Shuffle, Repeat(44)

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. Someone came in and—”

“That was me. He did that for me. The office doesn’t need you.”

I gape at Oliver. “You really are the King of Everything.”

But Oliver doesn’t seem amused. In fact, he looks pissed. “I just did something that may surprise you,” he tells me. “Three guesses. Go.”

This is the weirdest thing ever, Oliver busting me out of class to angry-quiz me in the hall. Since I don’t have the faintest clue what he might have done, I toss out something facetious. “Got an A on a new recipe in family sciences class?”

“Wrong,” says Oliver. “And whatever your next two guesses are, they will also be wrong, so I’ll go ahead and tell you. I punched Itch in the mouth.”

“What?” My backpack hits the floor. “Why?”

“It’s kind of a funny story.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Now I’m pissed, too. What kind of Neanderthal goes around hitting people?

“I was heading to my locker to get my physics book, minding my own business, when guess what I saw in the stairwell?”

“I think we already established that you’re not interested in my guesses,” I tell him, setting my fists on my hips.

“Good point,” says Oliver. “I saw Adam ‘Itch’ Markovich rounding first base with Zoe Smith.”

It takes me a second to put the pieces together. My ex-boyfriend making out in our ex-make-out place with his new girlfriend. Utterly rude. But why did Oliver…

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Of their own accord, my hands have flown to my face to cover my mouth. “Oliver, I—”

“I was furious,” Oliver continues. “Furious on behalf of my very good friend June Rafferty, one of my best friends, the one with whom I made a solemn fist-bump promise to always speak the truth, the one whom I don’t want to see get hurt. That is why I followed Itch to study hall, and why I punched him in the mouth. Because he was cheating on my very good, very honest friend.”

“Oliver…” I try again, except I don’t know how to follow up after I’ve said his name. Words have completely escaped me.

“Itch was a little confused about why I was hitting him,” says Oliver. “He didn’t try to punch me back or even defend himself.”

“What happened?” I whisper from behind my fingers.

“He said, ‘Dude, what the hell?’ and then he wiped the blood from his mouth and looked at it like he was shocked. And I realized that he was, in fact, shocked. So I explained to him why I had felt the need to defend your honor.”

“I’m so sorry.” There’s nothing else to say.

“And then I find out there is no honor to defend, that you and Itch are broken up, that you broke up weeks ago and never happened to mention it to me even though we spend every morning together. Even though only yesterday—yesterday—I asked what you and Itch were doing for Valentine’s Day, and instead of telling me the truth, you pretended you were still a couple.”

“Oliver.” I take a step toward him, but he pulls back.

“Don’t,” he says. “You can’t make this better with big words or flowery speeches. Maybe you think I’m this big, stupid jock who always runs around punching people—”

“I don’t think that, I swear!”

“—but just for the record, I’ve never hit someone unless it was during a football play. Now, because of you, I’m a guy who punches people.” He glares at me and I’m scared by what I’ve done to him, by his anger. “Thanks for that, June. Thanks a lot.”

Oliver whirls and stalks away down the hall. I watch him go, the fear blossoming, expanding inside me. It’s not that I’m afraid he’ll hurt me. I’m terrified that I have hurt him in some way that can never be healed.

? ? ?

I don’t go back to physics. Instead, I wait by study hall until the bell rings and students pour out of the classroom. When Itch sees me, he turns and walks in the opposite direction, so I have to run to catch up with him.

“Itch, please.” I’m practically jogging beside him. “I’m sorry Oliver hit you.”

He jerks to a halt and narrows his eyes at me. “Oliver is already sorry that Oliver hit me. Oliver told me so about a hundred times, and then Oliver insisted on buying me several cold sodas to hold against the place where Oliver’s fist connected with my mouth.” I zero in on Itch’s lower lip. It’s swollen but not too bad. I feel a tiny bit better. After all, I’ve seen Oliver throw a football. He has a hell of an arm. There’s no way he put full effort into that swing.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Itch demanded. “Why pretend we were still dating? You’re the one who broke up with me, so what the hell is your problem?”

The only thing I can say is 100 percent true: “I don’t know.”

For a while, Itch stares down at me without speaking. He finally says, “Actually, I don’t really care what your problem is. Your problem is not my problem. Not anymore.”

And for the second time in one day, I’m left standing in a hallway while a boy walks away from me.