I lean back in my chair and say, “Fine. I’ll consider it. Whatever”

“I don’t mean to upset you, Kat. But please do think about it. You can write about your mother without exploiting her memory. I think you owe it to yourself to speak about that experience and how you derived so much strength from it.”

I force a tight-lipped smile as Ms. Chirazo gets up, pats me on the back, and moves on to the next group.

“Thanks for that,” I say to Alex, under my breath.

He bumps my leg under the table. I wonder if he’ll say anything comforting, if he’ll ask about my mom, or try and talk me into writing that kind of essay. But all Alex says is, “Any cool bands playing this week?”

I think about telling him that I’m going to a show with Ricky, to see if it might make him jealous. But I decide against it . . . because what if Alex is asking because he wants to hang out? We’ve been having a good time together lately, like last summer.

I decide to play it coy. “There’s one band coming Thursday that I might want to see,” I say. “What are you up to?”

“I’m going to Boston with Lillia. We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning. Taking two days off from school.”

Huh. Never mind. “Shit. I forgot. I have a date Thursday night, actually. He’s in a band. Lead singer. They’re pretty big in Germany.”

“Whoa. Cool.”

“Yeah, I know right?” Lillia didn’t tell me about any special trip with Alex. “What are you guys heading to Boston for?”

“We’ve both got prelim interviews with admissions. It ended up being this whole fight between my mom and my dad. If he had his way, I’d only apply to Michigan. But my mom said I should at least visit my backup school. Between us, I think she wanted to go shopping.”

Okay. So it’s not like a romantic trip or anything. “You should probably check out Berklee, too.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the number-three music school in the country. I think they might have a songwriting major too.” Alex’s face gets tight, and I suddenly feel guilty, like I’ve said something I shouldn’t have. “Sorry. I saw over your shoulder.”

I wonder if Alex is going to try and deny it. Which would be weird. I mean, what’s the big deal? “I don’t think so,” Alex says quietly. “There probably won’t be time.”

“How you guys getting there? Driving? Leave a little earlier, then. Or come back a little later. Whatever.”

Alex grimaces. He leans forward and whispers, embarrassed, “We’re taking a private charter plane. I’d be fine with driving. But my dad’s already out of town, and he thinks my mom is a terrible driver, so he told us to take the plane. He pays to be a part of this service, so it doesn’t actually cost us anything.”

A private plane. Jesus.

The bell rings. “Welp,” I say, and quick pack up my stuff, “you two kids have fun.” But I don’t mean it. Not at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It’s Tuesday, and school’s already let out. I’ve been in and out of the pool, and now I’m studying for AP US History on the bleachers while Reeve does more laps. I figure this way we can walk out together; I can give him a proper good-bye. You can’t flirt with a boy if he’s underwater and you’re on dry land.

Reeve has a clipboard lying on top of his gym bag. I glance over at it and recognize the bubble loops of Rennie’s handwriting right away. She’s still plotting all his workout sessions. I smile smugly to myself. She’d kill to be me, here with him. But she’s not. I am.

After half an hour or so, Reeve finally climbs out of the pool. “I’m starving,” he says, stretching his arms out and shaking water from his ears. “Wanna get pancakes or something?”

My heart skips a beat. This is the first time he’s initiated an actual hangout. It’s real progress. Ever since our fight, things have felt different.

Casually, I look up from my textbook. “Hmm, I don’t know. I’m nowhere near done studying. Don’t you have a US History test on Friday too?” I’m in AP and he’s not, but I’m pretty sure we both have a test on Friday, when I’m back from Boston.

Reeve shrugs. “I haven’t been to class in a couple of days. I’ve been doubling down in the weight room. Now that I have my walking cast, I’ve been working on my sprints. That way, when the doctor gives me the okay to go full-throttle, I’ll be ahead of the game.”

“Are you serious? Then you’d better start studying, like, yesterday!”

“I’m not worried. I have a great memory,” he tells me. Tapping his head he boasts, “Like a steel trap.”

