They're doing it again.

You notice the laughter before you notice who's doing it, mostly because you've gotten pretty good at recognizing that particular kind. There's regular laughter, the kind that comes from somebody saying something funny, and then there's the sudden burst of giggling from halfway down a crowded hallway followed by a handful of people looking directly at you.

Brittany Whitmore and her entourage aren't exactly subtle.

A couple of cheerleaders flank her as they make their way through the passing-period crowd, with a few other familiar faces from Westridge's upper crust trailing along behind them. Britt is right where she always seems to be: in the middle. Blonde hair perfect, clothes perfect, little silver B resting against her chest, and enough confidence in every step to suggest that the hundreds of other students filling the hallway are merely inconveniences someone forgot to clear out before she arrived.

One of the girls whispers something into Britt's ear.

Britt looks directly at you.

Her mouth drops open in exaggerated disbelief before she covers it with one manicured hand, utterly failing to hide the laugh that follows. Someone points. Another girl looks you up and down and says something you can't hear. Britt responds, and whatever she says gets the whole group laughing again.

Right.

Apparently you're hilarious today.

Why?

Fuck if you know.

Maybe it's your shoes. No, wait, that was yesterday. Yesterday your shoes were apparently the funniest fucking footwear ever manufactured. The day before that it had been your hair. Or maybe that was Monday. There'd been something about your shirt recently, too, though whether the problem had been the shirt itself, how you wore it, or the fact that Britt claimed she'd seen you wear it before is anybody's guess.

At some point, keeping track became more work than it was worth.

That's just how things work at Westridge.

Brittany Whitmore notices something about you. Brittany Whitmore decides it's pathetic. Brittany Whitmore tells everybody it's pathetic.

By lunch, half the school agrees.

The other half doesn't know what they're agreeing with, but they know enough to laugh.

The group is getting closer now, moving against the flow of students with the peculiar right-of-way afforded to people who have never once considered that they might be the ones expected to move. Other students shift aside without thinking about it. A freshman practically flattens himself against a locker to let Britt through.

Britt doesn't even acknowledge him.

She's looking at you.

Not constantly. That would be weird.

Her attention wanders back to her friends as one of them talks, and she laughs at something another says, but her blue eyes keep finding their way back. A glance at your face. Another downward. Back to her friend. Then you again.

As the distance closes, her expression settles into that familiar little smirk.

You know that look.

Everybody at Westridge knows that look.

Britt Whitmore has found something beneath her.

Again.

There's plenty of room when the two of you pass. Not an enormous amount, granted—the hallway is packed—but enough. Britt could shift a few inches to her left. You could shift a few inches to your right. Two people possessing even the most rudimentary understanding of spatial awareness could probably solve the problem without international mediation.

Britt doesn't move.

Her shoulder clips yours.

It's not hard enough to send you stumbling. Not even close. Just a deliberate little bump, the kind that occupies the narrow space between accident and shove where someone can be an asshole without technically having done anything.

For the briefest moment, Britt is right there.

Close enough that her shoulder brushes yours. Close enough to catch the faint sweetness of whatever expensive perfume she put on that morning.

Britt takes a sharp breath through her nose.

Her eyes snap immediately to yours.

Something changes.

It's tiny. Fleeting. A moment so short you might've missed it if she hadn't been looking straight at you when it happened.

Her blue eyes widen a fraction.

Then Britt makes a low, disgusted sound in the back of her throat. Her shoulders tighten and a quick shudder runs through her, like merely brushing against you was enough to send a chill down her spine.

The familiar sneer returns.

And then she's past you.

No insult. No clever little parting shot. Not even a sarcastic apology.

Nothing.

One of the cheerleaders glances back at you over her shoulder before hurrying after Britt, laughing at something you didn't catch. Britt doesn't turn around. Within seconds, she's back in the middle of her group, blonde ponytail swaying behind her as the crowd parts and closes around them.

Just Brittany Whitmore being Brittany Whitmore.

Another hallway.

Another laugh.

Another reminder that, whatever today's reason happens to be, you're still Westridge High's designated loser.

Gym was supposed to end twenty minutes ago.

Apparently, nobody told Coach that.

Maybe you hadn't run hard enough during drills. Maybe you'd been half a second late getting back into line. Maybe Coach had just looked across the gym, seen you, and decided you seemed like someone who needed another few laps. Whatever the reason, everybody else got to head for the locker rooms while you got pointed toward the track.

