But he wasn’t looking at me, and neither was anyone else. They were allstaring at Helen

I kept my eyes downcast, soall I could see of Odysseus was the lower part of his body. Short legs, I keptthinking, even at the most solemn moments. This was not an appropriatethought – it was trivial and silly, and it made me want to giggle – but in myown defence I must point out that I was only fifteen.

and is stillpractised in the world of the living when it comes to athletic contests

I started to cry, as I would do sooften in the future

red-haired

I had not thought my legs were quitethat short, and I certainly hadn’t thought Helen would notice them.

‘I think Odysseus would make a very suitable husband for our littleduckie,’ she said. ‘She likes the quiet life, and she’ll certainly have that if hetakes her to Ithaca, as he’s boasting of doing.

‘Who’s the barrel-chested one?’ I asked.‘Oh, that’s only Odysseus,’ said one of the maids. He was not considered– by the maids at least – to be a serious candidate for my hand. His father’spalace was on Ithaca, a goat-strewn rock; his clothes were rustic; he had themanners of a small-town big shot, and had already expressed severalcomplicated ideas the others considered peculiar. He was clever though, theysaid. In fact he was too clever for his own good. The other young men madejokes about him – ‘Don’t gamble with Odysseus, the friend of Hermes,’ theysaid. ‘You’ll never win.’ This was like saying he was a cheat and a thief. Hisgrandfather Autolycus was well known for these very qualities, and wasreputed never to have won anything fairly in his life.‘I wonder how fast he can run,’ I said. In some kingdoms the contest forbrides was a wrestling match, in others a chariot race, but with us it was justrunning.‘Not very fast, on those short legs of his,’ said one maid unkindly. Andindeed the legs of Odysseus were quite short in relation to his body. It was allright when he was sitting down, you didn’t notice, but standing up he lookedtop-heavy.

No man willever kill himself for love of me.

The more I think about this version of events, the more I like it.

Perhaps that is why myfather had become so attached to me after having failed to drown me in thesea: where I was, there would be the treasure.(Why did he throw me in? That question still haunts me. Although I’m notaltogether satisfied with the shroud-weaving explanation, I’ve never been ableto find the right answer, even down here. Every time I see my father in thedistance, wading through the asphodel, and try to catch up with him, hehurries away as if he doesn’t want to face me

I can say trash because I know where most of it ended up. It moulderedaway in the ground or it sank to the bottom of the sea, or it got broken ormelted down. Some of it made its way to enormous palaces that have –strangely – no kings or queens in them. Endless processions of people ingraceless clothing file through these palaces, staring at the gold cups and thesilver bowls, which are not even used any more. Then they go to a sort ofmarket inside the palace and buy pictures of these things, or miniatureversions of them that are not real silver and gold. That is why I say trash

f you had an enemy it was best to kill his sons, even if those sons werebabies. Otherwise they would grow up and hunt you down.

Children were vehicles for passing thingsalong. These things could be kingdoms, rich wedding gifts, stories, grudges,blood feuds. Through children, alliances were forged; through children,wrongs were avenged. To have a child was to set loose a force in the world.

In your world, you don’tget visitations from the gods the way people used to unless you’re on drugs

Helen was never punished, not one bit. Why not, I’d like to know? Otherpeople got strangled by sea serpents and drowned in storms and turned intospiders and shot with arrows for much smaller crimes. Eating the wrongcows. Boasting. That sort of thing. You’d think Helen might have got a goodwhipping at the very least, after all the harm and suffering she caused tocountless other people. But she didn’t.

If you were a magician, messing around in the dark arts and risking yoursoul, would you want to conjure up a plain but smart wife who’d been good atweaving and had never transgressed, instead of a woman who’d drivenhundreds of men mad with lust and had caused a great city to go up inflames?Neither would I

I never got summoned much by the magicians. I was famous, yes – askanyone – but for some reason they didn’t want to see me

More recently, some of us havebeen able to infiltrate the new ethereal-wave system that now encircles theglobe, and to travel around that way, looking out at the world through the flat,illuminated surfaces that serve as domestic shrines.

