Mom was already clattering around the kitchen when I shuffled down the hall, hair in a lopsided bun and my hoodie half on. She had music playing low from her phone, some upbeat nonsense, and a frying pan going like it owed her money.
"You own socks?" she asked without turning around.
"I'm wearing socks," I said, hopping to get my heel into one. "They're just... thinking about their choices."
"Tell them to choose swifter." She slid scrambled eggs onto a plate, added two slices of toast, and set the whole thing in front of my usual spot. "You're not leaving this house without eating something that didn't come in a crinkly wrapper."
"I like crinkly wrappers," I said, but I sat anyway. "They say 'mystery' and 'possible doom.'"
"Eat," she ordered, but it didn't sound mean. She topped off a mug and pushed it toward me. "Half coffee, half milk. Don't look at me like that. I know who you are."
I took a sip. "You've met me, yes."
She leaned her hip against the counter and watched me shovel in the eggs. "Three days."
"Until what," I asked, mouth full, "my coronation?"
"Your eighteenth birthday," she said, patient and dramatic at the same time. "Legally an adult. You'll be allowed to sign things and make your own doctor's appointments and buy—"
"Soup," I said, pointing at her with my fork. "You were going to say soup."
She huffed. "I was going to say candles. So I can put them in a cake and cry. Like a normal mother."
I smiled into my plate even though I tried not to. "We're doing cake tomorrow, remember? Saturday."
"We're doing cake both days if you keep that tone."
I held my hands up. "Who am I to stand between a woman and her frosting."
Her phone buzzed with a text, and she glanced at it, thumb flying in response. "Chloe says she's outside. She says, and I quote 'tell Evelyn to get her slow self out here before I honk the horn like I'm summoning demons.'"
"Rude," I said, and stuffed the last bite of toast into my mouth. "I'm speed itself."
Mom put her hands on my shoulders and straightened the seam of my hoodie like it mattered. "Be safe."
"It's school," I said.
She kissed my cheek anyway. "Be safe faster."
I slung my backpack over one shoulder, slid on my sneakers by the door, and jogged outside. Chloe's little hatchback idled at the curb. She leaned across the passenger seat to fling the door open as I approached.
"Took you twenty years," she announced.
"You've known me for three," I said, sliding in and clicking my seatbelt.
"It feels like twenty." She checked her mirror, checked it again for fun, and pulled away from the curb with the precision of a person who judges other people's parallel parking for sport.
"You drive like a DMV video," I said.
"I drive like I want my insurance to stay under five hundred dollars a month." She flicked on her blinker even though there was no one behind us. "Ethan texted. He says Mr. Lopez fell asleep during his own lecture yesterday."
"Bold of him to judge, coming from a person who can nap anywhere," I said. "Is he bringing that cursed milk again?"
"If he opens my fridge and touches my lactose-free anything, I'm staging a coup," Chloe said. "You doing anything this weekend besides letting your mom cry on cake?"
"I wasn't going to say that out loud, but yes." I dug for lip balm in my bag. "Movie night again? I can suffer through another superhero saga where no one knows how to communicate and everything blows up."
"Please. We both know you love it when they stand on a roof and brood," she said. "Also, we're making popcorn and you're not allowed to salt it like you're cursing it."
"Then why even make it."
She snorted. "Fair."
We rolled past the corner store. Mr. Patel was out front sweeping the same patch of sidewalk he always swept when he wanted to watch the street. The school came into view, the brick rectangle, the patchy lawn, kids drifting toward the doors in clumps.
Chloe slid into the student lot like she was docking a spaceship, found a spot between a car with an entire sticker zoo on the back window and a sedan that had been dented since sophomore year, and cut the engine. "Remember, if I forget to ask: I have a lab today. If I die, bury me with my lip gloss."
"I'll pour it out on the ground," I said solemnly.
"Disrespectful." She grabbed her bag and we joined the stream of bodies heading inside.
Inside, school smelled like pencil shavings, floor cleaner, and whatever the cafeteria was already pretending to cook.
"Homeroom," Chloe said, peeking at the clock. "Then English for you?"
"Yeah." I scrubbed at a spot on my sleeve with my thumb. "Assuming anyone shows up on time."
