Shuffle, Repeat(30)

“My parents don’t think so,” says Shaun. “But even if they did, I don’t know if I would go. Kirk isn’t out to his dad yet. It would be weird.”

“I’m sorry.” My relationships are complicated enough without the extra baggage that Shaun has to deal with. “Are you going to break up with him?”

“I don’t even know if I have to,” says Shaun. “It doesn’t feel like we’re dating anymore.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Hey, lovebirds!” A deep voice with a strong New York accent startles us into sitting upright. It’s an older man wearing gloves and work boots that mark him as a volunteer. “What do you think this is: Inspiration Point? Get the hell up and get to work!”

Shaun and I turn to look at each other, slow grins spreading over our faces. “I love you,” Shaun says loudly so the man will definitely hear.

“I love you, too,” I tell him. The man grumbles something under his breath and marches away. I stand and pull Shaun to his feet. “Just a few more buckthorns and then we can go home.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”





Itch finds me between Spanish III and calculus class. I lean up to kiss him, but he pulls away. “Where were you at lunch?” he asks. “Wait, let me guess. North Hall.”

“It’s warm there.”

“The cafeteria is warm. And it’s not riddled with cheerleaders.”

Annoying.

“They’re not cockroaches, Itch. They’re people. When did you get so judgy?” He scowls at me and I hold up a finger before he can say anything else. “Besides, I texted you. I told you Ainsley wanted to hang.” It wasn’t 100 percent true, but it also wasn’t a lie, since she did tell me I was always invited.

“Again,” says Itch.

“You’re invited, Itch! You’re always invited.”

“Lucky me.”

Annoying and rude.

“How do you think it feels to have to make excuses for you every single time?” I ask him. “Just once, couldn’t you make an effort to break out of your social circle and talk to someone new?”

“I like my social circle. You’re in my social circle and get this: I actually like you.”

“Really?” My voice scales up and a small pack of underclassmen turns to see what’s going on. “You don’t act that way.”

“I don’t act that way?” Itch shakes his head. “Priceless.”

My heart speeds up and blood rushes to my cheeks. We’ve had little spats before—like the one in Rite Aid—but this time, it feels different. This time, I feel different.

Like I want to fight.

“You know what I have to say to my friends, Itch? ‘Sorry. My boyfriend’s not a joiner.’ It’s such an obvious lie. They all know it’s code for ‘he just doesn’t like you.’?”

“They’re snotty,” says Itch. “They’re pretentious.”

“Calling them pretentious is pretentious!” I snap, and remember that it was Oliver who first said that to me. “They’re fun, Itch. They laugh and they have a good time.”

“Yeah, I know all about their ‘good times.’?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I’m furious now, revved up for a full-out battle. Itch folds his arms across his chest and glares. A split second before the bell rings, I realize the hall has cleared.

We’re late for class.

“Shit,” says Itch. He turns and stalks away. I watch him go all the way to the end of the hall and turn the corner.

He never looks back.

? ? ?

Lily has a three-hour violin practice, and Darbs had to take her youngest brother to Chuck E. Cheese’s, and Shaun isn’t answering my texts, so I have no one to call for a good Itch Bitch. Instead, I’m lying across my bed, listening to the Dead Kennedys and throwing paper clips into my metal wastebasket. I only make every third toss or so.

Suddenly, I pause. The tiny metal clicks aren’t the only staccato sounds in the room. I wait and hear it again: a soft scatter shot against the window. I hop up and look outside to see that Itch is standing there, far below. As I watch, he tosses another handful of pebbles. I wave so he’ll stop, and I point to the front of the house.

When I open the door, he’s already standing on the welcome mat. “Let me in,” he says. “It’s freezing out here.”

I step back so he can enter, and as I close the door, Mom calls from the kitchen. “Is someone here, June?”

“It’s Itch,” I call back. “He won’t stay long.”

“Hi, Itch!” calls my mom.

“Hi,” he calls to her.

Now that all the calling back and forth is over, I put my hands on my hips and look up at him. “Pebbles against the window? Really?”

“It’s a grand romantic gesture. I thought you would like it.”

I’m pissed off and I don’t want to give an inch. “You could have knocked at the door.”

“That is neither grand nor romantic,” he informs me, reaching for my hand. I pull away, so he sighs and takes a step backward, running his fingers through his hair. “June, I’m sorry.”