I was veryinterested in the invention of the light bulb, for instance, and in the matter-into-energy theories of the twentieth century.

and our own abode wasupstaged by a much more spectacular establishment down the road – fierypits, wailing and gnashing of teeth, gnawing worms, demons with pitchforks– a great many special effects.

Though we never get spring here, or any other seasons. You dohave to wonder who designed the place

I could hardly count on family support

If my father hadn’thad me thrown into the sea she might have dropped me in herself, in a fit ofabsent-mindedness or irritation

dimples

There Iwould be, strolling hand in hand with my apparently fond male parent along acliff edge or a river bank or a parapet, and the thought would occur to me thathe might suddenly decide to shove me over or bash me to death with a rock.Preserving a calm façade under these circumstances was a challenge. Aftersuch excursions I would retire to my room and dissolve in floods of tears.(Excessive weeping, I might as well tell you now, is a handicap of the Naiad-born. I spent at least a quarter of my earthly life crying my eyes out.Fortunately in my time there were veils. They were a practical help fordisguising red, puffy eyes.)

duck was my new nickname.No doubt he felt guilty about what he’d almost done: he became, if anything,rather too affectionate towards me

me, do I remember the breath leaving my lungs and the sound of bells peoplesay the drowning hear? Not in the least. But I was told the story: there isalways some servant or slave or old nurse or busybody ready to regale a childwith the awful things done to it by its parents when it was too young toremember. Hearing this discouraging anecdote did not improve my relationswith my father. It is to this episode – or rather, to my knowledge of it – that Iattribute my reserve, as well as my mistrust of other people’s intentions

Inever knew exactly why, during my lifetime, but now I suspect he’d been toldby an oracle that I would weave his shroud. Possibly he thought that if hekilled me first, his shroud would never be woven and he would live forever.

while you staredat our bare feet

I can’tmake myself understood, not in your world, the world of bodies, of tonguesand fingers; and most of the time I have no listeners, not on your side of theriver. Those of you who may catch the odd whisper, the odd squeak, so easilymistake my words for breezes rustling the dry reeds, for bats at twilight, forbad dreams.But I’ve always been of a determined nature. Patient, they used to call me.I like to see a thing through to the end.

I knew he was tricky and a liar, I just didn’t think he would play histricks and try out his lies on me. Hadn’t I been faithful? Hadn’t I waited, andwaited, and waited, despite the temptation – almost the compulsion – to dootherwise? And what did I amount to, once the official version gainedground? An edifying legend. A stick used to beat other women with. Whycouldn’t they be as considerate, as trustworthy, as all-suffering as I had been?That was the line they took, the singers, the yarn-spinners. Don’t follow myexample, I want to scream in your ears – yes, yours! But when I try to scream,I sound like an owl.

his versionof events was the true one, give or take a few murders, a few beautifulseductresses, a few one-eyed monsters

What a fool he made of me, somesay. It was a specialty of his: making fools. He got away with everything,which was another of his specialties: getting away.

like the sacks used to keep thewinds in

I’ve always been haunted by the hanged maids

ousin ofthe beautiful Helen of Troy

o is sometimes too clever for his own good

Helios had spied for him

glorious cripple now

Kythereia

hey playedat love together

Disguised now as a Phaiákian, Athenastaked it and called out:

You now, for instance, with your fine physique—a god’s, indeed—you have an empty noddle.I find my heart inside my ribs arousedby your impertinence.

I find my heart inside my ribs arousedby your impertinence.

“That was uncalled for, friend, you talk like a fool.

ook at his leg muscles and his forearms.Neck like a bollard; strong as a bull, he seems;and not old, though he may have gone stale underthe rough times he had. Nothing like the seafor wearing out the toughest man alive.”

Sparwood gave the discus the mightiest fling,and Prince Laódamas outboxed them al

Tipmast, Tiderace, Sparwood,Hullman, Sternman, Beacher and Pullerman,Bluewater, Shearwater, Runningwake, Boardalee,Seabelt, son of Grandfleet Shipwrightson;Seareach stepped up, son of the Launching Maste

gay amateurs of the great games

then in his cloak Odysseus wept again.His tears flowed in the mantle unperceived;only Alkínoös, at his elbow, saw them,and caught the low groan in the man’s breathing.

