I’m sure I’m funky from stress-sweating brought on by my epic fall at the bus stop. I keep my arms pinned to my sides. My mouth seals up, too. How can I make flirty conversation when I’m potentially a walking funk factory? This is a disaster.

  The bus starts moving, and I’m forced to take the surf-ride stance—feet planted shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, toes gripping the bus floor. To grab the closest safety rail between us would mean raising my arm over my head.

  I turn my back to Gavin and signal to Gabby. She frees one ear from her earbud to listen to me low-key ask her in Creole, “Do I smell?”

  “Whose auntie?” Gabby asks, confused.

  “No. ‘Santi.’ ”

  “I do?”

  I give her a laser-beam glare, then point to myself.

  “You?” she shouts.

  I nod yes.

  “You do? Whoa. Good thing I can’t smell.” She points to her nose. “Still stuffed up from that cold I had.”

  Forget it. Forget it. Forgetit!

  Gavin is hardly ever alone, so now’s my chance. I take a belly-deep breath and switch arms so I’m holding on to the pole with my left hand. I pivot in Gavin’s direction. Here goes …

  Before I can say hello, the bus jerks sharply and Gavin lurches right at me. Quick as a reflex, I reach out and steady his shoulder. He seems impressed I’m as stable as the pole I let go of. He doesn’t know I’ve been a bus and subway surfing champ since infancy.

  Gavin’s surprised eyes search my face. His sigh of relief warms my cheek and gives off a distinct hint of cherry-flavored gummy-bear vitamins. He gently taps one of my hands in gratitude. His touch is like a spark shimmying up my spine, and I flash him a heart-eyes emoji smile.

  “Get it, Simone!” Gabby’s whoop slams like a sledgehammer and shatters this crystalline moment.

  The girl must be trying to stop my heart. I get the urge to leap up and hoist myself out the overhead emergency exit. Gavin’s eyes slit in search of the disembodied voice coming from somewhere close by.

  I don’t even notice I’m taking a couple of paces backward, away from Gavin, until he says, “Simone is a nice name.”

  The happy startle that seizes me is only outgunned by my deer-in-headlights reaction.

  “By the way, I’m Gavin Stackhouse,” he says, as if I have no clue. As if I haven’t noticed him on this bus for weeks. Like I haven’t been trolling his IG page ever since Millwall Prep’s account posted and tagged a picture of him. But his friendly half smile is an invitation.

  “I’m Simone,” I say nonsensically, before rushing to fix this. “Uh, Simone Thibodeaux.”

  The bus goes over a huge bump and I practically bounce right out my shoes.

  “Hey, Simone Tib-bounce-doe,” he intones in an unmistakably flirty key. My stomach flips like my real last name is Biles. “My bad, I mean … Tib-bo-doe?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s French.” This last part I say out of pure nervousness.

  “You Haitian?”

  “Yes.” I smile with pride, even as my chin juts up defensively.

  Here it comes. This is usually the point where people come at me with nauseating remarks about Haiti. As Mummy explains it, folks search for reasons to feel better about the scorn they harbor for a people. My toes dig into the soles of my shoes.

  Please don’t ruin this moment for me, Gavin. Be the difference.

  I almost want to plug my fingers into my ears or change the subject, fast. Whatever keeps his juicy lips from forming the words “voodoo” or “poor” or “church group mission” or—

  “I always thought Creole sounded like a pretty language,” he says. “Can you speak it?”

  Holy firsts! It takes everything in my power not to tip him backward in a big dramatic movie kiss.

  “Uh-huh” is all I manage to say with the little breath I have left.

  His eyes meet mine. “Nice.”

  No sense in killing the mood by confessing that I speak Creole with a thick American accent. “Creole weighs a ton when your tongue carries it,” my fancy grandmother likes to tease me.

  “Sak pase is all I know,” he says, and my knees buckle. “But everyone knows that much. Can you teach me something else?”

  “Um, kouman ou ye is another greeting you can use instead of that one,” I say. My smile is stretched so wide, I can barely enunciate—sort of like speaking in below freezing temps.

