I can't find it anywhere, and it's driving me insane.

The thing I wear most has disappeared. During the last week of summer break, I flung all the clothes out of my dresser in a frenzied attempt to find it. Ergo? I now have a room from hell.

In the midst of my search, I catch sight of my reflection in my vanity mirror. A dull ache blooms in my chest as the girl in the mirror stares back at me. For a short-lived second last fall, I thought makeup would be able to erase the dark circles under my eyes. That it would bring back the natural flush to my cheeks.

I'd tried—and failed miserably, might I add—to use said makeup. I ended up looking like I had a bad case of chicken pox. Sighing, I brush the thought aside. There are far more pressing issues right now than how I look. Like the fact that my hoodie is currently very . . . missing.

"Mom!" I yell.

Her response comes back muffled.

"Where's my hoodie?"

I'm met by a hollow silence.

"Hello-o?" I repeat.

There's another empty pause, which my mom fills with a weary sigh. A few seconds later she must figure I'm not going to let the topic go, so she mumbles a defeated, "Check the bottom drawer."

I do, and yep, there it is, nestled among things I never wear. I should've realized my mom hid the hoodie on purpose. She's always trying to find new ways to get me to open up. To people, to new experiences. Whatever that means. All I know is I'd rather stub my baby toe repeatedly than go to school without my hoodie.

"Found it," I call, grabbing my history notes. As I run downstairs in my sneakers, unfiled paper threatens to spill from the pile nestled in my hands. "I'm leaving now."

"Wren," my mother reprimands from the kitchen. "Don't forget breakfast."

I grab an apple from the counter. "Got it."

My mom's a morning person. One cup of decaf and she's good to go. Me? It takes an ungodly amount of strength to pry my eyes open before noon. The state of my hair alone would make Einstein's cut look red-carpet worthy.

A car horn pierces the air. Of course, my charming friend, Mia, has rolled up on my front lawn, crushing our flowers in the process. Poor carnations. They were just starting to bloom. Before she can slam down on her horn again, and we get a neighbor complaint about noise pollution, I call out, "I'm coming!"

As I close the door behind me and make my way to her Mustang, a warm gust of late summer air brushes my bare legs. Mia Rahman flashes me a bright smile, her incandescent eyes trailing down my frame. "Get in, loser."

Thanks to her Persian mom, Mia's perfected the kohl-lined eye. And thanks to her own acquired taste in fashion, she's never lacking in the clothing department. Today she's wearing a yellow sundress, the hem fluttering over the brown skin of her thighs. If I could paint her, I would.

Chucking my bag into the back of the car, I utter a soft RIP message to the crushed flowers. I slide into the front seat and reach for the seat belt as my friend's bottomless gaze meets my own. "It's almost like you're trying to look like a hippie, Martin."

She isn't wrong. There's this weird paint stain on my jean shorts, but it's not like someone's going to arrest me for being a fashion reject. My hoodie is oversized, but it covers me in a way that makes me feel comfortable. Safe. And most importantly? Invisible.

I love it.

"You planning to change your nun-agenda?" Mia asks. "It's senior year."

She's been trying to drag me out of my shell, and she's tried everything. School clubs, parties, double dates. You name it, Mia's tried it. I mean, sure, I've found guys attractive. On more than one occasion. But they were always either fictional or out of my league.

I shift a wary glance her way. "There's something called priority, you know. Right now, oxygen is at the top of my list—not boys. And after oxygen, it's school. Seriously, M. I need a scholarship if I'm going to college."

"All right, all right. I know the drill." Mia sighs, absently drumming her fingers on the steering wheel in time to a Rihanna song. She glances up as we close in on the school towering over us. "Speak of the devil . . ."

We pull into the parking lot of Eastview High—Massachusetts's dream school. It's a private school, and the building is a fascinating mixture of modern and traditional architecture. I wouldn't be able to attend if it wasn't for the scholarship I've been awarded every year since I was a freshman. As we step out of the car and walk toward the entrance, sunlight washes over us, warming our skin.

"I can't believe you're wearing that freaking hoodie," she laments. "These are the last few days of sunshine we have."

I shrug. My wardrobe has only seen oversized tees, boyfriend jeans, and the occasional jean shorts. Cambridge is notorious for its cold fronts, so you have to treasure the warm days like honey from a pot. Except I don't mind the cold. In fact, I prefer it. And besides, the A/C in chemistry blows. Literally.