She gave me a look that said she understood and didn't need gossip to prove it. "Want a granola bar? I came armed."
"You're a provider," I said, taking one. "If we were in the apocalypse, I'd join your bunker."
"If we were in the apocalypse," she said, "I'd be in charge."
"Obviously," I said. "I'd be your snarky second."
She preened and then jutted her chin toward the freshman lockers. "We cutting through the—"
"Nope," I said, steering us down the side hall instead. "Avoiding that disaster zone on purpose."
We split at the stairs, her to the science wing, me toward English. I was on time enough to feel smug. That lasted thirty seconds.
Half the class was seated when the door opened and Ezra strolled in like the bell waited for him. Knox followed with a notebook and that calm look he always carried, and Wesley drifted in behind them, backpack hanging from one shoulder like gravity was optional.
"Mr. Hart," Ms. Varma said without looking away from the board, "thank you for blessing us with your presence."
Ezra made a non-apology sound and slid into a seat in the back. No one said anything to Knox or Wesley because they didn't have to; somehow, their lateness never counted if they were flanking him.
I stared very hard at my notebook and wrote the date three times so my face wouldn't make expressions.
"Group work today," Ms. Varma announced. The class groaned because group work is the worst kind of work; it requires making eye contact with your peers. "Pick a partner or I pick for you."
Of course Chloe wasn't in this period. Of course.
Before anyone could make it to their feet, Ms. Varma pointed with her dry erase marker like she was assigning jury duty. "Evelyn and... Mr. Hart."
I made a noise that could be spelled seventeen different ways and all of them would be unflattering. Ezra leaned back in his chair like the day had just improved.
Knox's mouth tilted. Wesley turned halfway around to grin at Ezra and then at me like this was premium entertainment.
"Front row," Ms. Varma added. "Let me keep an eye on you, Mr. Hart. Your group projects have a history of doing themselves."
"Maybe the projects are just talented," he said, and stood, collecting his notebook with no visible rush.
He crossed the room and dropped into the seat beside mine at the front. He smelled like clean laundry and something warmer, not cologne, exactly. My brain noted it on its own time while the rest of me pretended to be stone.
"Hi," he said, like we hadn't bumped into each other yesterday and I hadn't called him a wall.
"Hello, punctuality champion," I said, pulling the assignment toward me so I'd have something to hold that wasn't my temper. "We're analyzing sonnets."
"Can they be short ones?" he asked.
"That's... not how sonnets work."
"Teach me, then," he said, tone innocent if you didn't listen closely. "I learn best when someone else does it."
"You learn best when someone else does it," I repeated. "Wow. Revolutionary study method."
He smiled, lazy, crooked, and unbothered. "You're funny."
"I'm hungry," I said. "There's a difference."
I split the questions in half, pushed his half toward him, and took mine. He didn't touch his pen. He tipped his chair back a fraction and watched me write.
"Stop hovering with your eyes," I muttered.
"I'm seeing how you think," he said.
"Tragic for you," I said, and underlined a line from the poem. "Here. He's comparing time to a thief. Then he flips it. Saying love outlasts what time steals."
"Optimistic," he said, finally picking up his pen and writing three words that did not include the content of the assignment. "What if love is the thief."
"That's edgy," I said. "Do you also write lyrics in your notes and stare at rain out windows."
"Only on Tuesdays." His eyes flicked to the board; Ms. Varma was helping someone across the room diagram a metaphor. He lowered his voice. "Do you always do the work for both people?"
"I like being done," I said.
"I like not pretending," he returned.
I didn't have a good comeback for that, so I tapped my pen against the paper and then forced my hand to keep moving. We finished with five minutes left in the period. He wrote his name at the top of the page like he'd contributed more than a thesis about love stealing wallets; I let him because arguing would scare the fish.
When the bell rang, the room detonated into sound, chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, the metallic clatter of pens hitting the floor at the worst angle. Ezra stood, slid our paper onto Ms. Varma's desk as we passed, and matched pace with me in the hall without asking. People moved around him like they didn't know they were doing it.
"You always eat breakfast?" he asked like he was talking about the weather.
"Why?" I shot back.
"You're fast when you've eaten," he said. "In class."
"Are you evaluating my performance," I asked, amused despite myself. "Do I get a gold star."