By the time Coach finally decided you'd learned whatever valuable life lesson running in circles was supposed to teach, the buses were gone and the parking lot outside Westridge had mostly emptied.

The halls are strangely quiet when you make your way back toward the locker room. Your shirt clings uncomfortably to your back. Sweat beads along your forehead and neck, and every breath still comes a little heavier than normal.

At least you can finally shower and go home.

You push through the locker-room door.

Something's wrong.

It takes a second to place it.

Your locker is open.

Not cracked. Not improperly latched.

Open.

And somebody is standing in front of it.

Blonde ponytail. White bow. Maroon-and-white cheer uniform. One hand resting against the locker beside yours like she owns that too.

Brittany fucking Whitmore.

She's holding one of your shoes.

For a moment, she doesn't know you're there.

Britt has it raised near her face, examining it with a concentration you've never seen her devote to anything associated with you unless she was figuring out the most humiliating way to describe it to other people. Her lips are slightly parted. Her cheeks are flushed, color extending all the way toward the tips of her ears.

Your next step gives you away.

Britt's head snaps toward you.

Her blue eyes go wide.

For perhaps half a second, Westridge High's undisputed Queen Bee looks like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Then her expression hardens.

“Oh, thank God.”

She says it like you're the one who's been caught.

Britt lowers the shoe but doesn't put it down. Instead, she holds it between two fingers and wrinkles her nose dramatically.

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

There she is.

Britt gestures accusingly with your own shoe.

“I could smell this fucking thing from outside the locker room.” Her eyes narrow. “I thought something died in here.”

That's certainly an explanation.

It doesn't explain why Brittany Whitmore was wandering around an otherwise empty locker room after school.

And it really doesn't explain why, after apparently locating the source of a smell so horrific that it drew her in from the hallway, she'd picked it up and brought it anywhere near her face.

Britt apparently doesn't see any holes in her argument.

“What?” she snaps.

You haven't said anything.

Her cheeks are still pink.

“Don't fucking look at me like that. Somebody had to figure out where it was coming from.”

She tosses the shoe back toward the open locker. It bounces off the bottom with a hollow thump and lands on its side.

Mystery solved. Deadly odor located. Westridge saved.

Britt should probably leave.

Instead, her gaze travels over your gym clothes, the damp collar of your shirt, the sweat still shining along your skin.

Her nose wrinkles.

“Oh my God.” Britt gives a short, humorless laugh. “And you're somehow worse.”

She closes the distance between you with the same casual entitlement she brings to everything else, stopping well inside the amount of personal space normally observed by two people who supposedly can't stand each other.

“You know they have showers here, right?” she asks. “Those big metal things with water coming out of them? Or is basic hygiene another concept that's too complicated for you?”

Her blue eyes lock onto yours.

Britt draws a sharp breath through her nose.

And stops.

The sneer falters.

Her nostrils flare once. Those bright blue eyes widen by the smallest amount as the flush already coloring her cheeks deepens. Her lips part, but whatever insult had been waiting behind them doesn't arrive.

Her gaze drops briefly to your neck.

Then to the damp collar of your shirt.

Back to your eyes.

Britt swallows.

“You seriously need to learn what fucking deodorant is, because you...”

Nothing.

Her fingers curl at her sides.

For someone who claims you smell bad enough to offend her from another room, Britt makes absolutely no move to put more distance between you.

A second passes.

Her brow furrows.

“...Jesus Christ.”

For once, Brittany Whitmore doesn't seem to have anything else to say.

There are too many people in this house.

Dozens of Westridge seniors have somehow been compressed beneath one roof, filling the living room, kitchen, hallways, stairs, and probably several rooms nobody has any business being in. Music pounds loudly enough to make the walls vibrate, the furniture has been shoved aside for dancing, and everyone is holding red plastic cups.

You know the kind. You've seen movies.

The house is hot. Windows are fogging at the corners, somebody keeps opening the back door for air, and whatever climate control this place possesses surrendered an hour ago. Everyone is sweating. The whole place has developed that unmistakable funk created when dozens of teenage bodies, perfume, cologne, deodorant, hairspray, and poor ventilation spend too much time together.

For once, you aren't special.

Across the kitchen, however, are two people who very much are.

Brittany Whitmore stands beside the counter with a cup in one hand, surrounded by cheerleaders, football players, and the rest of Westridge's upper social ecosystem. Beside her is Nate Paulson, because of course he is.

