I even give Brandon a hug, who, in addition to writing a number of captions, has decided to give himself an honorary title of Yearbook Savior. His genius idea of student-submitted pictures did totally transform a number of pages in the yearbook.

“We should head out if we want to catch the four hundred,” Brandon says, double-checking the time on his phone.

I’m eager to get out of the windowless room and into the May sunshine, even if it’s just to go sit in the stands for the big invitational. A typical meet is just two or three teams facing off, but an invitational brings in the top performers from each event in the district.

It’s a pretty big deal that out of all the schools in the district, ours got to host the final one of the year.

“You coming with us, Lyla?” I ask as I gather up my belongings to join Kyle and Brandon.

I planned on standing near the fence by the finish line to avoid greeting and getting roped into sitting between Dylan’s mother and James’s parents, but I’m not opposed to the idea of sitting with a group of people my own age.

She gives me one of those sneers that masquerades as a smile. “I’ll pass,” she says in a clipped tone before she brushes past me.

I look to Kyle and Brandon for an explanation, but they’re both just as confused as I am by her attitude.

“Don’t look at me,” Kyle deflects.

“You’re her twin,” Brandon says as we start to walk outside. “Don’t you have a decoder ring for her behavior?”

He rolls his eyes. “All I know is that I try to avoid getting that look whenever possible.”

“Well, it’s not like I did anything to deserve it,” I say.

“Maybe that had something to do with her and James arguing in English this morning,” Brandon speculates.

“Why does that have anything to do with me?” I ask him.

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Do you really need me to unpack the emotional availability of James and whatever weird attachment you two have to each other?”

I consider it. “No,” I decide.

Brandon laughs and throws an arm over both of our shoulders, holding us together as we find seats in the semi-crowded stands.

Normally, I’m glued to the outcome of the races, mentally willing the runners forward, but today, I’m content just to watch it happen.

Brandon is right there with me, even offering funny commentary on how some of the jumpers are moving and cringing at how javelin throwing is an actual event despite it being dangerous as hell.

James’s coach pulled him into a relay today, which we missed while we were huddled in the yearbook room, so the four-hundred-meter race is the first and last one he’s up against Dylan for the day.

Because their qualifying times were nearly identical, they’re placed side by side in lanes three and four. I can feel the tension all the way up in my seat.

They’re both doing their pre-run routines, focusing on their final stretches and preparations before they’re up.

After the first two heats ahead of them start and end in rapid succession, they’re able to adjust their starting blocks and get in position.

The white lines on the dark red track feel narrower than they usually do.

They’re freshly painted, and adhere to regulation, but with Dylan and James side by side, it feels too small to contain them. They keep clipping each other with their elbows while they stretch. James has to stand awkwardly in waiting while Dylan kneels down to slide the metal starting blocks back to where he wants them.

I’m on edge just watching them interact so closely.

The referee calls for them to get in position, and before Dylan crouches down, he looks up at me and winks.

I smile and wave in return, and James looks up just in time to see it. The line of his jaw clenches as he fixes his gaze toward the finish line.

“This will go over well,” Brandon says beside me.

“Runners on your mark,” the referee calls. “Get set.”

He pulls the trigger on the starting gun, and they’re off.

Their arms thrash until they get in their stride, but once James and Dylan pull ahead slightly from the other runners, it seems like their upper bodies are completely disconnected from their legs. They move so fast that their feet blur in my vision.

The crowd noise is impressive, but the sound of my heart beating in my ears overpowers it.

I stare at Dylan’s chest, watching it heave and inch forward a fraction faster than James’s. I force myself not to blink so I can watch him cross the finish line a step ahead of everyone else.

They all jog another fifty meters or so, a result of the motion and time it takes them to ease slowly to a stop.

The rest of the team dashes over to surround both of them as the announcer says that Dylan just set a district record for his finish time.

Serena throws her arms around Dylan’s neck, and he awkwardly pats her on the back until she lets go of him.

While he accepts congratulations from the coach, James stomps up to him, irritation clear in his expression.

I sigh, knowing that James is going to be inconsolable for a while after this.

Brandon elbows me. “Oh,” he breathes.

I look down at the track again, expecting everyone to be moving ahead to the next event, but a crowd of teammates and other runners are forming around Dylan and James.

Dylan stands rigid with his arms crossed on his chest. James’s face is about an inch away from his. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but I can see the anger in his words.

Brandon and I both move on instinct, running down the stairs and weaving around people to get onto the track. Kyle is yelling behind us to wait for him, but we don’t listen; we’re trying to stop a car accident before it starts.

Finally, we get within earshot of their conversation.

“Are those spikes even the right length? Did you switch them after they got checked by the ref?”

“Are you accusing me of cheating, Lawson?” Dylan deadpans.

“Maybe.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than try and make excuses?”

“What’s going on?” I ask, forcing myself between them.

“Lawson was just about to get the hell away from me,” Dylan says, not breaking their eye contact while he answers my question.

It’s irritating that they’re both so much taller than me. Standing between them, not reaching their eye level, has done nothing to break whatever this is up.

Over the loudspeaker, the announcer makes a joke about the hometown team holding up the next race.

“Dylan,” I say, but he still doesn’t withdraw from the standoff with James.

I put my hand on his chest, one of my favorite places in the entire world to feel, which finally draws his attention to me.

Dylan and I, and our newness, haven’t dared to touch each other in public, let alone surrounded by an audience and stands full of parents and classmates. He exhales and reaches up, holding my hand in his.

I smile at him, just slightly, and he returns it. I’ve successfully forced his hand into bomb defusal. He nods at me and starts to back us away from James.

“What the hell is this?” James demands. “Harper?”

I close my eyes, not really wanting to do this in front of the crowd, and let Dylan lead me away.

I trip when a force stomps on the back of my shoe, sending me forward into Dylan’s back. He turns and catches me, righting me with a hand at my waist.