He angled a look at me. "You want one?"
"I want to never do group work again," I said.
"Tragic," he said. "We're doing it again next week."
"Lucky me."
Knox reappeared like he'd stepped out of a shadow. "Coach wants to see you before lunch," he told Ezra. His eyes slid to me, not unfriendly, just assessing. "Hey."
"Hi," I said.
Wesley materialized on the other side because apparently that's what they do, flanked and flanking. "So this is the famous Evelyn," he announced.
"I didn't realize I was famous," I said.
"You are if Ms. Varma assigns you to Ezra," he said. "She only gives the good students the hard cases."
Ezra elbowed him without looking. "Go to class."
"Don't tell me how to live," Wesley said, and sauntered away without looking back.
"Gym next?" Knox asked me, like he'd memorized the schedule.
"How do you know that," I asked.
He shrugged. "Everyone has patterns."
"He's annoying when he's right," Ezra said, and then to me, "See you in there."
"I'll be the one not caring," I said.
He half-smiled, then split off with Knox toward the athletic wing.
I exhaled a breath I hadn't noticed I'd been holding and immediately hated that my body was keeping secrets from me.
Gym was already chaos when I got there: half the class in pinnies, half in their own shirts because they'd "forgotten," Coach with his whistle around his neck like he was resisting the urge to weaponize it.
"We're doing dodgeball," Coach announced. "Try not to sue."
Half the class cheered because throwing things at other people is the last true joy. We split into teams. I ended up on the opposite side from Ezra's group, which felt like the universe trying to keep me alive.
The whistle blew. Balls flew. Someone screamed for no good reason. I ducked, caught one on the bounce, and chucked it at a guy who'd been gunning for me since the last tournament. He flailed and fell like a dramatic tree.
"Cold," Wesley called from the line, impressed. He flung one back at me; I slid left and it skimmed my sleeve. "Almost."
"Almost doesn't count," I said, breathless with the good kind of adrenaline.
Two more rounds. People started to fall in a rhythm: the show-offs first because they made themselves targets, the quiet ones next because they underestimated everyone. Ezra didn't throw often; when he did, it landed. He held two for a while and then let one fly with a twist of his wrist that took out a guy behind me I didn't know was there.
"Thanks," I said, automatically.
"Don't mention it," he said, even though we were on opposite sides.
Erica, hair in a ponytail that did not frizz like human hair does, zeroed in on me after she clocked Ezra watching. She waited. I waited. I thought she was going to try to nail me head-on. She surprised me and went for the bounce, fast, and low. I snagged it one-handed, more luck than skill, and the ball stung my palm.
A few people whooped. One teacher clapped once from the doorway and then pretended not to.
"Nice," Ezra called, and okay, that smile had weight.
Erica's stare felt like a paper cut. She bent to grab another ball without breaking eye contact. I pretended I didn't see it and whipped mine to the far corner, taking out a kid who'd been jumping to make himself harder to hit and had only made himself easier.
When Coach's whistle finally blew and called the last round, my lungs stung and my cheeks were hot and my ponytail had a mind of its own. We jogged to the line to high-five because sportsmanship is a thing Coach forces like vitamins.
"Good game," Ezra said, palm up.
"Sure," I said, slapping it and moving on because my brain refused to let my feet linger.
Erica's "good game" sounded like she'd swallowed a lemon. I made my face pleasant and my eyes boring. It worked on adults. I had no idea if it worked on terrifying pretty girls.
In the locker room, Chloe leaned around the end of the row, eyes bright. "You pegged Wesley. Twice."
"He deserved it. He grinned."
"He always grins," she said. "That's his face."
"Then he deserved it twice," I said, pulling on my sweatshirt.
"Also," she added, too casually, "Erica looked like she wanted to glue your shoes to the floor and call it an accident."
"I'm flattered she noticed me," I said dryly. "I should get a trophy."
"Get a helmet," she said. "She's the kind of girl who smiles at the principal and burns a house down with a scented candle."
"Noted," I said, even though I wasn't going to shape my day around a girl's glare. "What's after this?"
"Bio," she said. "You?"
"Spanish," I said, tragic. "Pray for me."
"I'll light an unscented candle," she promised.