Muse brought to the minstrel’s mind a songof heroes whose great fame rang under heaven:the clash between Odysseus and Akhilleus,how one time they contended at the godfeastraging, and the marshal, Agamemnon,felt inward joy over his captains’ quarrel;for such had been foretold him by Apollo

seamen

I can assure you

but in my heart I never gave consentthough seven years detained

nine full days

Phaiákiain ship handling at sea, so were these womenskilled at the loom, having this lovely craftand artistry as talents from Athena.

his only child a daughter, Arete.When she grew up, Alkinoos married herand holds her dear

the awesome one in pigtails

“Little one,

thou so aloofwhile the Earthshaker wrecked and battered me

Go past him, cast yourself before my mother,embrace her knees—and you may wake up soonat home rejoicing, though your home be far.On Mother’s feeling much depends; if shelooks on you kindly, you shall see your friendsunder your own roof in your father’s country.”

Athena lent a hand, making him seemtaller, and massive too, with crisping hairin curls like petals of wild hyacinth,but all red-golden. Think of gold infusedon silver by a craftsman, whose fine artHephaistos taught him, or Athena: onewhose work moves to delight: just so she lavishedbeauty over Odysseus’ head and shoulders

never will be,as to bring war or pillage to this coast,for we are dear to the immortal gods

you are the first soul I have see

Delos near the altar of Apollo—I had troops under me when I was there

blest your father, and your gentle mother,blest all your kin. I know what happinessmust send the warm tears to their eyes, each timethey see their wondrous child go to the dancing

you are most near to Artemis

It happened

with nymphs of the wild places flanking her;and Leto’s heart delights to see them running,for, taller by a head than nymphs can be,the goddess shows more stately, all being beautiful.So one could tell the princess from the maids

Artemis

they ran and passed a ball to a rhythmic beat

Here, where the gay gods live their days of pleasure

s the shipman Dymas’ daughter,a girl the princess’ age, and her dear friend.

so finein mould and feature that she seemed a goddess—the daughter of Alkínoös, Nausikaa

and Heaven gave him wisdom,so on this night the goddess, grey-eyed Athena,entered the palace of Alkínoösto make sure of Odysseus’ voyage home.

while over him Athena showered sleep

Odysseus’ heart laughed when he saw his leaf-bed,and down he lay, heaping more leaves above him.

I fear I make the wild beasts easy prey

Here is your servant; lord, have mercy on me.

but he had the giftof self-possession from grey-eyed Athena.

Then the backwashhit him, ripping him under and far out.An octopus, when you drag one from his chamber,comes up with suckers full of tiny stones:

I know how he who makes earth tremble hates me.

What a dear welcome thing life seems to childrenwhose father, in the extremity, recoversafter some weakening and malignant illness:his pangs are gone, the gods have delivered him

Athena countered him:

“O damned confusion! Can this be a ruseto trick me from the boat for some god’s pleasure?

But Ino saw him—Ino, Kadmos’ daughter,slim-legged, lovely, once an earthling girl,now in the seas a nereid, Leukothea.

and praise from the Akhaians—not this chokingwaiting for me at sea, unmarked and lonely.”

But now the god of earthquake, storming homeover the mountains of Asia from the Sunburned land,sighted him far away. The god grew sullenand tossed his great head, muttering to himself

sea nymph dressed in a silvery gownof subtle tissue, drew about her waista golden belt, and veiled her head

When Dawn spread out her finger tips of rose

they retired, this pair, to the inner caveto revel and rest softly, side by side

any god has marked me out againfor shipwreck, my tough heart can undergo it.What hardship have I not long since enduredat sea, in battle! Let the trial come.”

“Son of Laërtês, versatile Odysseus,after these years with me, you still desireyour old home? Even so, I wish you well.If you could see it all, before you go—all the adversity you face at sea—you would stay here, and guard this house, and beimmortal—though you wanted her forever,that bride for whom you pine each day.Can I be less desirable than she is?Less interesting? Less beautiful? Can mortalscompare with goddesses in grace and form?”