  “Koumo yay.” He juggles the words.

  “Perfect.” In lieu of squealing, I grip the safety rail and playfully tip away from it, shoulder bag hanging, before pulling myself forward again.

  My head is buzzing … or is it my phone?

  I’ve set up my phone to pulse in triplets when it’s Gabby texting. Whether she likes it or not (not), Gabby’s like my jailbreak accomplice in the getaway car. She deserves all the specialized rings and alerts necessary if I’m going to try to beat my parents’ system and have a life.

  But for now, I ignore my cousin’s clowning even as Gavin takes notice of the distraction. “You’re buzzing like a queen bee,” he informs me.

  The sound of my phone short-circuits my game. I can’t even think of some witty response to the queen bee comment. And that stings.

  “Uh, yeah.” I break eye contact and reach for my coat pocket. “I better check that.”

  As low-key as possible, I nudge Gabby with my left elbow, like, Don’t. She shuffles out of reach. The only reason I read her text is because I don’t want to give Gavin the impression that I’d ignore my phone just for him. He may be cool, but I ain’t no fool. I glance down at my phone and read:

  Are you gonna introduce me, or shall I introduce myself?

  It takes a lot for me not to react when I see Gabby’s message. I look away from Gavin so my cousin can decode the private reply in my glare: Foul play. For the last time: It was just a harmless prank and they were fake spiders.

  In her calculating smile is her unquestionable retort: I told you I’d get you back when you least expect it.

  I stare Gabby down and she blows me a kiss. If I know my cousin, I better act quick.

  But Gavin gets blessedly distracted by another wave of boarding passengers.

  “I know you all love being near me,” the bus driver quips. “But do me a favor—step all the way down, people!”

  Gabby issues her final warning. “Ahem-hem, yo.”

  Gavin inches closer to me, and I take that opening.

  “Oh, Gavin, this is, uh, my cousin Gabby,” I say, gesturing to my left with my free hand.

  He leans forward to look around me and nods in greeting. “’Sup, Gabby.”

  Gabby waves. “Hey.”

  Satisfied, Gabby plugs in her earbuds and transports herself back to her own world.

  Gavin turns his attention back to me. “Simone, do you—?”

  “Next stop, Millwall!” the driver calls out. Ugh. Just that quickly, we’re almost at the town of Millwall, where Millwall Prep is located. Not to be confused with its snooty sibling town, Millwall Cliffs, where my school is located.

  As Gavin turns away from me to press the call strip above the window, I wait for him to drop the unsaid word.

  Do I what? Do. I. What?

  But it doesn’t come.

  Just like that, I’m left drowning in the glistening waves covering the back of Gavin’s head. Gasping for air quotes.

  I ignore the emotional bowling ball rolling in my stomach as best I can and pretend to lose myself in my phone.

  “See you around, Simone,” says Gavin with a dip in his cheek. I mouth a weak good-bye because I’m caught off guard.

  Gavin steps off the bus with a crowd of guys and I’m relieved-bereaved to see him go.

  Ten minutes later, Gabby and I get off at our stop and walk past the people strolling the sidewalks. Millwall Cliffs is the type of town where people walk for leisure, not out of necessity. Folks out here are way more likely to ride in fancy cars than on the bus. But they do step out of their cars to stroll the small downtown shopping district.

  Our uniforms give us away, so locals know Gabby and me and the handful of other Brown and Black student commuters are Academy students. But on the rare days when we come here in our regular clothes, there are more double takes.

  After a fifteen-minute walk, we step through the door of St. Clare Academy. A sea of blue-and-gray uniforms pour into the halls, though there are more flashes of gray than usual. Looks like the gray skirts are making a comeback. I scan the scene, scouting for funky new shoes or other cool accessories. I can always find a few that inspire me. Because of the strict rules around uniforms, a lot of St. Clare Academy girls get crazy creative with the fashion choices they are free to make. For me, it’s all about my glasses—I’ve collected a bunch of cheapie statement frames over the years.

  There’s something different about the school today. Decorative party poms in fuchsia and white dot the walls, drawing my eye to the new posters hyping the upcoming senior prom. It’s a little over two months away.

