “You are one of many blessings to me.”
Wow. I don’t even know what to say to that. Especially since his thankfulness is built on a web of lies.
“You are fine out here? No need for a bathroom break?”
I just blink. “No, sir. I’m, umm…I’m good?”
“Excellent. I will look through the inventory spreadsheet once more to make sure all has been corrected.”
I swallow. “Okay, sir.”
He smiles and vanishes through the office door.
Once I’m alone, I pull out the note from Zan. His handwriting is surprisingly neat, but there are just two words.
And they make my heart do a little tap dance:
Got it.
When I step into US History on Monday, Big Money Macklin is sitting in the desk beside mine. Not only do people kick palpable side-eye at me as I head to the back of the room, when I pass Zan’s regular seat, the boy who normally sits next to me shoots glare-daggers at my face like I’m an accomplice to murder.
Which is…odd?
Zan nods at me as I sit. “Lady Danger,” he says.
I shake my head, trying really hard not to smile. “Looks like Amit’s pretty P.O.’d about you jacking his seat, Macklin,” I say.
“Technically, it would be P’d.O. And anyway, I paid him twenty dollars. He’s just mad because I wouldn’t double it.”
Wait.
“You paid him?” To sit next to me?
Am I flattered? Or annoyed at his nonchalance about flushing twenty bucks so frivolously?
This is confusing.
“Yep. You and I have much to discuss.”
“Do we now?”
He throws his arms into the air. “Did ya not read my note Saturday, Danger?”
“Oh, this note, you mean?” I pull it from the breast pocket of the button-down I stole from Mama’s closet this morning.
“Aww!” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You keep it close to your heart!”
“Yeah, whatever.” Pretty much didn’t sleep all weekend because I couldn’t figure out what the dang thing meant. “I’ve been so overwhelmed by the specificity, I can hardly stand it.”
“I’m gonna need a coat of armor to survive your stabbing sarcasm, O Icy One.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
He leans toward me. Cologne sorcery head-rush. “I think the more pressing question is why haven’t you embraced it?”
I open my mouth to respond, but the bell rings, and Mr. Tripathi waddles in to start class.
Can’t lie: knowing THE Zan Macklin is sitting beside me in class on purpose is a little distracting. Within five minutes, Mr. Tripathi is sounding like that teacher from Peanuts…waaah wah waaah wah waaaaaah.
I put an elbow on the desk and prop up my chin to keep my head from drooping as he babbles about some song called “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” Out of nowhere, something sharp pokes me in the forearm.
I yelp. Every head in the room turns.
“Is everything all right, Miss Don-gur?” Because of course, Mr. Tripathi says it correctly.
And I’m mortified.
“Yes. Sorry, sir,” I say.
He nods and everyone faces forward.
“Geez, IQ. Think you could be any less discreet?” Zan whispers as soon as Tripathi rotates to tap on the SMART board.
I scowl at him, but he points to my desk. There’s a note folded into a small triangle.
Of course he would make a paper football.
I unfold.
You know, we should probably exchange numbers…
Stab in the arm becomes stab in the gut with this acute reminder of my lowly “socioeconomic status,” as Tripathi refers to it. Because while I technically have a cell phone—a prepaid imitation of the iPhones and Galaxies glued to everyone else’s palms—it’s solely for emergencies and I can’t even text on it.
And this is why I keep to myself. My insides curdle at the very idea of the side-eye I would get were people to find out I don’t have something that’s considered such a staple to “this generation.”
Ugh.
Umm…I don’t really give mine out. You can give me yours though…If you want.
678.555.3525
I scribble it into the margin of my open notebook (that I haven’t taken a single note in today).
Thanks.
So to update: I managed to retrieve a picture of your cute grandma from the security footage. Quality’s garbage, but it’s better than nothin…
I write back:
Awesome, but please don’t ever say “your cute grandma” again.
K. She got into a cab that night.
Yeah. You told me that.
I got the license plate.