I'm halfway through relaying this to Mia when we reach a fork in our path. She passes me a resigned look. "We still don't share any classes, huh?"

I stare down at my schedule then back at her. "Unless you decided to drop theater for physics, then nope."

At the mention of physics, Mia's jovial expression turns sour. "Never mention the P word in front of the children again."

I raise a brow as a smile tugs at my lips.

"It's me," she clarifies. "I'm children."

The bell rings then, and as much as I want to prolong her torture, I actually need to make it to class. Mia bids me farewell by throwing a kiss in my direction with her hand. Grinning, I play along, catching the imaginary kiss midair only to chuck it into a nearby trash can. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head with a smile as she disappears in the crowd.

Mia and I—we're polar opposites. Puzzle pieces that don't match yet are somehow glued together. She's the aspiring actress with over a hundred thousand subscribers on her YouTube channel, and I'm the avid watcher of mini-food videos.

The first time we talked was in Spanish class freshman year. We sat next to each other in Spanish and biology, where she ended up copying my work. Not that I minded. One day, a few girls asked Mia to go to a party, ignoring me. I was about to leave, convinced she was going to abandon me, when she outright refused their offer, saying she had plans that day. I still can't believe she did it.

Maybe that was the start of our friendship. Mia could've said yes to those girls that day. She could've stayed far away from the girl who wore a red hoodie a little too often and liked books more than people. She could've. But she didn't.

Faye Archer brushes past me, startling me back to reality. A confident gleam lights up her gaze, and people know better than to get in her way. Faye is a faultless product of the universe. I've never seen her frazzled, or down, or anything but composed. She manages to perfectly balance being on the volleyball team with academics and her social life. She also happens to be my number one competitor for valedictorian.

As she disappears, a sea of painfully slow freshmen close in, and the hallway is bustling yet again. I need to get to math because being late on the first day? It's all sorts of trouble I have no intention of inviting.

I slow my steps as I enter the classroom. Playing with the sleeves of my hoodie, I slide into a seat against the wall. The calculus lesson starts in full swing, and fifteen minutes in, I'm still taking notes when someone snickers behind me. Quicker than a bullet, Mr. Brakeman zones in on his culprit. Zachary Chandler.

Born in France, Zach moved to Cambridge in third grade when his dad, a famous basketball player, got traded. With sport in his genes, it's no surprise he's one of the best players on the school's hockey team. And with dark skin, a sharp jawline, and black hair cropped close, he's the subject of many fawning girls at Eastview. Including Mia.

Apparently, his brown eyes are so light they're gold. Personally, I've never gotten close enough to tell. And thanks to Mia hanging out with me all the time, and not the popular crowd where she'd fit right in, he doesn't even know she exists.

"What exactly is it that you find so amusing, Zachary?" Brakeman asks.

"Nothing, sir," Zach mutters.

"Thought so." Brakeman's gaze is stone cold. "Wouldn't be too happy myself if I had the same report cards as you."

There's an audible intake of breath as almost everyone in the room cringes. That was a low blow, and all-round distasteful. Rumor is Mr. Brakeman went through a nasty divorce with his wife so he's now more of a tyrant than usual.

I could've swapped to Miss B—who's miles nicer—but despite his flaws, Brakeman's a pretty decent math teacher. So, if I want to do well on the midterm, I need to stay in this class. Luckily, he doesn't find much to pick on for the rest of the lesson, diving into a lengthy explanation of derivatives instead. Behind me, Zach mutters something once more before picking his pencil back up.

~

At the end of a long day, the bell rings—a loud, mind-numbing sound students hate and love at the same time. The scent of new books disperses through the air when I drop my bag off at the front of the library before making my way to the fiction section.

A sad confession: I judge books by their endings. It's a habit I can't let go of. I read the book's ending first, and if I like the way it sounds, I'll read the book. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a psychotic fan of happy endings—I believe in a normal kind of forever, not sickeningly happy endings or morosely sad ones.

After combing the shelves, I have so many books they fill my arms and obscure my view. When I stumble to the librarian at the front desk, a frown appears on his face. With a small, bashful smile, I drop the books onto the scanning desk.

"You've taken out over the borrowing limit." The librarian offers me a pointed look. When my smile falters, he sighs. "But I guess I can let it pass."

I'm not sure how to process this random act of kindness, so I just nod, my smile returning. "Thanks."

