I’m jittery from my lack of sleep and the three Cokes I’ve had since lunch. This morning, I found AJ’s guitar pick in the pocket of my jeans, and I’ve been fiddling with it ever since, like it’s my thinking putty. I’ve already decided I’m going to tape it up on the inside of my locker door. “You’re freaking out about a girl he hasn’t spoken to in months,” Caroline says. We’ve been trying to write a new poem, but I’m having a hard time concentrating. I keep picturing the way AJ folded his arms around me, his chest pressed against my back, his warm breath on my neck. I can’t stop reliving that fantasy when I crossed the room and kissed him. I’m trying to think about the good parts of being alone with AJ in his room yesterday—because there were many of them—but no matter what I do, that photograph pops into my mind every time. “They were together for almost a year. It was serious, Caroline.”
