Project Paper Doll by Stacey Kade

about who Zane Bradshaw wanted to talk (loudly) to.
    Great. So much for staying invisible. Still, there was a simple solution.
    “No,” I said flatly, and turned away.
    My father always said never offer a choice if there’s only one right answer.

I’ VE NEVER SEEN ANYONE so resistant to the idea of a simple conversation. The girl who had gone toe-to-toe with Rachel looked as if she’d rather crawl across a bed of nails than talk to me. And that was before she darted away down a side hall.
    Damn it.
    I took off after her. “Ariane…wait.”
    She didn’t slow or stop, just kept moving at a pace that I could barely keep up with, which was saying something, considering how short she is. This close to her, I realized the top of her head—with all her strange hair pulled up and sort of contained—wouldn’t even reach my shoulder.
    Jesus. She was miniature. Okay, probably not, but it seemed like it when there was almost a foot-and-a-half difference in our heights.
    The realization sparked a surprising wave of disgust for whoever had caused all her broken fingers last year. I didn’t believe anyone was that clumsy naturally.
    It occurred to me, belatedly, that she might be afraid of me. After all, she didn’t really know me. Not any more than I knew her. And I was big and she was small—I knew how that dynamic could work.
    I slowed a step, giving her room to breathe. “Hey, I just need a minute,” I called to her.
    “Go away. Please,” she said, so quietly I barely heard her over the chaos of last-minute phone calls, lockers slamming, and some announcement over the loudspeaker that no one was paying any attention to. The warning bell was going to ring soon, and we were running out of hallway. If she was planning on taking the back stairs to make a getaway, I was out of luck. I wouldn’t have time to chase her down, explain what was going on, and get upstairs again in time for class.
    I swallowed a surge of frustration. I hadn’t had to work this hard to get a girl to talk to me since eighth grade, when I was still just “Quinn Bradshaw’s little brother.” “Look,” I said, “if you’ll hear me out, I think—”
    Ariane spun around to face me, and her heavy backpack, loose on one shoulder, swung with the motion. I was surprised the weight of it didn’t pull her over backward. “I realize someone saying no to you is probably a new experience,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp, “so let me help you with it. It’s the opposite of yes. It means I don’t want to talk to you for a minute, thirty seconds, or any other standard or nonstandard measure of time. Got it?”
    I gaped at her. She wasn’t afraid; she was angry. At me. And the injustice of that stung deeply, especially after the morning I’d had. She didn’t know me. She didn’t know what my life was like. “What is your problem?” I demanded. “I haven’t done anything to—”
    “No, you’re right.” She smiled without humor. “You didn’t do anything .”
    Her tone and the accusation in her gaze made it clear she was referring to the incident with Jenna.
    I sighed. “That was…not my idea. And it’s complicated.”
    “I’m sure it is, Zane,” she said blandly, leaving no doubt that she believed it was anything but. “Good luck with that.” She walked away.
    “It’s about yesterday,” I called after her, a last-ditch attempt. She had to know that Rachel wasn’t going to let that go, right? She had to be expecting some kind of retribution.
    She went perfectly still, and a freshman with his nose buried in an unreasonably thick binder nearly knocked into her.
    “What about yesterday?” she asked warily.
    I caught up to her in a couple of steps. “Come on.” I tipped my head toward a closed classroom door. It obviously wasn’t in use this hour; otherwise it would have been open. That meant it was probably locked as well. But standing in front of it would get us out of the flow of traffic.
    “Don’t.” Ariane