![]() ![]() ![]() We push through green metal doors to the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Bayview High and its bright, airy new wing. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give Simon as little information as possible. The cute Mathlete-less of an oxymoron than you might think-seems to only ever show up when I can’t. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan’s here. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3 p.m., Epoch Coffee. ![]() “Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?” If people didn’t lie and cheat, I’d be out of business.” Simon’s cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing a conscience. “You tutor Reggie Crawley, don’t you? Wouldn’t you rather know he has a camera in his bedroom?” “It’s a public service,” he says with a dismissive wave. ![]() Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading for the exit. “Whose lives are you ruining next, Simon?” I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator. “Wait till you see tomorrow’s post.”ĭamn. “Old news, Bronwyn,” says a voice over my shoulder. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher’s gossip app, you’d wonder how anyone found time to go to class. ![]()
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