Chapter 3

I knew Ethan Hayes. Or I thought I did. I knew he always tapped his pen three times before answering a question in class. I knew he ran a hand through his hair when he was frustrated. I knew the exact way his left eyebrow quirked when he was about to smile genuinely – a rare sight, I now realized. I' d spent years observing him, cataloging these tiny details, building a person who didn't exist.

A week after the jacket incident, he approached me by my locker. My stomach twisted. I braced myself for more humiliation.

"Sarah," he said. My name. Not "diner girl" or some other dismissive term. For a wild, stupid second, a tiny spark of hope flickered. Maybe he was going to apologize. For his silence. For just... everything.

"Hey," I managed, my voice flat.

"Look," he began, shifting his weight. "About the other day... with Brittany. I wanted to apologize. For her. She can be a lot, but she doesn' t mean any harm, really. She' s just... protective."

My brief, idiotic hope died. Apologize for Brittany? Not for his own silent judgment, not for the disdain I' d heard clear as day in his head at the pep rally?

The memory of his thoughts – clumsy, wonder if she even showers properly – mixed with Brittany' s sneer about our "greasy spoon." And he thought Brittany "doesn't mean any harm"?

A cold anger, unfamiliar and sharp, rose in me.

"Protective?" I asked, my voice low. "Or just a bully? And you just stand there and let her?"

He looked surprised, then a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. "Hey, I' m trying to be nice here."

Nice? This is him being nice? The thought, my own this time, was bitter.

"No, Ethan," I said, my voice gaining strength. "You' re trying to smooth things over so you don' t look bad. You didn' t say a word when she insulted me, my family, our diner. The diner that my parents pour their lives into, working harder than you or Brittany will ever have to."

His jaw tightened. "That' s not fair."

"Isn't it?" I shot back. "You think our food is 'greasy filth.' You think I'm 'clumsy' and probably don't shower. I heard you, Ethan. At the pep rally. When I fainted."

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. A flicker of something – shock? Guilt? – crossed his face before it smoothed over again.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"It doesn't matter anymore," I said, stepping back, needing space. "Your apology, or whatever this is, I don't want it. We' re done."

I turned and walked away, leaving him standing by my locker. My heart was pounding, a mix of pain and a strange, new sense of release.

That night, sleep wouldn't come. I got up, pulled out my SAT prep books, and started studying. Page after page, problem after problem. If I couldn't control how people saw me, I could control this. My future.