  Prom. I imagine Gavin offering me his arm as we glide into the splashy venue together, stunning onlookers with our sensational style and lovey-dovey chemistry.

  Are you ready? one poster asks in sparkly lettering.

  I nod confidently. I will be.

  It was the youth of Cairo, I type feverishly on my laptop, who sparked a political demonstration that inspired the Arab Spring. Heroic South African high schoolers pumped high energy into the anti-apartheid movement. And that’s not even counting how many armies Joan of Arc led before her sixteenth birthday.

  Having the senior lounge all to myself on my study period is doing wonders for my writing flow. All seniors have to hand in a research paper on a topic of their choosing in a couple of months, and I may just finish mine early. Though sadly, not before the lunch rush kills the vibe in here in just a few minutes. This windowless room with its inviting beanbags, a work table, a comfy turquoise couch, and soft armchairs is a big draw for seniors looking to break away from all the commoners in the common areas of the school.

  I pause to save my document, which I’ve titled “Teen Heroes in History.” I’m devoting way too much time to this project, considering I’ve already been accepted early decision to Rutgers University. But just like when you feed a stray cat and it keeps coming back, something in this paper is feeding me, and I can’t stay away.

  These years are for setting off something sensational, I continue. That rebellious spirit in the heart of every teen stirs for a reason. A soaring independence and an urgency to live on our own terms to announce to the world that we will not be held back—

  “Let me guess—you’re not allowed to go to the house party tomorrow.”

  Gabby plops down next to me on the couch, almost knocking my water bottle onto my laptop. Maybe I can scare her away with my tuna sandwich breath.

  “No, I plan to go,” I say. It will be a little tricky for me. But the party starts early enough that if I go just for an hour, I can still make it home before my parents do.

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” Gabby beams. “You’re finally starting to get out more, take more chances, even if there’s zero chance of you going away for college.”

  I sigh. I guess we’re having this discussion again. Gabby is like that one thumbs-down on your favorite YouTube video.

  “That’s a lie,” I lie. “Where’d you pick up that rumor about my zero chances?”

  “Uh, from your mom.” Gabby stares squarely at me. “She’ll tell anyone who asks that you’re commuting next year.”

  Reliable enough source.

  With each gum-popping jaw grind, Gabby triggers a release of artificial strawberry smell. “How did she put it?” Gabby ponders. “I think she said an unsupervised dorm heaving with lusting vagabonds does not sound like a place she’d send her girl.”

  I tap a finger on my chin and pretend to search the ceiling for answers. “Gee, if I had to guess, it wasn’t just anyone asking, but somebody in particular who got her all riled up on this topic.”

  “Hey, I couldn’t just eat her food and not make small talk. That would be indecent,” Gabby protests.

  “Sophomore in the senior room!”

  My lab partner, Amita Nadar, shuffles in, crooning in time with the moody song humming through my laptop speakers. I like Amita. We operate on the same wavelength. Over the years we’ve partnered up on as many group projects as we can. Our mental synergy is epic when we work together to crush assignments. I guess it’s like the chemistry that athletes share with their teammates. If school was baseball and I was the lead-off batter, she’d bat cleanup. Or vice versa. I’m convinced Amita and I could solve all the world’s problems if we tried.

  It all started when we were assigned as lab partners freshman year, so I still refer to Amita as my lab partner. Funny how the word friend never comes to mind. Beyond school, we don’t know much about each other.

  My best friend, Naya, and I were joined at the hip until she and her family moved all the way to Nairobi, Kenya, at the end of sophomore year. I missed her a lot, and at first, we tried to talk every day. But that eight hours’ time difference is brutal. Eventually our WhatsApp response times lapsed longer and longer, and now it’s to the point where we only check in with each other once a month or so.

  Finding someone new to roll with in this school hasn’t been easy. I’m cool with everyone, but close to no one—except Gabby, of course. Most of the other seniors aren’t the most relatable. The ones who are relatable are sweet and all, and I have a good time hanging with them in the senior lounge. But I can only vibe with them until a trigger topic, like race, is raised. And then, suddenly, they feel like strangers.

