If These Wings Could Fly - Kyrie McCauley Page 0,8

periphery of following the rules. Alexis and Brody are on-again, off-again, but today their desks are pressed tight, and his arm is wrapped around her shoulders. They are both tall and blond and leggy and athletic. People always stereotype popular teens as dumb, but they’re just teens with better-than-average social skills. Why stop at homecoming court when they can have Harvard? Especially when there’s nothing that would keep them from actually going.

On the other side of Brody is Amelia. She is definitely Harvard material. She has perfect teeth and parents who are surgeons, and she can probably quote both Austen and the latest Glamour magazine. The truth is, I’ve always been a little envious of Amelia. It seems like she’s friends with everyone. She’s approachable. Even if I wanted to be warm, inviting, I wouldn’t know how to untangle myself from all the barbed wire I’ve placed around me. It’s in the set of my jaw. The way my shoulders turn away from people. “Proceed with Caution” screams my body language, and it’s the only language I know anymore.

When my gaze returns to Liam, his desk is like an island. I guess he isn’t really a lone wolf when he’s the kind of guy who perpetually has a girlfriend, but somehow he still looks alone. Set apart. Like he has a little buffer around him. I think by senior year in such a small town, our social interactions are almost on autopilot. It’s been a long time since any of us has looked up. Or at least that’s true for me. Which is why I probably wouldn’t be noticing Liam if he hadn’t mistaken me for Lyla Jacobs.

Mrs. Riley launches into our Tess lesson, and I try to stop thinking about Liam and focus on her. Mrs. Riley teaches with Ms. Frizzle–level enthusiasm. She’s eccentric and loud. She runs the newspaper, too, so I’m used to her antics, but it feels a little offbeat when we are discussing gender inequality in the nineteenth century.

“The social commentary is considered way ahead of its time, especially when it comes to women. Any thoughts on this?” Mrs. Riley asks.

“What was he, like, a feminist? Can guys even be feminists?” Brody asks. He’s reclining in his seat now, and manspreading so hard that his leg blocks the whole aisle between desks.

He says feminist like it’s a dirty word.

“How do you define feminism, Brody?” Mrs. Riley asks.

“Uh, frigid bitch—I mean—chicks in pink hats?” Brody says, and chuckles break out throughout the room. I mess with my copy of Tess, folding the corners of pages like I’ll need them for something. If Mrs. Riley asks, I’ll tell her I was marking every time some pompous, entitled ass tried to ruin Tess’s life.

“Anyone else?” Mrs. Riley opens the question up to the room. “Leighton?”

“Sure, ask the ice queen about feminism,” Brody mutters.

My cool, collected exterior precedes me. Ice queen. Last year, I turned Brody down for junior prom, and he’s been making snide comments ever since about me being too cold for any guy to thaw out. He didn’t just ask me out, he promposed, getting down on one knee in the lunchroom and giving me a box that held the dance ticket. And I said no. In front of everyone. Public rejection didn’t sit well with Brody, and he’s called me an ice queen ever since.

“Guys can be feminists,” I say, and thirty sets of eyes turn in my direction. I’m feeling sharp around my edges today. “But probably only the more evolved ones.”

“Like me,” Liam says. “I’m a feminist.”

“Great,” Mrs. Riley says. “Define it.”

He falters. “Uhh. Wage gap. Wonder Woman. Bra burning?”

“Oh God, please stop,” I say.

“Thank you,” Liam says. “That was all I had.”

“You probably are a feminist, though. It just means you think women deserve equal rights. It’s not that complicated or scary. The hats aren’t mandatory,” I say.

“Sounds stupid,” Brody says.

“What’s stupid is thinking a girl is obligated to go out with you just because you asked her.”

“Retract your claws, kitty cat, this isn’t a protest,” Brody says, puckering his lips and blowing me a kiss.

“Go to hell, Brody,” I snap.

“All right, that’s enough,” Mrs. Riley says. “Let’s get back to Tess.”

The conversation veers back into the nineteenth century, but there’s still some commotion in the back of the room. “Leave her alone,” Liam says, kicking at Brody’s outstretched leg so that he pulls it back under the desk.

Liam.

I steal one more glance.

Something about him keeps drawing me in, curiosity outweighing my