“What a dog you are!

brimming his eyes. The sweet days of his life timewere running out in anguish over his exile,for long ago the nymph had ceased to please.Though he fought shy of her and her desire,he lay with her each night, for she compelled him.But when day came he sat on the rocky shoreand broke his own heart groaning, with eyes wetscanning the bare horizon of the sea.

where gods have beef

Your awesome visits in the past were few.

But he saw nothing of the great Odysseus,who sat apart, as a thousand times before,and racked his own heart groaning, with eyes wetscanning the bare horizon of the sea.

Now face to facethe magical Kalypso recognized him,as all immortal gods know one anotheron sight

He turned then to his favorite son and said:

But as she went she put new spirit in him,a new dream of his father, clearer now,so that he marvelled to himselfdivining that a god had been his guest.Then godlike in his turn he joined the suitors.

With this Athena left himas a bird rustles upward

Meneláos, the red-haired kingat Sparta

My mother says I am his son; I know notsurely. Who has known his own engendering?I wish at least I had some happy manas father, growing old in his own house—but unknown death and silence are the fate

by your looks, Odysseus’ boy?The way your head is shaped, the fine eyes—yes,

he can do anything

I see the gods delay him.But never in this world is Odysseus dead—only detained somewhere on the wide sea,upon some island, with wild islanders;savages, they must be, to hold him captive.Well, I will forecast for you, as the godsput the strong feeling in me—I see it all,and I’m no prophet, no adept in bird-signs.

I don’t suppose you walked here on the sea

a man whose bones are rotting somewhere now,

What if his great fathercame from the unknown world and drove these menlike dead leaves through the place, recoveringhonor and lordship in his own domains?Then he who dreamed in the crowd gazed out at Athena.

She seemeda family friend, the Taphian captain, Mentes,

She bent to tie her beautiful sandals on,ambrosial, golden, that carry her over water

’ll send him to the mainland then, to Sparta

nymph with pretty braids

Wayfinder, Hermês, cross the seato the island of Ogýgia;

mind you, he does not kill the man;

Polyphemos,brawniest of the Kyklopes

Could I forget that kingly man, Odysseus?There is no mortal half so wise; no mortalgave so much to the lords of open sky.

master mind of war

But my own heart is broken for Odysseus

grey-eyed goddess Athena

And yet Aigísthosknew that his own doom lay in this. We godshad warned him, sent down Hermês Argeiphontês,our most observant courier, to say:‘Don’t kill the man, don’t touch his wife,or face a reckoning with Orestês

Yet all the gods had pitied Lord Odysseus,all but Poseidon, raging cold and roughagainst the brave king

Her ladyship Kalypsoclung to him in her sea-hollowed caves—a nymph, immortal and most beautiful,who craved him for her own.

Muse

Lord Hêlios, the Sun,and he who moves all day through heaventook from their eyes the dawn of their return

for their own recklessness destroyed them al

You wereright, Sadie Wen. I am completely, helplessly obsessed with you.Love,Julius

All of which is to say I really hope this finds you.And I hope you find me too.

For ten years I thought I was preparing to destroy you,when really I was preparing to love you

When I was fourteen, I would stare up at my bedroomwalls and wonder what it was like to fall in love. Most of my inspirationcame from songs and the movies. But still, I imagined it. What it would belike to be someone who had somebody else. I would imagine tenderness.The concept of infinite. Of endless patience. Imagine them chasing after meeven when I run. Cradling my sorrows in the palm of their hands. Imaginethem caring, trying to understand.

Julius,

You’re so beautiful it enrages me

I want you to hold me like a grudge, keep me like apromise

Like, if this were a marriage, they’re already shopping around for the ring.And it’s occurring to me as I speak that that’s a weird analogy, but, like,whatever, because they’re interested.”

Is this one of those jokes where you say you’re thesurprise because your presence itself is a gift?”

