“See you after school?” I say to my father. He’s focused, reading at his desk. Behind him, I scan the whiteboards for a clue, an indication my father is keeping something from me. I see nothing. It is a typical thinking wall—sticky notes, paper, twine, and tape.
“Sophia?”
I halt.
“You remember how to use it?” He looks up from his papers. He points to my hip where my phone is zipped inside the pocket of my Moncler puffer.
I laugh, “I am a teenager.”
“I meant use it.” His voice is quiet. Why is he reminding me of this? As if I could forget. By default, it blocks all GPS tracking, but it can also do the reverse—enable GPS tracking with a specific SOS protocol.
He gives me a hard look.
“I know.” I pat my pocket, grinning.
A minute later, Aksel laughs when I give him his clothes. “I forgot,” he says, which frustrates me—I should have kept them.
Outside, I notice a familiar vehicle—sparkling in the daylight.
“It’s back!” I exclaim.
Aksel holds the door to the Defender open. “Dropped off early this morning.”
Its olive-green exterior has been waxed. No visible dents. The interior smells like oiled leather.
“I am sorry,” I say honestly.
He laces his fingers into mine. “Don’t be.” He grins. “I’m not.”
Inside the school several minutes later, we head to my locker in the north hall, where I unload my backpack. “See you in Krenshaw’s?” he asks.
“You’re not staying?” I ask, surprised.
“I only have to turn in a physics assignment.”
“If you don’t have to be at school, then why …”
Aksel hooks his finger around my coat sleeve and tugs. My chest bumps into his, and I giggle. “I wanted to see you,” he says simply.
Blushing, I lace my fingers through his, stand on my tiptoes, and sling my arms around his neck.
“See you in”—Aksel checks his watch—“four hours and three minutes?”
“Don’t be late,” I warn, smiling.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he says. I shove him gently in the direction of the stairs. With an easy grin, he releases his hands from mine and bounds up the steps.
“So you’ve been sneaking around with Fredricksen this whole time?”
The words snap me into reality. Tate slams his locker shut and walks over, staring me down with a malevolent sneer plastered across his face.
I adjust my books. “I was not sneaking—”
“You played me!” Tate doesn’t seem upset, he seems infuriated.
My face flushes. “Played you?”
Tate seethes, “Don’t pretend you weren’t leading me—”
“Hey, man,” Henry interrupts, “I don’t think she meant—”
“Shut up, Henry. You saw her all over me, before she ditched me to hook up with Fredricksen—”
“I did not!” I fire back. “You need to get your facts straight, frauenfeindlicher Vollidiot.”
My words echo in the stark hall. After so many weeks trying to blend in, it’s like I’ve exposed my identity. Everyone looks at me.
Tate’s eye twitches. “What did you call me?” he asks furiously.
My cheeks redden with fury. “Pay attention in German, and you’ll learn.”
Tate steps toward me. “You think you’re so cool because—”
“It’s not a big deal, Tate.” Mason steps between me and Tate, trying to placate him.
“Did you think we wouldn’t find out, Sophia? That you could play us? We always find out the girls who—”
“Who what?” an icy voice says from over my shoulder.
Tate takes a step back.
Charlotte is standing beside me, hand on her hip, glaring at Tate. Henry purses his lips together, holding in a laugh.
Charlotte glances over at me. “Everything okay here?”
“Certainly. Du bist ein Chauvinistenschwein, right, Tate?” I smile. “It means ‘We’re good’ in German.”
Tate turns on his heel and stalks off.
“It’s a good thing he’s failing German,” I utter to Charlotte and Henry.
Henry looks over at me, grinning. “Why?”
“Because it doesn’t mean ‘we’re good.’ ”
If word travels fast in most small towns, it travels at lightning speed in Waterford.
Tate is convinced I played him—and by lunchtime the story is that I hooked up with Tate outside the Creamery, then hooked up with Aksel hours later. So not only does word travel fast, but it has left the truth in a different galaxy.
As I fiddle with my cucumber and tomato sandwich, Charlotte stands and slings her bag over her shoulder. “Come on.”
Inside the Art History classroom, Emma sits on top of a desk and unwraps her sandwich. “Sophia, maybe you should apologize to Tate and this will—”
“That’s a terrible idea, Emma!” Charlotte says, aghast.
Emma narrows her eyes at Charlotte. The freckles on her cheeks seem to change colors with her moods. “Perhaps you should apologize. You pushed