If emotional whiplash were a sport, I’d have a trophy by now.
By the time I got to school, my head was buzzing with too many thoughts, and Maya’s voice was doing its best to cut through them all like a particularly fashionable chainsaw.
“Okay, but if he shows up,” she said, flipping her hair as we slid into homeroom, “you’re not allowed to make that face again.”
I blinked. “What face?”
She narrowed her eyes. “The one that looks like you’re watching the end of a tragic romance drama where everyone dies but also you’re kind of turned on.”
I gave her a flat look. “I literally don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You literally do,” she countered. “I know your faces. I’ve studied them like a CIA operative. You’ve got ten expressions and all of them are currently trying to process the f
