Free Exit Stage Left by Gail Nall

have when itcomes to sort-of-relationship—or ex-sort-of-relationship—advice. I take off toward the parking lot, Harrison on my heels. I just have to know if they get in the car together.
    “Slow down,” he complains. “We didn’t have cross-country on that list.”
    I pull up sharply behind someone’s hand-me-down SUV and watch as Amanda and Trevor get into her new Jetta, laughing about something. They drive off just as Harrison chugs up behind me, completely out of breath.
    “Seriously, Case. No running. Please. I’m losing a lung here.” He leans forward, hands on his knees.
    “You’re the one in a hurry to get to the elementary school,” I snap at him. I instantly feel like a jerk. “Sorry. I’m just in a mood now.”
    “Well, that’s nice. Can we go now, or are you still stalking Trevor?”
    “I am not stalking him.”
    “Could’ve fooled me.”
    I refocus my anger into planning our Art Takeover tomorrow. What’s important right now is me getting my life back on track, not Trevor. But it’s a little hard to refocus when your best friend for all eternity is giving secret rides home to the one guy in school you have a long and complicated history with.
    It’s got to be completely innocent. He probably just asked her for a ride, and, nice as she is, she couldn’t tell him no. That’s all.
    I’m sure it is.
    I need something that says Artist. Something to make the Bohemian Brigade take me seriously. I’ve pulled out everything in my closet. I go back through the pile on my bed and pick a long, flower-printed skirt I’d bought when I method-acted an old woman last year, an oversized white button-down top, and black ballet flats. The only thing I’m missing is a beret. Instead, I pull my brown hair into a loose braid. For a second, I consider splattering some paint onto my shirt. But that’s probably trying too hard.
    Mom doesn’t give me a second glance. She’s used to me by now. And Eric wouldn’t notice if I showed up to breakfast in a sequined formal. And Dad—well, he’s not here.
    The morning drags on as I try not to think of what might have happened between Amanda and Trevor yesterday. I wait for her to mention it to me— Oh, by the way, I drove Trevor home yesterday, and then I stuck around to run lines, and we kinda hooked up. Hope you don’t mind! But she doesn’t say anything about him. By lunch, I’ve imagined pretty much every possibility.
    I watch Amanda, looking for any signs that she feels the need to tell me something. But all she does is chew on a carrot and talk to Kelly about the play.
    “I’ve decided to sit with you drama nerds today instead of the band guys,” Chris announces as he drops his lunch bag and open drink next to Amanda. Diet Coke splashes onto the scuffed orange table. Amanda wipes it up with her napkin. It is biologically impossible for her to ignore a mess.
    “The band guys are way geekier than we could ever be,” Amandasays as she deposits the napkin on her tray.
    “Yeah, I mean, look at them.” Kelly points across the cafeteria with her fork at the band table, where a couple of guys are hard at work building a Leaning Tower of Food while another empties the spit valve on his tuba. “Gross.”
    “Speaking of gross . . . what is that?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the thing Chris has unwrapped from foil.
    “Half a pizza.” He rolls what is approximately six slices of pizza into something resembling a burrito. Then proceeds to eat about a third of it in one bite. “Dude, Casey, what’s up with the hippie clothes?” Chris asks through a mouthful of food.
    I shrug. “Just felt like it.”
    “But I thought you were Hippie Chick the first week of school,” Amanda says.
    “I was. I felt like wearing this outfit. Is that okay with everyone?” I jab my spoon into my soup bowl. Droplets of chicken broth shoot across the table.
    “Oookay . . . just asking, that’s all,” Chris says.
    I just wish Amanda would say something already. The