The rest of the day unrolled like someone hit play on a very predictable playlist. Spanish pop quiz that tried to kill me in three tenses. History video that dated itself every time a map used serif font. Lunch number two that tasted like the first one with different branding. Through it all, every time I thought I'd filed Ezra under "nuisance who thinks he's charming," my brain tried to drag him out and pin new labels on him: pays attention more than he shows, says less than he thinks, annoyingly observant.
When the final bell rang, the building exhaled. I dug my book out of my locker and shut the door with a satisfied metallic thunk. Chloe appeared because of course she did.
"Walk you out?" she asked.
"Please," I said. "If I stand still too long, Ms. Varma will assign me to another group and I'll become a cautionary tale."
We met Ethan at the stairs. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and fell into step with us like we were magnets. "I survived Chem."
"Applause," I said.
"We lit things on fire," he said, eyes alight.
"Take it back," I said. "No applause."
In the parking lot, the sky had decided to be perfect in that way it only is when you don't have time to enjoy it. Chloe unlocked her car, tossed her bag in, and leaned against the door.
"Tonight?" she asked.
"Seven," I said. "Text your snack order now so I can veto it."
"I'm bringing gummy worms and you can't stop me."
"I can hide them," I said.
"You can try," she said.
Ethan groaned. "If you make me sit through another movie where people glower from rooftops, I'm filing a complaint."
"You can pick the movie," I said magnanimously.
He brightened. "Okay, but it's going to have subtitles."
Chloe pretended to die. "No reading."
"Go home," I said, laughing. "And don't hit any curbs with my spirit watching."
Chloe saluted, slid into her seat, and pulled out like a training video. Ethan jogged toward his bus stop because he refuses to accept rides on principle. I adjusted my bag and started toward home.
"Evelyn."
I stopped because names have a way of hooking you when you don't expect them to. Ezra stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, posture easy. Knox was a pace behind him, like always.
"You forgot your—" Ezra held up the handout from English. It definitely had my name at the top. I definitely thought I'd put it in my folder.
"Thanks," I said, reaching to take it. Our fingers didn't touch; he made sure of it. I clocked that without meaning to.
"You were good today," he said. "In gym."
"I'm always good," I said, because deflection is a hobby.
His mouth pulled. "I believe you."
"Knox!" someone yelled from the other end of the lot. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment without looking.
Ezra took half a step back. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow what," I asked.
"English," he said, amused, like I'd failed a very easy quiz. "We're finishing the analysis."
"Right," I said. "Try being on time. It'll blow your mind."
He almost laughed. Almost. Then he looked past me like he was scanning for something and nodded once, half to himself. "See you."
He and Knox moved together, cutting between cars with the kind of awareness that comes from a thousand repetitions of the same path.
I watched them go for exactly two seconds, then turned the other way because I had a life to live and a mother who would text me if I wasn't home when the soup timer went off in her head.
At dinner, Mom tried to make me guess the cake flavor. I refused on principle because that's how you lose. She put leftovers into containers I knew I would forget to label and asked me three normal questions and two loaded ones. I lied well enough on the loaded ones that she let me rinse my bowl in peace.
By seven, Chloe and Ethan were in my living room with enough snacks to power a small village. We argued about the movie for ten minutes, picked the worst possible compromise, and roasted it within an inch of its life. Somewhere near the end, Chloe dozed off with a gummy worm stuck to her sleeve. Ethan pretended not to sniffle at a montage. I pretended not to notice.
At ten, I walked them to the door. Chloe hugged me like a human blanket and said "Happy almost-birthday" into my shoulder. Ethan fist-bumped me and told me he'd chosen the next movie because I lost a bet I didn't remember agreeing to.
The house settled after they left. I brushed my teeth, answered a last text from Mom even though she was in the next room ("Yes, I locked the door"), and flopped into bed. My brain tried to replay dodgeball in slow motion and then, annoyingly, replay English in slow motion, which is a new low.
"Stop," I told it, and it listened just enough for me to fall asleep.
Tomorrow, I'd go to school, pretend group work wasn't an act of war, and survive being a person with a birthday no one besides my mother cared about.
Tomorrow, Ezra would probably be late again.
Tomorrow, I would definitely not think about any of that longer than necessary.
That was the plan.