I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts, and even though I know we’ll bothbe exhausted tomorrow, we stay up talking until four in the morning, andwhen I finally do fall asleep, I feel lighter than I have in years.

“Even if I were mad at you, you can be mad at someone andstill love them.”

“I assure you, I’ve never once been tempted to smash a cake in somebody’sface,”

I want him to know he looks more beautiful than ever in the light, up close.I want to kiss him again, until all his doubts dissipate to nothing. I want totake away everything that’s ever hurt him. But for now, I simply smile athim. Hold out my hand.

Julius. His lips are swollen, his black hair rumpled fromwhere I’d run my fingers through it

He has a point. A very good one. And in either case, I don’t have thestrength to argue any further, because he’s kissing me again, and it’severything. It’s so, satisfyingly perfect. It’s as if I’ve been suffocating insilence for days, months, years, and now I can finally inhale. Nothing hasever made as much sense as his hands on my waist, his heart hammeringagainst my rib cage, the involuntary sound he makes when I adjust myposture, slide my hand farther down his neck to the hollow of hiscollarbones.He says my name, whispers it like it’s sacred. And just when I’m wonderinghow we could ever stop this, how I could ever do anything except listen tohis sharp intakes of breath, let him kiss me until my head goes fuzzy—

“It’s us, Sadie,” he says, like that’s answer enough. “When have we beenbad at anything?

“I know. Even when I wasimagining it—”“You imagined this?”He pauses, which feels like unfair punishment. Then he brings his lipsfirmly up to mine again. “Do you always pay such close attention toeverything people say?” he demands between short, uneven breaths.296“No. Only what you say.”A sharp intake of air. “You have to stop doing that, Sadie.”His hand tightens around my waist. “I won’t survive it.”

“Fine, then.” His breath warms the shell of my ear. Tickles my cheek.“Please.”I can feel my heart pounding. “What?”“Please, Sadie. I’m begging.”A triumphant grin splits over my face. “All right. I suppose, in that case—”He doesn’t even give me a chance to finish my sentence. His mouth is onmine in an instant, desperate, urgent.

His eyes widen, and he leans in, lips parted, his fingers trembling like mothwings over my cheeks. It’s clear what he wants, and I almost let him. ButI’m not going to make it that easy.I twist my head away. “I recall you saying you would rather die than kissme again.”He lets out a soft, half- stifled groan, and the sound shoots straight throughmy bloodstream. Makes my pulse quicken.“God, you really know how to hold a grudge.”“They’re your words, not mine,” I tell him, refusing to sway.“You’re killing me now,” he murmurs against my neck. His lips graze myskin, and his other hand slides up, tangles in my hair, his nails lightlyscraping my scalp. Despite myself, I feel my resolve buckle. “Isn’t thatenough?”“No.” I try to ignore it. The heat in my veins. The crisp scent of him,peppermint and rain. For once I have all the power, and I’d be a fool to let itgo without putting up a good fight— no matter how badly I want him to justkiss me.

“I choose you,” I say quietly, glad for the shadows conceal-ing my flushedcheeks. For the support of the wall behind me.“You’ll always be my first choice, Julius Gong.”“Really?”294“Really.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me at first. He’s still talking, rambling really, thewords flowing out like rainwater. “I can’t always say pretty things, andsometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and—

“Of course, if you . . . if you don’t want to,” he says into the silence, slidinghis gaze away from me, “I can accept that. I won’t bring it up again. I knowI’m not . . . I know what I’m like. That I’m infuriating. And selfish. Andcruel. I know I’m not perfect the way my brother is, and I manage todisappoint my parents every time. It’s okay if you don’t choose me, really—I never expected to be the first choice. I wouldn’t blame you—”“I do choose you.”

“You had to write those awful emails,” he continues, lowering himselfdown next to me. Except he’s kneeling, and he’s still too close. I’mconvinced he can hear my heart thrumming. “You had to kiss me then kickme then fill my head with your voice.293You made it clear— so, terribly clear— how much you hate me.That I’m the last person in the world you would ever consider.But I kept looking for signs that would suggest otherwise. I kept wonderingif it was still possible. Because I’m willing to lose everything,” he says, hiseyes blacker than the surrounding darkness, than the sky outside, “so longas I don’t lose you.”