When the librarian finally finishes scanning, he places my books in a pile in front of me. I try my best to scoop it up, and after a few tries, I finally succeed. My locker isn't too far away, which is a rare instance of good luck.

As I stagger to the exit, an assistant walks out of her office behind the desk. "A. R. isn't a name, young man!" She huffs. "Get back in here and sign this sheet properly, or you can tell Coach to find another place to keep his tapes." She walks back to her desk with a pained sigh, mumbling, "I don't get paid enough for this."

Well, someone's having a rough day.

Behind me, a low "Yes, ma'am," follows the assistant's outburst. I'm curious, but I can't afford to turn, so I push forward. A few grueling steps later, I finally make it out of the library. I'm two seconds away from my locker when I crash into someone, the force sending me reeling backward.

A small, strangled sound grates the back of my throat as my grip on all the books loosens. They fly from my hands and topple to the ground. Praying they aren't damaged, my gaze coasts up, and I can't help it when my eyes widen.

Because standing in front of me is Asher Reed—star athlete and heartthrob of Eastview. Reed's tall, annoyingly so, but maybe it's because I'm all of five feet two. He's wearing a navy-blue varsity jacket, and right now, his eyes are bright as he stares down at me. Sports are big in Massachusetts—after all, we are home to the Bruins, Celtics, and the Patriots. And Asher? As captain of the hockey team, he's . . . well . . . a teenage god.

I'm not particularly fond of Reed. Why, you ask? In sixth grade, Drew McKay emptied his lunch tray over me because I wouldn't write his essay for him. Reed laughed along with all his friends while peas rolled off my head. That year, Drew was suspended for breaking into the school and trying to change his grades. He switched schools after the incident, and Asher took his place as most popular. In summary: Asher Reed is everything wrong with high school, in one frustratingly good-looking body.

As I bend to pick up the collection of books spread across the floor, my knees brush the ground. Reed bends, too, except with ease. When I look up, his eyes connect with mine. They're deep blue, and I wonder what colors of paint I'd have to mix to get that exact shade. We both reach for the same book, and when his hand grazes mine the tiniest fraction, I snap out of it.

His presence is enough to set me on high alert, and I find myself reeling away. When he stands, my hefty pile of books sits perfectly in his grasp. He places them by my locker and steps aside. I only managed to pick up one, and it sits in my hands, almost embarrassed of itself.

"Sorry," I mumble. Folding my arms across my chest, I hold my hoodie as close to me as possible. If I don't, I'm scared my heart will fly straight out of my rib cage.

Reed cocks his head, the corners of his lips lifting. "I didn't quite get that."

I lift my gaze to him in disbelief. We both know he heard just right the first time. Nevertheless, I mutter a quick "I'm sorry." Then, before I can decide against it, "But it's high school. A big, scary place where you're occasionally going to bump into people in the hallways." Then, because my stupid mouth can't stay shut, I add, "Deal with it."

After the last word leaves my lips, I feel an instant and overwhelming need to kick myself. Why couldn't I have just apologized like a normal person? I expect him to drop the conversation. Or dish out some cocky remark. Instead, the curiosity in his gaze only deepens. Folding his arms across his chest, he leans against the locker next to mine.

"Fair enough," he says, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice as he regards me, cocking his head. "Little Red."

My heart jumps under my skin, sending my pulse skyrocketing. Opening my locker, I hurry to shove the books in. My eyes go wide as the books topple out at my face, and I shut my locker with a bang that makes me wince.

Spinning on my heel, I make it one step when I'm tugged back by my hoodie. Is he really . . . ? "Uh, can you let go?"

The air's filled with the sound of his soft laughter. My face drains of any color when it dawns on me. Oh no. Please no. No, no, no. I turn . . . and yep, of course my hoodie is stuck in my locker. Of course it is. I avoid eye contact with him, and it takes a few solid yanks on the material before it finally, finally, comes loose.

Never more eager to get home, I nod once in Reed's general direction then spin on my heel and walk down the hallway.

Male voices resound behind me, and I'm sure his friends have caught up with him. He's never alone for too long. His mere presence commands attention, and people tend to gravitate to him. For a second, I allow myself to wonder what it must feel like to be that revered. That loved and admired.

And as I swerve around the corner, my mind collapses on itself. I place a hand on my forehead, where I could swear a fever's working up. He's the school's golden boy, and I just dropped my books all over him, then chastised him. And then if that wasn't enough, I assumed he wanted to talk to me so bad that he held on to my hoodie.

What the heck was I thinking?