The Reece Malcolm List by Amy Spalding

jam-packed with promo stuff for her books, some old review clippings—I guess before the Internet this is what people used—and copies of postcard-sized author photos she obviously never used. (I stare at them for a while, because she’s even younger in them, and there’s a lot of me looking back from the drawer.)
    Nothing at all leads me to understand her, though.
    Her laptop is just lying there, so I open it and pull up her email. Only one new in her inbox, from Brad. Considering it seems to be a response to more arguing about the TV issue, it isn’t too exciting. (It isn’t exciting at all, really, except that he calls her a biased snob ,which makes me giggle aloud.)
    But buried in the chain of emails back and forth is a sentence I don’t know how to feel about. Does it make last night better or even worse? Brad wrote, You need to stop apologizing regarding Devan. I keep staring at it, but I can’t make myself scroll down farther in the email chain to see the apology in the first place. I click the right buttons so the email will still show up as new before dashing out of the office.
    It isn’t fair that you can never go back to not seeing something.

    By Thursday morning, Travis is waiting by my locker like it’s routine. “New Girl, what are you doing this weekend? There’s some production of Into the Woods that should either be fun or fun to laugh at. You in?”
    “Um, yeah, I should ask my mother, but, maybe?”
    “Good.” He links his arm through mine. “I’ll walk you to your class.”
    I fall right into step with him. We pass Sai, who’s hanging out with Nicole near her locker. They’re talking and laughing, but he still waves to us.
    “Ugh, it’s so predictable,” Travis says.
    “Yeah, I think it’s dumb to believe guys like that would look at anyone else.” I don’t go on to say that believing the contrary is a pretty immature line of thought. Just because you know people in your actual life doesn’t mean you’re any better than a kid dreaming a celebrity could be his or hers someday.
    “Ooh, a pessimist,” Travis says. “Interesting. I would have called you as more glass-half-full, with your whole flouncy skirt thing you’ve got going on.”
    “I’m not a pessimist.” I pause at my Women’s Choir classroom. “Just a realist. Also, I just really like fashion.”
    “Well, duh.” He takes off in the opposite direction. “See you later, Devvie.”
    I walk in and take my spot. Mira isn’t far behind me, but we don’t really talk unless Travis or someone else from our lunch table is around, too. I’ve tried—as much as I’m capable of, at least—but I still don’t take it personally or anything. Travis’s fast friendship is kind of a miracle; I don’t expect that from anyone everyone.
    Sai practically rushes me when we walk into show choir later. It must mean something that he’s around Nicole so much, like that they’re falling in love or at least making out with each other, but I still like his attention.
    “Kennedy just invited me to a show this weekend. Are you coming?” Sai asks.
    I wonder if there’s some kind of Secret Boy Handbook with rules like #87: Only refer to other boys by their last names.
    “Um, yeah, he invited me, too. I think I can go. I just have to check with my mother.” I’m excited and embarrassed at once. Despite everything I said earlier, Sai and I might be socializing this weekend. But then there’s me needing permission. Do popular people ever need to ask their parents to do anything?
    He grins at me like that answer made his day. “Awesome, I don’t know everyone else as well as you, so it’ll be good if you’re there.”
    I wish that meant more than it actually does. “What about Nicole?” Of course I don’t want him to invite her, but I’m testing to see what he says about her. Hopefully that’s not awful of me.
    “She’s not into the whole musicals thing,” he says.
    “Why does she go to this school, then?” I