“I mean, nothing has even really happened between us,” he says hoarsely,“and already it’s hard for me to concentrate whenever you’re around. Mybrother was right, in a sense, about you being a distraction, except you’re somuch more than that.I can’t pretend to care about the things that once interested me. I can’t fallasleep. I play through every look you’ve ever cast in my direction. I readthrough your emails over and over until they’re carved into my memory.You did this to me,” he says, and there’s a rough, bitter edge to his voicenow, nearly an accusation.

“You have to understand . . . If you knew the effect you had 292on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you . . . Iwouldn’t stand a chance against you ever again. You would have takeneverything from me,” he goes on in a rush, like the words are burning himfrom within, like he has to get it out before the pain becomesoverwhelming. “Not just a debating championship or some points for a testor a fancy award or a spot in a competition— but my whole heart. Mypride. God, my sanity. It would be all over. You would annihilate me.”

There were only two possible explanations for why you were acting theway you were, and the other seemed too unlikely. And I was— scared.”

He grabs my other wrist. Locks both ofthem together with one hand, pins them to the wall behind me, high abovemy head.“Hold. Still.”

“Sorry, I was walking past their dorm room and kind of over-heard a bit oftheir conversation— I left just as Julius showed up to her room though. SoI’m guessing he likes her.”“Whose room?”“Abigail’s room.”“Wait, Julius likes Abigail?”“No, Julius likes Sadie. They just share the same room.”“Him and Sadie?”“ No— Oh my god, this is why you’re so behind on gossip.”

“Why am I so behind on the gossip? How did I miss this?”

My head jerks up against my will. This is what I mean about the sickness,because only somebody who is utterly unwell would hear that one word andwonder: No, what? No, there’s more?No, he doesn’t wish to leave? No, he doesn’t like me?

Sadie.”I freeze. Because this time, it’s not coming from Abigail. It’s a low, malevoice, coming from behind me.

“I sent them.”

a fish bone had gotten lodged in my throat. Instead of making abig deal out of it and trying to cough it out in front of thirty- six people Iwas directly or indirectly related to, I’d chosen to swallow it inward, toquietly absorb the pain as the bone scraped its way down while I sat thereand smiled. Nobody could have guessed that something was wrong.

Look away. But I can sense his gaze on me for the rest of the movie.It’s the longest movie I’ve ever seen

It’s easier to watch him while he’s watching the screen.

I am okay. Completely okay. I’m okay when I stomp up to the cabinbathrooms and stand under the hot spray of the shower, letting the heat meltthe ice from my bones, scraping the mud from my skin with such force itleaves behind angry red nail marks. I’m okay when I slather my hair withtoo much shampoo and close my eyes against the water like it’s pouringrain; when I sob into the palm of my hand, alone where nobody can hearme.

“Are you okay?” she worries. “Do you want me to punch him for you?”

and I see him swallow, the rising bump in his throat.

“You’re the worst,” I tell him, my lips bare inches from his, neither of usretreating. It’s torture, blistering agony. It feels like 264I’m being burned alive. “You make me sick. You make me so violentlyangry sometimes, I could—” I want to continue, but the burning sensationspreads to my eyes, my nose. I won’t cry. I won’t be weak in front of him.My fingers curl hard into the collar of his shirt, to make the sentiment clear

I can feel the heat of hisbreath against my lips when he says,“I hate you more.”“That’s impossible.”His smile is a sneer. “I promise it isn’t.”

“Take it back,” I tell him quietly, amazed by my self- control.What I really want is to shove him out of the boat, to throttle him with mybare hands. “I’m going to give you one chance to take everything you saidback.”His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.“God, Julius—” I cut myself off, bitterness creeping over my tongue.There’s something so presumptuous, so condescending about it, that hewould twist my sincerity into some sort of charity. That while I’ve beentrying to see the best in him, he’s been assuming the worst of me. “Youknow what? I hate you,”

“Don’t I?” he says, and he sounds perfectly confident in himself, hisskewed judgment. “You’re so fixated on being nice, aren’t you? The

“You don’t have to pity me,” he says in a low voice, and my brain goesblank. “This is why I didn’t want you to meet my brother, and you shouldn’thave been listening to our conversation to begin with. You shouldn’t takeany of the stuff he says seriously, especially the stuff about you. I really—”His fingers form closed fists. “There’s nothing— nothing I resent more thanwhen people feel sorry for me. Because I don’t need it. I’m fine.I’m perfect.”

