Dylan Archer is the picture perfect eighteen-year-old.

But there is one flaw on his porcelain skin, a small scar below his eye, and it’s because of me. I, as a fourth grader, did something completely reckless and a little violent—I punched him.

From across the playground, I watched him argue with and make fun of James before hurling insults at me when I approached, and I had enough.

Audrey had just taken up tae kwon do, so part of the blame is on her for insisting on teaching me her moves in our living room. And also, to be fair, I was aiming for his nose but ended up driving the hard plastic on my finger—from my finished Ring Pop—into his cheek.

At the time, James was mad at me for fighting his battles for him, but I refused to let Dylan drag me down with him. These days, we laugh about it whenever James is particularly annoyed at him.

There’s the hint of a mark, long ago healed, below his right eye. It’s rounded on one end but stretches out to a line on the other, sort of like how I’ve seen meteors drawn.

I wonder if he sees it every time he looks in the mirror—which I imagine is quite often.

But now he is putting his ego aside, which must be difficult to do from the sheer size and weight of it, to ask me for help.

I’m equal parts cautious and curious, but the latter wins the battle in my conscious mind.

I sigh. “How can I help?”

2

“For starters, maybe you could locate a brush,” Dylan says. “I mean, do you actually try to have hair that’s in that...shape?”

“I see we’re still in the mocking stage of our conversation,” I deadpan. “Maybe we could just move on to whatever it is you need and be done with it?”

Of course, Dylan and his perfectly straight hair that’s easy to style in a variety of ways finds my appearance laughable.

In the few times that we’ve exchanged verbal jabs, my hair and his dislike of it somehow always makes its way into the conversation.

If only he knew how many products I’ve tried that have failed me...

I’m annoyed, but I still try to smooth the frizz with my palm.

“It was a legitimate question,” he continues, getting more confident by the second.

He leans back in his chair, and his long legs hit the fronts of my shins. I fidget until I lose the standoff, shifting my lower body so that he can sit comfortably.

“One would think a person takes a look in the mirror and sees that they have a problem that needs solving, but I’m just curious to whether you actually aim for,” he pauses and gestures in a wide circle around my hair, “this.”

I glance around, pleased to see that everyone is oblivious to our conversation.

Dylan Archer is a classic self-preserving narcissist, which means I don’t have even a chance at breaking through his facade to hear whatever he wants me to unless it’s on his terms and there aren’t interruptions.

My curiosity is tangible, though. If he legitimately needs my help, it’s something that the truckloads of money his family has can’t buy.

Then again, I’m also fully prepared for this to be some sort of practical joke.

I open myself up to it anyway.

“Is this how you get people to do things for you?” I ask him. “Insult them?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to stop a smirk.

My brain is like a reference book, not that those are used much anymore, but I appreciate their effectiveness. It’s well organized, sorted alphabetically, and the one thing that I’m in complete control of at this moment.

I visualize pulling the “Dylan Archer” book off the shelf and flipping through it.

Aside from insulting James, he aggressively pursues women in his spare time. I can think of at least three direct interactions I’ve witnessed with Serena where he’s pushing her buttons and then in the next blink, his tongue is in her mouth.

“Oh god, you do, don’t you?” I realize out loud.

He shrugs. “Girls like it,” he says dismissively.

I glare at him.

“Well...most girls. The ones who care about things like appearances and positive attention.”

I take this insult as a deflection, stalling for whatever reason. He approached me, though, and I’m getting impatient with whatever he wants.

“Just say whatever it is you wanted to say. I’ve got plenty of work to do.”

This statement causes him to chuckle. “I doubt it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Homework is like an olympic-level sport for you. I bet you have all your assignments done through next month, if not beyond.”

It’s not an impossible idea, but it’s not ideal. Even though I have every due date and unit mapped out in my planner, working that far ahead would be stupid. Sometimes lessons change or shift, and it’s no use doubling back to do the extra work.

I did plan to use the rest of this time working on some ideas for a yearbook photo spread, though, which he is definitely intruding on.

“Are you even in this study hall?” I ask him as bitterly as I can.

I already know the answer to this question because although there are students from all four grades of this school scattered in the seats, this is the first time Dylan has graced us with his presence. Attendance is taken at the beginning of each class, even if it’s just study hall, and his absence would have been noted at the beginning of the semester.

It’s odd, though, that he sought me, today of all days, when James is preoccupied with taking his exam. It’s almost like he planned this intentionally, which makes me even more curious as to what he wants.

“What do you want?” I repeat. This time, I am successful in being forceful.

Dylan exhales, and I watch the movement of his chest, recognizing this as a sign of finally coming to terms with something you’re dreading.

He shifts, digging his elbows into his knees, before he offers me the closest thing to vulnerability I have ever seen on his face.

“English,” he says simply.

“I think you speak it just fine, although a little bitter for my preferences,” I tease, surprised at myself for trying to lighten the mood and make him, of all people, feel at ease.

It works.

“Now look who’s the comedian,” he mutters.

I sigh. “Do you need help with an assignment?” AP English is one of the classes we share.

“Not one,” he admits. “All of them. The entire semester so far and everything up ahead.”

My jaw drops open, hoping he’s messing with me.

The coursework is grueling. If I’m using that word to describe it, even being as far ahead as I am, he’s totally screwed.

“All of them,” I repeat.

“Yep,” he says as if it’s the most innocent concept he has ever proposed.

Actually, it might be.

“How? Why?” I can’t help but verbalize my confusion.

“I’m failing right now. I can’t fail a college-level course and still expect to be admitted to the Ivy League college of my choice.”

I stop myself from laughing because he seems legitimately upset. Well, as upset as someone as cold-blooded as he is could be. I’m just relying on his breathing and the lines around his eyes to figure him out.