Captain of the varsity football team. Blond, broad-shouldered, muscular, and handsome in the aggressively uncomplicated way that gets someone's face put on school promotional material. If Brittany Whitmore is Westridge's Queen Bee, Nate is the King of Jocks. Together they're exactly the couple Westridge expects them to be: Cheer Captain and Football Captain, attractive, popular, smug, and generally positioned somewhere near the center of every photograph worth appearing in.

Nate has an arm loosely around Britt while talking animatedly to two teammates, though most of his attention is on them rather than his girlfriend. That's hardly unusual. For all the attention Nate gets from girls, everybody knows where his real loyalty lies: the boys. He'd miss a date because a teammate needed a spot at the gym, abandon lunch because a bro's car wouldn't start, or cross town at midnight because somebody texted you up? without explaining why.

The man is loyal.

Britt somehow tolerates it.

You look away and realize someone has appeared beside you. You recognize them from school, although whether you've ever actually spoken before is harder to remember. They say something that disappears completely beneath the music.

“What?”

They lean closer and try again.

Still nothing.

You lean toward them in return. They laugh when that doesn't work either, and you laugh too, mostly because it seems easier than admitting you have absolutely no idea what's happening.

Then you feel it.

That peculiar sensation of being watched.

Across the kitchen, Britt is staring directly at you.

Her cup hangs forgotten near her waist. Whatever conversation had been happening around her might as well have stopped existing. Her blue eyes flick toward the person beside you before returning to your face.

They lean toward your ear again.

Britt's mouth tightens.

Her cup hits the counter.

Nate doesn't seem to notice when his girlfriend slips out from beneath his arm.

Britt cuts through the party toward you. She doesn't shove anybody aside; she doesn't need to. People notice Brittany Whitmore coming and somehow discover somewhere else to stand.

The person beside you notices too.

Their smile falters. Their eyes move from Britt to you, and whatever they say before disappearing into the crowd is lost beneath the music.

The meaning isn't.

Good luck.

Britt watches them leave before turning on you.

“What the fuck?”

Apparently you're supposed to know.

“Seriously?” Her eyes drag over you.

Whatever crime you've committed tonight, Britt seems to be discovering the charges as she prosecutes them.

“And Jesus Christ, look at you. You're fucking—”

Someone backs into her hard.

Britt pitches forward, both hands hitting your chest as her forehead lands against your collarbone.

For a moment, there's nothing remarkable about it. Somebody got bumped at an overcrowded party and caught herself against the nearest available object.

Unfortunately, that object happens to be you.

The person responsible shouts something resembling an apology without stopping.

Britt doesn't move.

Her palms remain against your chest, forehead resting against your shoulder as the party surges around you. The house is unbearably warm this close to so many people, your clothes sticking to your skin. Britt's perfume mixes with the humid funk hanging in the room, and you can feel the warmth of her breath against you.

Her fingers slowly loosen, not leaving your chest, just no longer braced against it.

Across the kitchen, Nate glances over.

His eyes find Britt, then you, then the two hands still planted against your chest.

The Captain of the Westridge football team watches his girlfriend pressed against the school loser for all of a second.

One of his teammates says something.

Nate turns back to him and grins.

Apparently, whatever the guy said is more interesting.

Britt finally lifts her head.

Her face is flushed, although that could mean anything in a house this hot. Her blue eyes meet yours from considerably closer than they usually do.

Neither hand has left your chest.

The sneer returns slowly, assembling itself piece by piece as Brittany Whitmore remembers she's Brittany fucking Whitmore and you're still you.

Her fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your shirt.

“Don't get excited, loser.”

She still doesn't move.

Friday night belongs to Nate Paulson and Brittany Whitmore.

The scoreboard clock bleeds away its final seconds beneath the stadium lights, Westridge down by four with the ball close enough to the end zone that nobody in the packed bleachers is sitting anymore. The band has given up trying to play over the noise. Students are screaming themselves hoarse. The cheer squad lines the sideline in maroon and white, and at the center of them Britt Whitmore has a megaphone raised to her lips, blonde ponytail bouncing as she drives the crowd even louder.

On the field, Nate takes the snap.

The pocket collapses almost immediately.

He slips the first defender, scrambles right, and suddenly there's open field between him and the end zone. Ten yards. Five. Somebody catches him near the goal line, but Nate lowers his shoulder and drives forward.

The clock hits zero.

?Nate crosses the line.*

TOUCHDOWN!