“Okay, so what year was Shays’ Rebellion?”

“Um . . .” Reeve leans forward and peeks at the notebook in my lap. “1786.” A droplet of pool water from his hair splashes onto the page. “Plus Friday is, like, a long time away.”

I shove him away. Crossly, I blow on the page and say, “Reeve! You’re getting my notebook all wet!”

He sits down next to me. “Come on, this is boring. Let’s get out of here. I’m starved.”

Pancakes do sound good. We could go to the Greasy Spoon. They serve real maple syrup there. But this test is important. It’s practically a midterm.

“I have to finish my note cards.” I reach into my backpack and pull out a chocolate chip granola bar. “Eat this for now,” I say, handing it over and going back to my book.

Abruptly he asks me, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

I look up, surprised. Nice? It’s a granola bar. “Because we’re friends.”

“We were never friends,” Reeve scoffs. “You’ve never liked me.”

Whoa.

I mean, it’s pretty much true. But I never thought Reeve noticed whether or not I liked him, much less cared. And it’s not like I’ve always hated him or anything like that. At least, not before I met Mary.

I quickly try to string some words together. “Yes I did!” I shake my head. “I do.”

Reeve doesn’t look convinced. Impulsively I hold my hand out to him. “Well, we’re friends now, aren’t we?” He cocks his head and gives me a nod, and I say, “So shake my hand!”

He finally takes my hand and shakes it and says, “Does that mean you’re going to help me study this week, friend? Tomorrow, postswim library trip?”

“Oh . . . I can’t. I’m leaving tomorrow morning to Boston for a college trip.”

“You too? Lind told me he’s going to visit schools in Boston this week.”

I hesitate. “Yeah . . . he’s going with me.” I quickly add, “With our moms. They’re the ones who set the whole thing up. I didn’t even know about it until a week ago. We’re all staying at our apartment in the city.”

I don’t know why I’m explaining it to Reeve. It’s not like it’s his business. And judging by the bored look on his face, it’s not like he cares. “Have fun,” he says, yawning and stretching his arms over his head again.

“We will,” I say. I’m annoyed now, and I can’t pinpoint the reason. I snap my book shut and put it back in my saddlebag. “I should get home and pack.”

“Your hair’s still wet,” Reeve protests.

“I’ll be okay. I’ll run to my car.” I throw on my hoodie and tie my towel around my waist.

Lazily, Reeve reaches over and pulls my hood up so it’s covering my head. “Why do you need, like, ten hours to pack for two days?”

“It’s three days, actually. We’re not coming back until early Friday morning. Besides, my mom made reservations for us at fancy places, so I have to figure out what I’m bringing. And these interviews are important. I need to look my absolute best.”

“Sounds fun,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Are you guys going to go to a ballet too? Maybe an opera?”

“Maybe!” I screw up my lips tight. “And maybe we’ll go to a Red Sox game! My dad’s friend has box seats!”

Reeve busts up laughing. He’s laughing so hard he can’t talk.

“What? What?” I demand, my hands on my hips.

“Lillia, Lillia, Lillia. Baseball season’s over, girl. You guys aren’t going to any Red Sox game!” He shakes his head, holding his sides, guffawing. “You two nerds have fun, though.”

I want to push him off the bleacher. And then it occurs to me. It’s the second time he’s told me to have fun.

Which is boy speak for “I’m jealous.” Reeve is jealous! Of Alex. Of me and Alex, together.

It’s working. The plan is working!

I pack my bag up and say, “So are we getting pancakes or not?”

“I thought you had to pack,” he challenges.

“I might have time for one pancake,” I say, giving him what I hope are flirty eyes.

Reeve stands up, stretching. “All right. Whatever Princess Lillia wants, she gets.” But I can tell he’s happy, because he puts his hands on my shoulders and gives them a quick squeeze.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Wednesday night, I’m still thinking about what Ms. Chirazo said about my college essay. Maybe I’m being stupid. I should do whatever the hell it takes to take to get into Oberlin and score some good financial aid. Ain’t no way private planes are in my future. And I don’t know why, but no matter how many beers I drink, I can’t stop thinking about Alex and Lillia jetting off together this week.

