Shuffle, Repeat(24)

“There are no such things,” I tell him automatically.

Luckily for me (and the behemoth’s paint job), Ainsley isn’t pukey at all. In fact, she’s rather the opposite. “I never knew you were so cool!” she coos into my ear, her arms flung around my torso. “I love you! Oliver, I love her!”

“Awesome.” Oliver meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. He grins at me and shakes his head. I grin back before giving Ainsley a return hug.

“I love you, too,” I assure her.

“We are going to be such good friends.”

I pat her arm. “Totally.”

A part of me even means it.





The behemoth takes off. I know it’s pointless to try to catch it, but I try anyway, racing all the way down the driveway and into the street, waving my arms and screaming.

It’s the only way I’m going to find out the truth.

I chase it for a couple houses’ worth of road before slowing to a stop, my breath coming in short gasps. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears covering my face….

And miraculously, ahead of me, the behemoth also stops. I drop my hands to my knees, trying to catch my breath as the big car makes a slow U-turn and comes back for me.

It’s coming back with answers. Answers that I already know will break my heart.





When the alarm on my phone chirps, I open my eyes to find Mom looming over my bed. I squeal, which startles her enough that she also squeals, and then it takes me a minute to sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes before I can figure out what’s going on. Mom—already dressed to teach—is holding a plate of pancakes. They’re adorned with fresh strawberries in the shape of the number seventeen, and there’s a lit candle in the center.

“Thanks.” I blow out the candle. “What are the chances you made coffee, too?”

“Pretty good,” says Mom, and she hugs me.

? ? ?

“Wait, what?” says Oliver as he pulls out of my driveway. “How are you not eighteen?”

“You know I have to explain this to someone at least once a year, right?”

“Enlighten me.”

“When Dad left for New York and Mom had to go back to work, everyone suddenly noticed that preschool costs money but kindergarten is free. I took some IQ tests and must have done okay, because they went ahead and started me early.”

“So you were only four when we got married on the playground?”

I cringe. “You remember that?”

“God, I’m a pedophile!” he says dramatically, clapping a palm to his forehead. He’s trying to be funny, but I’m embarrassed. As far as I’m concerned, our kindergarten marriage has always been this mildly shameful thing, a very tiny elephant in the room. I think it’s because—technically speaking—it was my very first kiss, and I didn’t have another one until eighth grade, when Will Michaels and I made out in the sports shed on a dare. It was sweet but sloppy and—although I have a nostalgic fondness for Will to this day—kissing wasn’t something I felt like trying again for another year.

Whereas, if rumors are to be believed, Oliver was macking in fifth.

“Gross,” I tell him, and then notice he is frowning. “Now what?”

“If your birthday is in November, why is your name June?”

“It’s the month my parents met.”

“Awwwww,” he says.

“Stop it.”

“Why? It’s sweet.”

“Seriously, shut up.”

“I like it. Your name is cute and sweet and even meaningful.”

“Blah blah blah!” I say loudly, covering my ears with my hands. “I can’t hear you!”

Hey, I’m young for my grade and I’m smart. No one ever said I was mature.

Oliver pulls the wheel—

“What are you doing?” I squawk.

—and we bump off the road, startling a deer as we come to rest along the edge of a field. The deer takes off fast toward the woods, tail up and flashing white in alarm. Oliver puts the car into park and reaches toward me. I squeal (second squeal of the day) and yank backward, but of course his arms are longer, and he catches me by the wrists. Very gently, he pulls my hands away from my head and stares at me. It’s the closest we have ever been, and something about it makes me stop wiggling and go silent. Oliver smiles that bright white smile right into my eyes. “Happy birthday, June.”

And then he lets go of me and pulls back onto the road.

? ? ?

At first—as I’m walking down the hallway—I assume it must be someone else’s locker. The one next to mine. After all, it’s a big school; it’s not impossible that someone would share a birthday with me. Lily and Darbs have never been into balloons and streamers, so clearly this isn’t their work….

Is that lipstick?

Someone slicked Happy Birthday, June!!! over my locker in scarlet lettering. Whoever did it also taped streamers all around and set helium balloons dancing against the ceiling. I open the metal door to discover they must have blown glitter dust in through the slanted vent, because my textbooks are covered in fine sparkles.

Because that’s going to be fun to clean.

I stand looking at the craziness and trying to figure out how I feel about it. It’s a tradition that other people participate in, but that my friends and I have always eschewed as ostentatious. However, now that I’m looking at it…