Westridge explodes.

His teammates swarm him before he's completely back on his feet. The stands erupt, the band finally finds something resembling the school fight song, and Britt is jumping with the rest of the squad, screaming Nate's name along with hundreds of other people.

For a few minutes, they're exactly what everyone at Westridge thinks they are.

The star quarterback and the Cheer Captain.

King of Jocks and Queen Bee.

Nate eventually escapes the pile long enough to find Britt near the sideline. Cameras and phones are already pointed toward them when he hooks an arm around her and Britt beams up at him, picture-perfect beneath the stadium lights.

Westridge royalty in its natural habitat.

An hour later, the kingdom is mostly empty.

The bleachers have cleared. The band is gone. Only a scattering of cars remains in the parking lot while staff clean up whatever hundreds of teenagers left behind. The stadium lights are still burning, though several have already gone dark.

Britt finally emerges from the field house.

She's showered and changed, cheer uniform replaced by jeans, a fitted top, and a jacket against the cooler night air. Her damp blonde hair hangs loose now, and a bag is slung over one shoulder as she checks something on her phone and starts toward the parking lot.

She passes you without looking up.

Three whole steps before Britt stops walking.

Her head slowly turns.

For a moment she simply stares, like her brain is trying to reconcile what her eyes just told it.

Her eyes narrow as she takes you in.

You're clean.

Like, actually clean.

Whatever claim Britt would normally use to prove you don't understand basic hygiene is gone. You've showered. You're wearing deodorant. Your clothes are fresh instead of whatever offense she'd decided they committed before.

Her expression tightens when she sees your hair is styled.

Britt's jaw sets.

Every little thing she's ever mocked, criticized, exaggerated, or told you to fix... you fixed it.

The realization doesn't make Britt look satisfied.

It makes her look furious.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

She marches back toward you.

“You think THIS changes anything?” Her eyes sweep over you again, finding each correction like another personal insult. “You think taking a shower and putting on some clean clothes suddenly fixes you?”

Her voice gets sharper as she closes the distance.

“You did your hair. Wore deodorant. Put on some fresh clothes. Great. Congratulations.” She gives a short, humorless laugh. “You want a fucking prize?”

Her gaze drops and stops on your new shoes.

Clean soles. Fresh laces. Uncreased material. Not even a single scuff yet.

Britt goes silent.

The anger already coloring her face deepens into something else.

Her cheeks turn red as she stares.

Her lips part as if she's about to say something.

They close again before whatever was simmering finally boils over.

“Oh, fuck you.”

Britt's eyes snap back to yours.

“You really think you can just replace everything and suddenly you're somebody else? Like nobody can tell what's underneath all this?” She taps your chest, furious now. “You're still you. You're still the same fucking loser you've always been.”

She steps closer.

“Clean yourself up all you want. Buy new clothes. Fix your hair. Throw out your disgusting old shit and replace it with whatever the fuck you think makes you look normal.”

Her eyes betray her again, dropping toward those pristine shoes.

That seems to make it worse.

“It doesn't fucking matter!”

Her voice echoes across the mostly empty parking lot.

“You can change whatever you want. You'll never be fucking normal. You're still my loser.”

Britt is breathing harder now, face flushed, every bit of polished Queen Bee composure from an hour ago completely gone.

Britt freezes.

The words hang between you.

Her anger doesn't disappear, something else joins it.

*Her eyes widen slightly. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out.,

The flush reaches her ears and she looks absolutely fucking wrecked.

A door bangs shut behind her.

“Yo, Britt!”

Nate comes out of the field house with his duffel over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. The conquering hero from an hour ago has been reduced to jeans, a T-shirt, and the exhausted swagger of someone whose body is probably going to hate him tomorrow.

He notices Britt first.

Then Nate looks at you.

"Sup, dude.” A completely ordinary nod, then back to Britt. “Come on. Chad's waiting.”

Nate turns toward the parking lot without asking another question.

Britt remains where she is.

Her eyes drop once more to your shoes.

Her jaw clenches.

Then she looks back at you. "What?"

Sunday afternoon at Brittany Whitmore's house looks considerably less impressive than Friday night beneath the stadium lights.

Two days ago, Nate Paulson ran the winning touchdown into the end zone as the clock hit zero, and Westridge lost its fucking mind. Students screamed themselves hoarse, the band fought a losing battle against the noise, and Nate's teammates buried their quarterback beneath a pile of maroon and white while Britt celebrated with the cheer squad on the sideline.