I crash gracelessly against him inside the canoe, hisbody pressed to the seat, mine pressed to his.

I pick up the paddle easily, tightening my grip around the rough wood. “Justteach me how to row this thing.

It’s not as if I was ever certain I could be his first choice. But knowing thatI’m his last choice— it’s a twist of a knife in the gut.

Julius grins back at her. My nails dig into the soft flesh of my palms, myhurt hardening into rage. It’s not Rosie I’m angry at though. It’s him. It’salways him

ecause for whatever cursed reason, there aremultiple paintings of naked clowns hung up in every room, right on opendisplay for everyone to see

high- pitched, strangled sound escapes mymouth.His brows furrow. “Sorry?”“I was just— saying hi,” I say brightly. “In greeting. Hello.”He shoots me a weird look and walks right past me without another word.And I’ve decided I would like to stop existing

there’snothing warm or gentle about it at all. This is a violent intrusion, my ownbody revolting against me. There are no butterflies in my stomach, onlyscorpions.

She’s sipping a drink that’s more whipped cream than actual liquid

Evidence like: He ran the race for me when I felt like I was dying. Like: Hestayed behind with me after the party, and he’s 243never shown any particular interest in sweeping floors before, so there musthave been another reason. Like: Max said so when he came into the bakeryafter school, and didn’t his brother say that he’d been searching for ourbakery? Like: There was a very brief moment four and a half weeks agowhen he gazed over at me so tenderly I felt my breath catch.

But I always start with the evidence first. I gothrough the information I already have, the facts I find the most compelling,that will most likely stand out to an examiner.Only after that do I pick my argument. Otherwise it’s a futile practice, awaste of precious writing time; it doesn’t matter what you believe in, orwant to believe in, if you’re not supported by the data.

“It was going to be,” I say grimly. “But Julius rejected the idea on the termsthat it would be too romantic— and yes, I know, the irony is occurring tome as we speak.”“He really shot himself in the foot with that one, huh?

“I was genuinely attracted to a cartoon lion at thirteen.Like, something about his claws really worked for me.”

“It’s Julius, isn’t it?” Abigail says. “You’re talking about Julius Gong.”

I always go back and overanalyze everything he’s said, andwhat I’ve said. I want to leave a good impression

ut on days whenhe’s not there, I’m also disappointed

A thousand emotions swim in his eyes, one tied to another:gratitude and resentment for his gratitude and something else. “Sadie,” hesays, quiet, his voice pitched only for the space between us. “I . . .”

“How touching, that my little brother has a girl outhere protecting his dignity. This is really very sweet.”

The irony is thatfor the first time, I’m not angry at him; I’m angry because of him. Becausethe only person who should be allowed to attack him is me

“Are you unable to stop yourself from being irritating when I’m literallydefending you?” I hiss.

Iwould hate to see you getting distracted and losing your wits over some girland letting all your work go to waste—

I saw your search results.

y giving you some advice

Julius just smiles

His gaze flits to me as the girl types out her name, like he wants tomake sure I’m watching,

“You’ve been moping because of a boy, last I heard,” he whispers againstmy ear. Heat rushes up my neck, gathering around the point where I canfeel his lips. “Who is it? Do I know him?”

are you the one who rejected my sister? Is that why she’s been somopey?”“What?” I hiss.“What?” Julius asks, stiffening at once. His gaze flickers to me

“Are you here to select bread,or a future wife? What’s taking so long?”His smile is sharp, taunting. “The latter.”

“Did you get rejected by a boy orsomething?

It’s the kind of scoresomeone like Ray would be over-joyed with.