Free Cherry by Lindsey Rosin

staring at her phone.
    It was almost 12:15 a.m., and Zoe’s phone had been buzzing for the last few minutes as Layla sent a string of motivational quotes to The Chat. Layla loved quotes. And she seemed to love them even more when they were displayed on abstract pictures or on top of sunsets or on seascapes or color backgrounds. Zoe liked Layla’s quotes, but she was much more partial to song lyrics. Something about the music made the words feel more important, Zoe thought.
    She was almost always listening to music, and tonight she’d made it all the way through her Songs of the Moment playlist twice . Zoe was constantly updating her SOTMmix, but it always consisted of about two hours of pop songs, classic favorites, and show tunes. She could happily listen to her mix, almost endlessly, but at this point, she was just stalling and waiting for Dylan’s nightly Ready? text message. It was Dylan’s job to text first, but it was already much later than usual, so Zoe figured if there was gonna be a phonefall, she’d have to break tradition.
    Ready? she texted him.
    Ten minutes passed. No response.
    Just as she was about to give up and go to sleep, her phone rang.
    She picked up on the first ring. “Sorry,” Dylan said—instead of his usual ‘hey, hey’—before Zoe even had a chance to say hello. “I just got off the phone with Caroline, I swear . . .”
    â€œEverything okay?”
    â€œShe was being dramatic . . .” Dylan was clearly in a mood.
    â€œI’m glad you’re all right. I was starting to think you might be lying in a ditch somewhere.”
    â€œNo ditch, just my bed,” he said, softening ever so slightly.
    â€œOh, okay, so then you basically forgot about me. That’s cool too,” Zoe teased, still trying to pull Dylan out of his bad mood.
    â€œZ. Puh-lease. I could never forget about you,” Dylan replied, sounding a bit more like his goofy self again. “I’m sorry. It was just stupid Caroline bullshit that went on for way too long. It’s fine. Whatever. What’s up with you?”
    â€œSo much,”Zoe said excitedly, thrilled to finally have Dylan’s attention. “At rehearsal this afternoon, the lighting designer—Austin—do you know him?”
    â€œDo I?”
    â€œI don’t know. Austin Jones. He’s tall-ish. Cute. Black. He’s a theater kid.”
    â€œOh yeah, one of those losers . . .” Dylan chuckled.
    Zoe knew Dylan was just teasing, but she’d been waiting so patiently to tell him about the paint and the concert and the spotlight and the way everything with Austin was both exciting and scary, so Dylan’s jab seemed rather insensitive. “We’re going to see The Other Team on Saturday,” she replied.
    â€œWhich team?”
    â€œThe Other Team. It’s a band, not an actual team. Some of the other tech people are coming to the concert too, so it’s like a group thing, but still . . .”
    Zoe waited, hoping for even just a medium amount of excitement from Dylan, but all she got was a little bit of a grunt. It might even have just been a cough.
    â€œWell. It was cute.”
    â€œI’m sure.”
    â€œAnd then he asked me to stand in his spotlight,” Zoe added, as if that might mean something to Dylan.
    It didn’t.
    And Zoe couldn’t figure out how to explain it to him.

155 days until graduation . . .
    EMMA still had no idea what was bothering her.
    The girls were seated at their usual froyo table, phones stacked in the middle as always, listening to Zoe recount all the adorable details of her first date with Austin. Like the way she’d done her hair—half up and half down—and how he’d nervously rung her doorbell and then had been forced to talk to Zoe’s dad, who wasn’t really intimidating, but his broad shoulders and full beard seemed to make