Parallel

brown hair has been bleached and straightened into submission, so that it now hangs limply at her bony shoulders.
    Caitlin makes a face and punches Tyler in the shoulder. He catches her fist in his and holds it for a couple of beats longer than he has to. That’s when it happens. Something passes between them. Something I’ve never noticed before. Something so slight, it’s nearly imperceptible . . .
    Chemistry.
    The moment the thought pops into my mind, I’m certain of it. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. It’s like this intense gut feeling, an intuition so strong it almost feels like déjà vu. Is that why Tyler asked me yesterday if Caitlin had met anyone at the lab this summer? I assumed it was because he wanted to tease her about it (Tyler has no shortage of nerd jokes), but now I wonder if he had other reasons. And Caitlin has been disproportionately critical of the Ilana thing, catty when she’s normally not.
    “So you’re saying Caitlin is your type, then,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “You can’t have Caitlin, so you’re settling for Ilana.”
    Both Tyler and Caitlin look at me in surprise. We don’t joke like this. Ever. Is it me, or did Tyler’s cheeks just get rosier? It’s awkward for an instant. Then Tyler smiles, and the awkwardness evaporates.
    “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, tugging Caitlin toward him, playing into my joke. “Ilana is filling my Caitlin-shaped void.”
    “Last I checked, I wasn’t shaped like a lollipop,” Caitlin retorts, swatting him away. Her tone is sharp and bitchy and not like her at all. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she winces. “Sorry. That was mean.”
    “The girl has pictures of Mary-Kate Olsen taped to the inside of her locker,” Tyler points out. “I’m pretty sure ‘lollipop’ is what she’s going for.”
    Caitlin looks at her watch. “I should go,” she says. “I need to stop by DeWitt’s office before class.” Her mention of the guidance counselor’s name sends me back into panic mode. Astronomy starts in ten minutes.
    “Please tell me you’re switching into my class,” I beg. “You can learn from your idol and tutor me at the same time.”
    “I wish,” she replies. “But I already took it with Kang freshman year. There’s no way they’ll let me take it twice.”
    “So what’re you switching?”
    “Not switching. Just adding. I want to see if they’ll let me double up sixth period.”
    “You want to take two classes at once?” I ask. I’ve seen Caitlin’s schedule. It’s intense.
    “Neither is offered spring semester,” she says nonchalantly. “So, yeah. Why not?”
    I look over at Tyler. He just shrugs.
    “News flash, Barnes. She’s insane.”
    I get to fifth period a few minutes early, but the room is already full. Caitlin was right about the freshmen; about half the faces look young and scared. Another third are kids I know, probably other History of Music refugees. The rest I recognize as science-track brainiacs who will no doubt destroy the grading curve for the rest of us. I look around for an empty seat.
    There’s only one, in the very back row, next to a guy I’ve never seen before. Blond crew cut, dark brown eyes, average-looking features. Light blue T-shirt tucked into dark green cargo pants that have about five too many pockets. White Converse One Stars (the low kind) that look like they just came out of the box. His vibe is definitely dorky, but cute dorky. The way Max Levine was before he grew his hair out and started smoking truckloads of pot. Since he looks too old to be a freshman, I decide he must be new.
    Astronomy Boy sees me looking at him and smiles. He points at the empty seat.
    “Hey,” he says as I approach. “I’m Josh.”
    “I’m Abby.” Why am I suddenly nervous?
    “Popular class,” Josh remarks, glancing around the crowded room. “That means it’s either really good or really easy.”
    “Definitely not easy,” I reply. “Unless you’re on the science track, in which case ‘easy’ is a relative term.”
    “Oh, right,” Josh says. “The whole magnet school thing. Are you in the science program?”
    “Ha. No. Nowhere close. I’ve never met a science class I didn’t hate.”
    “So what’re you doing in astronomy?”
    “An unfortunate twist of fate,” I reply, distracted by the tiny mole beneath his left eye, just below his lash line. It’s infinitesimal, not more than a pinprick, but that little mark somehow elevates his face from