Haley drops popcorn on the floor ten minutes into the movie and instinctively shouts "oh no!" which results in lots of shushing and an even louder "shut up!" and I can't help myself—I laugh so hard that Haley jumps and drops even more. The movie's not even that good, but it's one of the best I've gone to see: it's memorable for the sole reason that I'm watching it with Haley Sinclair. It feels so bittersweet. I can't shake the feeling it's the last one we'll ever see together. The only thing keeping us together is the delusion that we can be friends simply because he wants to be.

It's a delusion I happily indulge.

When I go to school the next morning, I go four classes without seeing Haley, and the feeling fades with every class. It's nothing about him. It's everything about this school, this town, this fucking country, and how it's been like this for centuries. It's the way everyone sits in their self-assigned seats as if getting too close will make the poverty rub off. It's the way they talk to me only if they have to.

Then, during my lunch break, Haley walks up to me in the cafeteria, just strolls right up to me as I'm waiting in line.

"Hey," he says.

My fingers tighten around the edge of my tray. "Hi?"

"You coming to sit with me?"

The girl in front of me looks between the two of us with such confusion it almost makes me laugh, except I'm just as confused. I didn't think our "friendship" would extend to school, where everyone can see us—Haley Sinclair and Gus Reed, talking. At first it's just the girl who's staring. Then it's everyone waiting in line. Then what feels like the whole cafeteria is looking our way. Their eyes and their whispers make my cheeks burn, and before I know it, I'm blurting, "No, thanks."

Haley shrugs and walks away.

I don't know what compels me to tell the girl, "We're working on a project." It's a lie as flimsy as gauze. What project? For which subject? We're not even in the same fucking grade. Why would he pick me, anyway? Teachers certainly wouldn't make a lower-class student work with an upper-class student, especially not a Sinclair.

It just sounded better in my head. Better than "we're friends." I mean, are we, really? We started talking three days ago. I don't think you can call that friends yet. More like acquaintances.

The girl hums and turns around, appeased for now. Some eyes linger, but they lose interest once I've obtained food and reached the other end of the cafeteria.

With a sigh, I slide into my usual seat, opposite Margie Miller.

I'm not sure why this girl sits with me. She told me on my first day in Larkwood, "You're sitting at my table," and I looked around and said, "Sorry, I'll find another one," but she gestured at me to stay and sat down across from me. I started talking to her, thinking making friends had never been this easy. She stared at me as if I were paparazzi and she a model, then held up a finger with one of those fancy painted nails and plugged a pair of earbuds into her ears. So I guess that was that.

You can't be blamed for thinking Margie is a model. She's gorgeous. If there were brands that sold nothing but black clothes, she'd be a perfect fit. Black dresses, black tights, black shoes, black gloves, black everything. Her makeup, ironically, is the exact opposite; she wears a different color every day. I would compliment her on her skills if she wasn't so anti-social. The only reason I know her name is roll call.

What I can't figure out is what her social class is. Her clothes look nice, obviously, but some people are really good at finding or making clothes that seem expensive. It's how some of the middle-class kids can get away with being part of the upper crowd—if you can act rich, you might as well be rich. The thing is: nobody talks to Margie; nobody talks about Margie. Sometimes it's almost as if she doesn't exist at all.

Today is the first day that she pulls out her earbuds. She wraps the cord around her finger as she looks at me and asks, "Why did Haley Sinclair talk to you?"

Five weeks. Five weeks, and all it took was meeting Haley Sinclair. Go figure . . .

I want to be petty. Margie has never been mean to me, but she's never been nice to me, either. All she's done is ignore me.

So I ignore her.

"Hey," she says. "I'm talking to you."

"Oh, are you now?"

"You see anyone else sitting at this table?"

I snort. "Why do you care?"

"I'm curious."

"Well, that's unfortunate."

Her nose wrinkles. "Why are you being such a dick? I just asked a question."

Really?

I grab my phone. I don't know why. Aside from Haley, I don't have anyone to talk to. I used to have friends back in St. Richard, but when I moved to Larkwood, their messages grew more and more infrequent until they stopped coming altogether. I guess it's true what they say: out of sight, out of mind, or whatever.

Haley's last message is from last night.

💰💰💰💰💰

thank you :)

I still have no idea what he's thanking me for. Being his friend? Going to the movies with him? Being honest about being a mythical? Accepting him for who he is? I told him it was no problem, because it isn't, but I won't lie and say I fully understand why any of it matters, even more so now. I look over my shoulder at Haley and his friends.

What real friends, Gus?

