can’t say the same, because you don’t come to football games.”
“How on earth could you know that?”
“Because Sofia knows that, and she told me. Sofia is wise. Sofia knows all. Sofia thinks I’m nice.”
“Very smooth use of the best friend card, Liam.”
Dammit. I really do like him. And for a moment, I let myself have the daydream. The one where he asks me out again, and this time I say yes. The one where we go see a movie, and I lean my head on his shoulder.
It’s a perfect night.
It’s an impossible night.
We’ve reached the newsroom.
“Sorry I ran into you, Liam.”
“It’s cool. Pretty girl tripping over me is kind of the opposite of a problem for a seventeen-year-old guy.”
I reach for the classroom door.
“Hang on,” he says. “I do want to ask you something.” He looks into the room, like he’s checking whether anyone can overhear us, before he speaks. “I’m not gonna keep asking you out, Leighton. I don’t want to bug you. But if you ever wanna just . . . talk? I’m a good listener.”
Goose bumps prickle my arms, and tears threaten my eyes. It’s hard to keep it under control when I’m tired. It’s even harder when Liam McNamara is looking at me like he already knows my secrets.
I swallow hard.
“Thanks, Liam. That’s really nice. But I’m fine.”
I start to walk into the classroom but turn back, feeling some weird, strong urge to be honest with him. To stop using school as the dumb excuse that it is.
“I do like you, Liam. If things were different, I’d love to go out with you. But my life is a little more complicated than it might appear here at school. I have sisters, and they, ah, they really need me. Next year they won’t have me, and this year I need to be with them.”
I don’t know what else to say. I can’t be specific. It’s too much.
It hurts too much.
“I have a little sister, too, Barnes. I . . .” He hesitates, leans up against the wall. “Listen, I get it.” He holds out my notes for me, and I want to take my rejections back. I want to say yes. But I don’t.
Because the truth is that I don’t need Liam, but Campbell and Juniper still need me.
Chapter Eighteen
WE RECEIVE OUR PROGRESS REPORTS IN final period on Friday. I’m picturing city lights and studying with real journalists and—I frown.
AP English: 100.
Honors Calculus: 97.
Chemistry: 96.
Art I: 79.
I have a C. In art class. I buzz through the crowded hallways, hell-bent on getting out of school as fast as possible. I’m a drone bee, and the honey that calls me is a book and Lorde’s new album and pulling the curtains closed and lying on the shaggy carpet in my room. Art class. That was supposed to be my easy class. My break in the day so I could put more time into Newspaper and college applications. Dammit.
I shove my books around in my locker, trying to remember homework assignments for the weekend in the haze of frustration. I finally give up and start putting all of my books into my bag. Better to have them and not need them. I can always work ahead. Except for art. I can’t work ahead in art.
I slam my locker shut with all the force I can use without being called out by a hall monitor for “exhibiting aggression” and sent to the school counselor.
“Hey, Peyton Manning,” says a voice behind me.
“Cute,” I say, sarcasm ringing like a bell. I don’t even turn my head. I’m eager for my weekend. It isn’t official until I step through the doors.
“What’s up with you?” Liam asks, reaching out to take my backpack. With the weight gone, I buoy upright, unaware until that moment that I’d been walking at a tilt.
“Thanks,” I say, rubbing my shoulder and dropping the sarcasm this time.
“Sorry, Leighton, I didn’t mean anything—”
“It wasn’t you.” I fall into step beside him. His height advantage makes our paces hard to match. My shorter legs have to take several little steps to keep stride with his long ones.
“Progress report troubles?” he asks, and I grimace.
“Wait, really?” He laughs, then catches himself. “Sorry. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just surprised.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, glancing around. Someone could hear him.
He extends his hand, palm up. I hesitate for a moment, and then decide to humor him. I hand over the report.
“Tsk-tsk,” he says, shaking his head as he reads. “Looks like you