  As for the girls I catch the bus with—they are a little too loose-lipped with folks’ business to really connect on a deeper level.

  Gabby started as a freshman here my junior year, so I’ve mainly been hanging with my cousin these past two years.

  Amita drops her lunch tray on the coffee table between my MacBook and Gabby’s rudely resting feet.

  “I can’t leave because there’s a life-threatening crisis going on,” Gabby insists. “Simone is missing a backbone!”

  “How are you two related again?” asks Amita, while swatting Gabby’s feet off the table. I’m not sure if she realizes it, but Amita’s face performs all the thoughts cycling through her mind. It doesn’t help that her bangs remind me of stage curtains—a swoopy black arc draping across her brown forehead. Amita’s face is now showing how perplexed she is by Gabby.

  The truth is, everybody at St. Clare Academy knows Gabby—if not for her mouth then for her killer hair-braiding skills. She has a side hustle doing hair, and word has gotten around. Ever since she was invited into the lounge this fall to braid a senior’s hair, and then another’s, no one really objects to her entering this sacred senior space.

  “Our mothers are sisters,” Gabby explains. She gives Amita some room but doesn’t get up to leave.

  “No, I mean how is it that you two are so different?” Amita’s food and her words wrestle for dominance in her mouth.

  I wonder the same thing sometimes. It kind of sucks when a sophomore knows more about life than you do. That suckage quadruples when that sophomore is Gabby.

  Even though Gabby and I share a grandmother, her upbringing is vastly different from mine. That’s because my mom is old-school in more ways than one. For starters, Mummy is fourteen years older than Gabby’s mother. It’s no family secret that my parents struggled for over a decade to have kids. My mom was deep into her forties by the time she got pregnant with me, her second and final child. Mummy claims she’s overprotective because she’s raising girls in a fast city and can’t take any chances. I think it’s because she probably spent her childhood policing other kids and saying things like Ooooh, I’m telling!

  “The difference between Simone and me,” Gabby’s explaining to Amita, “is that I am immune to emotional blackmail. If anyone is ‘disappointed’ in me, that’s their problem.”

  I suck my teeth. The girl expects me to kick in the front door and snatch what I want when it’s much less messy for me to sneak in the back window. She has no idea the amount of tiptoeing and scheming I have to do just to get half as much freedom as she has. The in-your-face way won’t work with my parents. Yes, it’s true—my mom is an emotional peacock. If I try any dramatic moves, she’ll just upstage them with a mesmerizing display of all her colors—from worrywart yellow and gloom-and-doom gray to scorched-earth red. If I do things my low-key way, it’s easier.

  Gabby is yakking so emphatically, I catch glimpses of the gum surfing her undulating tongue. “Simone.” She now shifts to face me. “If I were you for just one day, all your problems would be solved. Believe me.”

  “Oh, really,” I chuckle, picking up my laptop. “And by the end of that day, I for real, for real wouldn’t have a bridge left to cross, you’d burn them all so fast.”

  “Whatever it takes!”

  Those words burst out of Gabby in such a berserk way, it tickles my funny bone. My neck goes slack and my head tips all the way back in laughter.

  Amita coughs out her chuckle, careful not to spew out her lunch. She knows nothing of this conversation’s backstory, but she still can make sense of things.

  “You two need each other,” she says. “The yin to each other’s yang, and it cracks me up.”

  Two ring tones chime out. Both Gabby and Amita pull out their phones with a quick draw.

  “Hey,” Amita answers her cell.

  “Shoot,” Gabby says at the same time, gawking at her screen. “I’m late for my next client. A junior’s meeting me in the pink restroom for a French fishtail braid.”

  “See ya,” I call at her back.

  I may be the late bloomer in the family, but Gabby’s the one who’s always running late.

  “No, girl, I’ll tell my dad I’m going to study at your house,” Amita is saying into the phone. She walks to the far corner of the room, but I can still hear her. “And then you pick me up and come with me to this Millwall Prep party.”

 

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