“Never,” I answer. Then I lean over and kiss him again, and it truly feels like we’re starting our new love story. And this time, I know I’m going to remember every detail.
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Wendy Loggia, who gave this book so much love, and to my brilliant designer, Casey Moses, whose hand-lettering would make Ella proud. I’d also like to give eleven paper hearts to Bonnie Cutler, Lili Feinberg, Colleen Fellingham, Erica Henegen, Beverly Horowitz, Alison Impey, Jenn Inzetta, Victoria Rodriquez, Alison Romig, Tamar Schwartz, and Elizabeth Ward for their hard work making this book possible. Most of all, thank you to my friends, family, and real-life adventure partners for the inspiration.
Chapter One
Growing up in New York City is a crash course in the art of self-defense. I don’t mean learning martial arts or the proper way to use a stun gun or anything like that. I mean, quickly and accurately assessing people and situations for potential disasters so you can avoid them before they happen.
That discounted MetroCard someone’s trying to sell you on the street? It’s a scam.
That guy sitting in the corner of the subway car, making kissy noises and hissing in your direction? Don’t make eye contact.
That one lonely cockroach you saw zooming across your kitchen counter the other day? It’s never one lonely cockroach. Trust me when I say there’s a million more where that came from. Have your parents call the landlord, pronto.
Basically, if you want to survive (and keep your apartment vermin-free), you need to know trouble when you see it.
And I know trouble when I see it.
This morning, trouble takes the form of Jason Eisler, strolling into American History with a goofy grin and an easy stride. On the surface, there’s nothing concerning going on here. Just a teenage boy rolling into class, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, backpack bouncing with each step.
But I know Jason too well not to be concerned. There’s a certain subtle glimmer he gets in his chocolate-brown eyes when he’s up to no good. The first time I remember seeing it, we were in second grade, and he’d somehow managed to sneak a lifelike rubber tarantula into our teacher’s top desk drawer. When poor Ms. Chen opened it up, she went paler than Marshmallow Fluff, shrieking so loudly that one of the girls at table two started to cry. Five minutes later, the principal showed up in our classroom, his bushy eyebrows furrowed with disdain as Ms. Chen explained what happened. Jason wasn’t fazed, though. He just giggled, eyes glimmering, as he followed the principal out the door.
In the intervening decade, Jason’s pranks have become more sophisticated, more interesting, but that glimmer in his eyes is still the same. It dances a little now when he looks my way.
“What’s up, Ashley?” he calls from the front of the room. People turn to check me out, but I slide farther down in my chair and glare at the scratched desktop. I want no part of whatever he’s got planned.
The bell chimes to signal the start of the period, and five seconds later, Ms. Henley closes the classroom door. “Take your seats, please,” she says. After everyone settles in, she projects a slideshow about the Cuban Missile Crisis onto the whiteboard. You’d think she’d go easy on us since it’s the last day of school before two weeks of spring break, but that has never been Ms. Henley’s style.
“Today we’re going to discuss the role diplomacy played in…” Her voice trails off when the door squeaks open, and I think I see a thin curl of smoke wafting from each of her nostrils. Ms. Henley hates latecomers. Her shoulders hunch toward her ears, and I can tell she’s preparing to lay into this unfortunate soul with a tirade about time wasting and personal responsibility. But when she sees who it is, her shoulders relax again.
It’s Walker Beech, the opposite of trouble.
He looks appropriately contrite. “Sorry I’m late, Ms. Henley.”
“It’s okay, Walker.” She waves away his apology with a casual smile. “We were just getting started.”
Only Walker Beech could elicit such a warmhearted response from the iciest teacher at Edward R. Murrow High School.
As Walker slips inside and gently closes the door behind him, I try not to stare. It’s no use, though. His body’s like a magnet dragging my attention away from Ms. Henley, who’s now gesturing toward a map of Cuba. She’s droning on about the Bay of Pigs, but all I can focus on is Walker’s hair, the way his thick brown curls defy gravity. I wonder if he spends a lot of time getting them so flawlessly tousled or if it’s a natural phenomenon. Probably the latter.
At least I’m not the only one distracted by his magnificence. From my vantage point in the middle of the classroom, I can see at least three other people—Chelsea, Yaritza, Marcus—watching his every move. Their heads turn in unison, tracking him as he walks down the fourth row of desks, headed for the empty seat directly to my left.
Omigod.
He’s sitting next to me.
In one motion, I sit up straight and tuck my hair behind my ears, smoothing any flyaways. Not that he’s looking at me or anything. As he passes me, I get a whiff of his cologne. It smells like one of those clove-scented oranges Mom sets around the table at Christmastime.
The moment he slides into his chair, he’s already engrossed in the lesson, notebook open to a blank sheet of paper, pen uncapped, ready to write. He squints his hazel eyes at the whiteboard, clearly fascinated by Ms. Henley’s discussion of geopolitical strife at the height of the Cold War.
So dreamy. So mysterious.
That’s the thing about Walker Beech—the thing that makes him the opposite of trouble. He’s always attentive in class, always completely respectful. I didn’t know him in second grade, but I’m certain he never hid a rubber tarantula in his teacher’s top desk drawer.
Okay! Enough obsessing over Walker Beech.
As I’m finally tuning in to Ms. Henley’s monotonous speech, I’m distracted yet again. This time by Jason, who’s fidgeting in his chair, shifting awkwardly with his arms folded across his chest. I’m sure he’s uncomfortable sitting in the front row, right under Ms. Henley’s nose, but it’s not like he has a choice in the matter. Those fart noises he made on the first day of the semester earned him the distinct honor of being the only person in class with an assigned seat.
No one else seems clued in to Jason’s restlessness, but that’s not a surprise. Like I said, I know him really well.
And I know when he’s hiding something.
Right now, that something appears to be shiny and cylindrical and candy-apple red, because I see the end of it slipping out the bottom of his hoodie. He shifts again and it disappears. Behind him, Dmitry Yablokov props his phone up on his desk, angled beside his binder so Ms. Henley can’t see it—if she did, it would be locked in her file cabinet in two seconds flat. When he sets the video and slides his thumb to the record button, alarm bells go off in my head.