Free Made You Up by Francesca Zappia

people getting expelled for violent stuff, like fighting or bringing a weapon to school.”
    â€œWhat about Jetta?”
    Theo stared at her physics textbook and sighed. “I think Jetta’s here because of Boss.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œJetta came here last year, and she didn’t speak English very well. Boss was the only one who bothered to talk to her.”
    â€œWhat about Miles?” I asked quickly, before Theo could turn to her homework. “What’d he do to get here?”
    â€œHmm?” Theo looked up. “Oh, Boss? I’m not sure. Me and Evan and Ian were the first people to join the club, but Boss has always been here. He used to do all this stuff by himself.”
    She suddenly stopped talking. Miles was at the big concession stand window. He dropped a worn black notebook on the counter and leaned in.
    â€œHow’s the game?” Theo asked.
    â€œImagine a thousand starving orphans on a sinking ship in the middle of a shark-infested sea, and you’re getting close to how much I don’t want to be there,” Miles said dryly. “I get to hear Clifford talk about how nice Ria’s ass is every fifteen seconds. They’ve been dating since seventh grade; you’d think he’d be over it by now.”
    â€œMm-hmm.”
    â€œI’m bored,” said Miles.
    â€œWhat’s new?” asked Theo.
    â€œLet’s play Five Questions.”
    Theo snapped her book shut. “Why, may I ask? It’s not going to make you any less bored. And we might as well start calling it Three Questions, because it doesn’t take you five anymore.”
    â€œWhat’s Five Questions?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s like Twenty Questions, only not twenty because Boss can do it in five,” said Theo. “I’ve got someone. Go.”
    â€œAre you a president?” asked Miles.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo your first and last names start with the same letter?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’re Ronald Reagan.”
    â€œSee?” Theo threw her hands in the air. “Two! Two questions!”
    I didn’t mind not having many responsibilities with the club, as long as Miles kept reporting that I was doing what I was supposed to. It gave me more time to write out long-winded college essays about how my illness shaped me. My nightly mountains of homework made the Tower of Babel look like a toothpick, and it was only worsened by my late shifts at Finnegan’s. Finnegan’s wasn’t too bad on its own, but as soon as Miles waltzed in, I had the sudden urge to both hide and put soap in his food.
    Every time I walked past Miles, I got the distinct feeling that he’d stick his leg out and trip me. He didn’t, of course, because that wouldn’t be subtle at all, and not Miles Richter’s style. Nail files, hedge trimmers, and homemade flamethrowers were more his speed.
    I gave him his burger and retreated behind the counter, where I asked the Magic 8 Ball, Will Miles Richter try to kill me?
    Most likely , it replied.
    By late September, we had regular labs every week. I glanced at him a few times as he made tables in his lab notebook. He was bent over, his glasses slipping down his nose, his left hand curled around so he could write properly. His sleeves were rolled up, and I noticed for the first time that his forearms were freckled, too. Were they warm? Theyseemed like they’d be warm. Blue Eyes’s hand had been warm. There were four inches between my hand and his arm—four inches and I’d know for sure.
    Don’t do it, idiot. Don’t you dare do it.
    I stifled the urge and asked a question instead.
    â€œSo. Can you really speak another language?”
    I hadn’t heard that weird accent from him since the first day, but I knew he and Jetta had been speaking German.
    â€œWhere’d you hear that?” Miles didn’t look up.
    â€œIs it true?”
    â€œMaybe. Depends