Walking back to my dorm, my lacrosse bag over my shoulder, I’m in a great mood. I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling all day. I may even whistle a merry tune. My mother had a thing for Gene Kelly when I was a kid, and in my head, I’m totally doing the “Singin’ in the Rain” dance.

Three guys are standing on the dorm building’s steps. And even though I’m not the type who listens to other people’s conversations, two words zoom straight to my eardrums, like a nuclear missile: Kennedy Randolph.

And my mental Gene Kelly is struck by a bolt of lightning and bursts into flames.

“I told you she’d say yes, dumbass. I don’t know why you waited three years to ask her.”

That’s Peter Elliot. He’s a science kid—biology. He got a grant from the federal government last year to cross-breed poisonous caterpillars, I think. And he’s talking to William Penderghast and Alfonso DiGaldi. They’re on the brainier end of the spectrum too—quiet, kinda bland guys who spend most of the weekend in the library.

“You can’t rush these things. The timing had to be just right. But now the stars have aligned and Kennedy Randolph is going to the movies with me this Friday. Maybe I should rent a limo.”

William laughs for no reason. Smiles so big and bright it almost hurts to look at him—because he looks like how I felt just ten seconds ago.

I walk straight up to them, eyes on William. “Did you just say you’re going out with Kennedy Randolph?”

William puffs himself up a little bit. “That’s right.”

No fucking way.

“When . . . when did you ask her?”

He looks at me. “Like, a couple hours ago. Why?”

No fucking way.

“I . . . just . . .”

There’s only one explanation—there are two Kennedy Randolphs at this school.

I go with that.

“Kennedy?” I ask, using my hands to imitate her height. “Short, glasses, brown hair? My . . .” I swallow. “That Kennedy?”

And out of the blue, he starts to look pissed. Affronted. “That’s right. She’s smart, funny, and has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She’s also got a beautiful smile and eyes that are the most fascinating—”

I walk away. I can’t listen anymore. If I do—I’ll fucking lay him out.

I head straight for the girls’ upperclassmen dorm. I don’t think, I don’t stop to talk to anyone, and my jaw is so tight it’s a miracle my teeth haven’t cracked by the time I get there.

I pound on her door with the side of my fist—and I don’t stop until it opens.

Her eyes look shiny behind the glasses, her nose a little red—like she’s getting a cold. Her gaze traces over my face for a few seconds and then her back straightens. “What’s up?”

“Are you going out with William Penderghast?”

She steps out into the hall with me, closing the door behind her.

And then she blows my soul to kingdom come.

“Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

For a second I don’t answer her. It takes me time to find any words.

“Why do I ask? Because what about last night?” I try to keep the devastation out of my voice, but I don’t know if I manage it. “I thought . . . I wanted . . .”

Her voice cuts, like a razor blade to the wrists. “Last night was fun. But it didn’t mean anything—I know that. I can handle fun just like everybody else. And now I’ll do my thing with William and you do yours with—”

“You’ll do your thing with William? Seriously? What the fuck was I—the warm-up act?” I yell, anger on full display.

Fury flashes in her eyes, turning them aflame. “What’s the matter, Brent? Did I hurt your precious boy-feelings? Did you expect me to follow you around like every other girl in school? Take your crumbs when you’re feeling charitable?”

I don’t really understand everything she’s saying—the haze of disappointment is too crushing. Because, yeah, it hurts. As lame as it sounds, last night meant something to me. She means something to me. And apparently I don’t mean dick to her.

So I do what comes natural. Cover it up. “I’m just surprised, is all. If I knew you were so easy, I would’ve hooked up with you years ago.”

Her cheeks go fire-flaming red—with embarrassment or anger, I can’t tell.

“I’m not easy.”

“You sure? You may not think you’re easy, but actions speak louder than words. William and I will have to compare notes to see. Because I didn’t even have to try last night. It felt pretty fucking easy to me.”

It’s a shitty thing to say. I wouldn’t be surprised if she slapped me—that’s what girls do when they’re offended. That’s why they call it a bitch-slap.

But, like I’ve always known, Kennedy Randolph isn’t your average girl. She doesn’t slap me.

She punches me. Right in the mouth.

My head snaps back and I taste blood.

“Damn it!”

But when I open my eyes, when I look back at her face, all the anger bleeds out, like a hemorrhaging artery. Because Kennedy doesn’t look furious anymore, or even angry.

She looks . . . crushed. Holding back tears—but just barely.

“I hate you,” she forces out, shaking her head. “I hate you.”

Her words reverberate in my bones, echo in my head.

In history, we watched a documentary on the Vietnam War, with actual footage of a battle from a reporter’s camera—of a soldier, a young guy who was shot.