One of the girls—I think her name is Nichola—says something that makes him laugh, and the Harding twins and Daniel Gonzalez josh him around for it, and I don't see what he means. They look closer than I ever was with my friends. What are they, if not real friends?

"Are you mad at me for ignoring you?"

I turn to Margie again.

"It's nothing personal," she says. "I ignore everyone."

"Why?" I ask.

"I don't want friends."

Okay, never mind Haley's need for "real" friends.

This, I don't understand.

"And you reek of desperation," Margie says. She curls her fingers around in front of her face and looks at her nails, as if she didn't just insult me. I guess she doesn't care. "I don't blame you. Not everyone is made for loneliness. But Haley Sinclair will never be your friend."

The truth hurts.

I glance at Haley's message again.

Thank you.

"How do you know?" I ask, running my finger along the edge of my phone. There's a chip in the case. I pretend I don't care. "You don't even know him."

"And you do?" says Margie.

I don't know. Maybe people like Nichola and Daniel know him better than I do. Maybe they know what he's like when he's not at school, what he's like when he's high. Maybe they know what he likes to draw. What kind of shows he likes to watch and what driving in his car is like.

But I know things that no one knows but me.

"You don't know me, either, Margie," I say, locking my phone and picking up my fork to eat my veggies. "Careful. If we talk too much, we might become friends."

She rolls her eyes and starts to unwind her earbuds.

☽〇☾

Haley comes up to me again after class. The fact that it's the second time this is happening today means everybody is watching—the rumors have had time to spread. I don't know what "the rumors" are and, frankly, I don't know why I care. I should be used to the staring by now. I should be used to people believing the lies.

"Hey," he says when he reaches me.

"Haley, what are you doing?"

He frowns. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Talking to you?"

"Why?"

He looks at me as if I'm asking why he wears pants, oblivious—or pretending to be—to the dozens of eyes directed at the back of his head. "Gus, do you have amnesia or something? I feel like we established this, like, three days ago."

Before I can reply, the Harding twins jump up behind him, one throwing an arm around him, the other smacking him on the back. "Yo, Sinclair," says . . . Davy? Sam? Fuck if I know which is which.

I pretend I'm invisible, but I'm 6'5, oversized, and right there.

Davy/Sam narrows his eyes at me. "What's up, Reed? You lost?"

"Nope," I say, tapping the locker beside me. "This is mine."

Davy and Sam turn to Haley, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

"What?" says Haley.

"What do you want with Gus Reed?" one of them asks.

"I was just talking to him—as you can see. Can you go?"

The twins do nothing but frown and stare, for a very long time.

I can't blame them. I imagine Haley has some authority over his friends—they all want to be in his good graces and there's not much they won't do to keep it that way—but this is strange even for him. He's friendly toward the less fortunate, sure. Does he go out of his way to talk to people like me, though? No. Not as far as I know, at least. And I'll bet my right hand he's definitely never sent his friends away while doing so.

"Okay," Sam/Davy says slowly. He runs a hand through the short strands of his blond hair, uncertain, before he adds, "See you around, then."

The twins leave, but not without looking over their shoulder. When I turn to Haley with one eyebrow raised, he leans against the locker neighboring mine, crossing his arms.

"Just ignore them. I'm allowed to talk to you."

"I think it's better if we're just friends outside of school," I say in a low voice as I unlock my locker and take all the books out of my backpack.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because everybody is staring."

"Whatever, man. Let them stare."

"Haley, you know we're not supposed to be friends, right? As much as I appreciate your company, it's not worth this much attention. Especially if your friends are going to kill me when you're not looking."

"They're not going to kill you," he says, as if it's a ridiculous thing.

I give him a look. "I'll text you, okay?"

He unfolds his arms with a sigh and walks away. I've barely finished putting the right books back into my backpack when my phone buzzes.

💰💰💰💰💰

meet me out back then

my uncle is picking me up

and i have a test tomorrow

💰💰💰💰💰

Typing . . .

okgood luck

He doesn't text me anymore after that. I manage to study for about two hours before my head starts to spiral, civil wars be damned.

The rational side of me wants to leave it and let him simmer, but I had more fun in one weekend than I have in the past five weeks. If it were anyone else . . . Well, maybe that wouldn't have made a difference. I don't know. I call Haley delusional, but Margie's right. I am desperate. I'm not made to be lonely.

I close my book with a pen between the pages and grab my phone.

hey

💰💰💰💰💰

hey

are you done studying?

no

💰💰💰💰💰

text me when you're done

actually i'll text you later

i've got this dinner to go to or whatever

I wait.

But he doesn't text me again.

☽〇☾