Eventually Nate escaped long enough to find his Cheer Captain. Phones came out almost immediately. He wrapped an arm around Britt, she beamed up at him, and together they gave Westridge exactly the photograph it wanted.

King of Jocks and Queen Bee.

Westridge royalty.

Today, the King of Jocks is sitting on Britt's couch with Chad's leg stretched across his lap.

“I'm telling you, bro. This one's bigger.”

“No, it's fucking not, bro.”

“It is. Flex again.”

Chad tightens his thigh. Nate grips it through the sweatpants, studying the muscle with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. “See?”

“See what?”

“That.”

Chad looks down. “That's my fucking leg, bro.”

“I know it's your leg, dumbass. I'm saying this one's bigger.”

“They're the same size.”

Nate squeezes again.

Across the room, Britt watches from an armchair with the exhausted expression of someone witnessing an argument that somehow gets stupider every time either participant speaks.

“Hold on.” Nate shifts Chad's leg and runs a hand along his thigh.

Chad looks at him. “You've checked like six times, bro.”

“Because you keep flexing wrong.”

“How the fuck do you flex a thigh wrong?”

“That's what I'm trying to figure out, bro.”

There is absolutely no visible difference between Chad's thighs. This does not discourage Nate.

Nate came over almost two hours ago, supposedly to spend Sunday afternoon with his 'girlfriend'. Twenty minutes later, Chad showed up, and Britt still isn't sure whether Nate invited him or Chad simply possesses some primitive instinct that alerts him whenever Nate Paulson has been separated from the boys for too long.

Either way, Britt effectively stopped existing shortly afterward.

They've eaten most of her snacks, analyzed Friday's game despite both having played in it, compared bruises, replayed Nate's winning touchdown enough times that Britt could recreate it from memory, and are now conducting an apparently vital investigation into Chad's symmetrical thighs.

“Nate.”

“Hang on, bro.”

Nate pats Chad's leg. “Other one.”

“You serious, bro?”

“Bro, I need to compare them.”

Chad sighs and switches legs.

Britt stares at the ceiling.

Friday night's perfect couple doesn't really exist here. There aren't any cameras in her living room or classmates watching to see whether the quarterback has his arm around the Cheer Captain. Nate doesn't need to perform being Brittany Whitmore's boyfriend, and Britt doesn't need to perform being Nate Paulson's girlfriend.

So... they don't.

It works surprisingly well.

Nate gets the beautiful, popular girlfriend everyone expects him to have. Britt gets Westridge's star quarterback on her arm whenever appearances matter. Neither asks difficult questions about what the other does when nobody is watching, and both understand that whatever private weirdness exists behind the arrangement is less important than not fucking up The BrandTM.

Britt isn't jealous watching Nate grope Chad's thigh for the seventh time.

Jealousy would require wanting to trade places with Chad.

She's just bored out of her fucking mind.

“Okay,” Nate says. “Now flex.”

“I am flexing, bro.”

“Bro, harder.”

“I am!”

“No, you're—here.” Nate puts his hand back on Chad's thigh.

Britt grabs her phone and scrolls without looking at anything in particular. Then her thumb stops.

Your name.

Friday night returns whether she wants it to or not.

The empty parking lot. Your hair. Clean clothes. Those brand-new fucking shoes.

And one sentence that escaped her mouth before she could stop it.

"You're still my loser!"

Britt stares at your name.

Her thumb hovers over it.

Behind her, Chad let's out a heavy breath and asks Nate to quit squeezing so hard.

Britt rolls her eyes and taps the screen.

Your phone buzzes.

Britt: What are you doing?

Before you can decide what to make of Brittany Whitmore voluntarily messaging you on a Sunday afternoon, another message arrives.

Britt: Actually I don't care

Three dots appear beneath her name, linger, disappear, then return.

Britt: Are you good at history?

A few seconds pass.

Britt: Doesn't matter. I need help studying, and Nate's fucking useless

The conversation goes quiet, then your phone buzzes again.

Britt: I have a test tomorrow

A perfectly reasonable explanation.

Brittany Whitmore does not want to spend Sunday afternoon with you. She has a test, she needs help studying, and her boyfriend happens to be useless. And through some completely inexplicable sequence of events, the next logical person on her list is apparently the loser she's spent years mocking.

The typing indicator appears again, disappears, then comes back.

Britt: Don't make it weird. Your place or mine?

Free Roam...