The guy shrugged.
“Because stall three in the girls’ east corridor bathroom has a whole book written about you.” She lowered her voice. “And I’m no expert, but you might want to see a specialist.”
His jaw fell open, and his buddy put two feet between them.
And Leo . . . Leo laughed, full and deep and real.
It threw her. “Careful. Can’t appear to be consorting with the enemy.”
Leo’s head shook slightly. “You’re not my enemy.”
“Does your campaign manager know that?”
“He’s not really my campaign manager.”
“Again, does he know that? Because he seems to be pulling your strings. Strings that are all for guys wearing gross shirts like that.”
“And who’s pulling yours? Cell phone restrictions and no limos to prom? You’d hyperventilate without your phone for five minutes, and you’ve wanted us to go to prom in a limo since our first date.”
“Actually . . .” The truth danced on her lips. A truth Leo could use against her. Whatever, let him. She was tired of all of this. “I wanted us to go to prom. The limo was so it looked better on Instagram. Which is pretty pathetic when you say it out loud.”
“Yeah, well, is there an application process to join that club? ’Cause I’m there with trying to defend that asswipe’s right to wear that shirt.” He frowned, but his dark eyes reached out to her. Though that was their only contact, Angeline felt held, as she always had with him.
They fell into step on their way to government. Down the hall, the same two guys were cornering a petite freshman girl, the taller one wiggling a cell phone above her head. The girl clutched the sides of her skirt with one hand and stretched toward her phone with the other.
Her faint smile said, I’m a good sport. Her forced chuckle said, I’ll play along; it’s just a game. Her sweaty forehead said, I’m the butt of some inside joke. Her crimson cheeks said, I’m mortified. But it was her eyes that had the most to say: I’m afraid, afraid of having no control, afraid that anything could happen.
Two male teachers hovered outside their classrooms, arms crossed, eyes glazed, staring straight at the scene before them but not seeing it—or not seeing it for what it was.
This was how they got away with it. So routine that it didn’t register. And the girl wouldn’t log an official complaint for the same reason.
Angeline remembered the research she’d done into peer juries. In most, anyone could file a grievance. Anyone could start an inquiry.
One of the guys said, “You got a prom date yet, sweetie? I’m taking backups if my girl boycotts because of this stupid no-limo shit. Forget ‘I’m with her.’ You can just direct those pretty blue eyes my way and say, ‘I’m with him.’”
Leo slipped his sling over his head. “Hold this for me?”
She took it, wrapping her hands in the warmth that was Leo’s.
He strode over. He told the guys to stop. He told them to give the girl her phone. They elbowed each other and laughed and said he of all people, he of the Franken-donut, should know this was all in good fun and raised the phone higher, winking at Leo as if he were playing the game too.
Leo clenched his fist, and Angeline rushed forward. She’d never seen Leo fight—he’d never even consider it with his mom’s focus on their image—but the anger on Leo’s face was something she’d only seen once before: that night in Maxine’s screening room. With super fast aim, Leo shot out his arm, and his hand connected with the guy’s torso. And tickled. The phone fell, and the girl caught it in two hands. She gave a quick thanks and started to run off.
“Report them,” Angeline said.
She mumbled an “It’s okay,” to which Angeline said it wasn’t. None of it was.
Ignoring the “Hey, man” and “Can’t take a joke,” Leo approached and introduced himself.
“Olivia,” the girl replied sheepishly.
Leo gestured to her phone. “Can I?” She handed it to him, and Leo punched at the screen. “That’s my number. Text or call or anything if you want to talk. Or if it happens again.”
Her eyes were wide and grateful, and Angeline and Leo walked her to ELA, two doors down from their own classroom.
Just as Angeline and Leo were about to enter, a “Hothead Quiiiinnnn” rang out.
Angeline ignored it. “Well, here’s something. If that girl tells her friends what you just did, you’ll be a hero and have this election locked up. Maybe I should just drop out now.”
“Then they win.”
“And so do you.”
Leo slipped his arm back through his sling. “Listen, if you want to quit because you don’t want to do this, that’s your right. But don’t quit because they’re trying to make you.”
An earnestness infused his expression, but could she trust what she saw in his eyes? Was it proof that he wasn’t behind The Shrieking Violet?
He gently touched the heart on her ring before wrapping his hand around hers. He was only an inch or two taller than Angeline, but one wouldn’t know it from his hands. Wide palms, long fingers, always warm around her always cold hands. That was proof too, his touch, strong and sure and right.
She wished he’d never let go.
He did.
But his eyes remained on her.
“Stay,” he said.
And Angeline let herself pretend he meant more than in the race.
* * *
“Accountability,” Ms. Lute said. “That’s been bandied about in this student council election by both of your candidates. Let’s take a closer look at that today but with respect to this.”
The screen on the projector flashed to the home page for The Shrieking Violet. The headline: “Voters, Be Warned! Track Record Shows Quinn Betrays 100% of HS Boyfreinds: You Could Be Next.”
“Hilarious,” Josh Baker said.
“Gets my attention,” from someone else.
Tad slapped the top of his desk. “Spot on.”
Silence followed, broken by Sonya. “Typo aside, it’s technically true, but without context, it’s not the whole story.”
Angeline gave her a grateful smile.
In her front-row seat, Emmie raised her hand. “It challenges us.”
Angeline jerked her head. “In what? Our ability to spot typos and the lack of actual facts?”
“Maybe,” Emmie said. “Or maybe in how we have a responsibility too.”