“Let’s go hot-tubbing!” I suddenly announce to everyone in the garage. “Who’s in?”

Ricky, Skeeter, and a bunch of other guys look my way. “Where?” Ricky says.

I turn off the radio. “I know a place. A mansion. And it’s completely empty tonight.” Seems stupid to let Alex’s house go to waste.

“But it’s kind of cold out,” Skeeter whines.

“That’s why we’re going in a hot tub, dummy.”

“I don’t want to get arrested,” Ricky says.

I walk over to him and pull on the strings of his hoodie. “You won’t. I’m telling you. No one is home. And the kid has no neighbors.”

Ricky shrugs. “Okay. I’m in.”

It’s me, five guys, and one of their girlfriends who bugs the shit out of me so I never bothered learning her name. Pat stays back. He says he wants to keep working on his bike, but I know the truth: He has a thing with hot tubs. They skeeve him out. The heat, the germs, all the bodies cooking together in one big bathtub. I don’t blow up his spot, though, mainly because I don’t want to gross everyone else out.

Which affords me a real opportunity. Tonight, I’m going to let Ricky get what he’s been wanting. The kid’s been flirting with me for weeks. And I could use a good make-out. I don’t even care that I have school tomorrow. I haven’t kissed a boy since . . . Lind.

We put two sixers of beer in a plastic bag, hop on a bunch of bikes, and tear over to Alex’s place. The lights in his house are all on, like someone’s home, but I know it’s empty. I have to drag Ricky up the driveway.

“You sure about this?” he keeps saying.

I crack open a beer and take a sip before offering it to him. I get close to his face and say, “You know it.” I like flirting with Ricky. He’s sweet. He’s two years older than me, a year younger than Pat. We were both at Jar Island High together at some point, but back then he was dating someone else. Sarah? I forget. Anyway, he dumped her this summer, after she cheated on him with her professor at the JICC. That’s the kind of shit that goes on in our community college, which is why I need out of here.

The fence is locked, so we have to climb on top of the trash cans to get over. As soon as we land on the other side, the backyard lights automatically turn on. My heart stops, and I’m just waiting for a siren or something. We all hold still, and then they click off. “See?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s fine.”

Alex’s pool is closed for the season, half drained and covered with a tight tarp. Oh shit. I take off the cover of Alex’s hot tub, and thank God it’s full of water. It’s a pretty pimped-out model, with buttons that make different colored lights go on and a builtin stereo. We all get in, crank the jets, and it doesn’t take long before it gets toasty. Ricky doesn’t have a bathing suit, so he goes in in his underwear. He’s wearing black boxer briefs, and he looks freaking hot. His body is cut, you can see every ab muscle, and he’s got a wicked scar from when he got his appendix removed.

I’m in my black bikini and a black tank. I push Tim’s girlfriend out of the way so I can sit next to Ricky.

“This place is sick!” one of the guys says.

“Damn, I wish I was loaded,” says Skeeter.

It sort of pisses me off, because most of these dudes will never have money, will never get to experience this side of Jar Island living. Unless they become pool boys. Which some of them might.

Tim asks me, “You know the guy who lives here?”

“Yeah.”

Ricky says, “You ever hook up with him?”

“Hell, no,” I lie, because I know what my friends think about these kinds of people. They aren’t like us. Though it may be racist, or classist, or whatever . . . it’s freaking true. Alex isn’t like me. After all, he’s in a goddamned private plane, going to visit a school where his parents will most likely make a huge donation to get him accepted. I don’t know why he’s even in the college essay class with me. He doesn’t need a good essay when he’s got a blank check. I finish my beer and throw the empty can in the yard, like I don’t give a shit. I get close to Ricky. He puts his arm around me for like a second, but then takes it back.