Parallel

are allowed between four and six o’clock. I was the first person in. Ilana took one look at the flowers I’d brought and pronounced them “grocery-store ghetto.” I was elated.
    But then she started asking me how long I’d been there. Every ten minutes, as if she hadn’t already asked. Her doctor told me that was normal for someone with hemorrhagic damage to her medial temporal lobe. I just looked at him. Nothing about this was normal.
    The Toyota in front of me starts moving again, and I finally get through the first traffic light, which, as I suspected, is dark. After that, the pace picks up.
    So does the intensity of the storm. By the time I reach the annex lot, the rain is coming down in sheets. As I’m slowing for the turn, another bolt of lightning rips across the sky, this time with a crack of accompanying thunder. The sky is the color of a bruise.
    I flick off my turn signal and speed up again. There’s no way I’m walking all the way from the annex in this. I make a left into the senior lot, gunning it for the front row. Right by the side door there’s a spot with a RESERVED—HANDICAPPED sign, where I parked for a few days after I hurt my foot. I used to think that you’d get towed if you parked there, but now I know that it’s not an official handicapped space. Those are in the visitor’s lot on the other side of the building. The one in the senior lot isn’t blue and doesn’t have a wheelchair painted on the asphalt, which is good, because no one who parks there is actually handicapped. Any athlete with an injury is eligible for a permit to park there. But handicapped privileges are not a first-come-first-serve situation—mine were revoked when Gregg Nash tore his ACL in the Homecoming game last weekend. Star kicker trumps former cross-country runner. The fact that Gregg’s regular parking spot is four spaces away from the handicapped spot appears not to have factored into the analysis.
    “Thank you, Gregg,” I say as I pull into his regularly assigned space. The lot is only about a quarter full, which isn’t surprising, since school doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes. Caitlin’s here, of course (she comes early every day to get ahead on her lab assignments), and Josh’s Jeep is in its regular spot. I don’t know whether it should be encouraging or terrifying that he came early for the review. If he needs help with the material, then I’m a lost cause.
    When the semester started, I fantasized about the two of us studying for this test together, laughing as we quizzed each other with homemade flash cards. But that scenario would require us to be dating, or at the very least, to be friends. Josh and I are neither. We’re still cordial, but I’m pretty sure he’s dating Megan now, and apparently that means our permitted interactions are limited to polite smiles and the occasional wave. Not that I’ve had time for lengthy conversations. The last two weeks have been a series of identical days: home to school to crew practice to the waiting room at Piedmont Hospital, then back home again. Sleep. Then repeat. I still catch myself thinking about Josh—every time I see him or my astronomy textbook or the stars on my ceiling—but I’ve stopped pining over him.
    Okay, I’m pining less.
    Lightning flashes, followed by another crack of thunder. I see a girl from my class battling with her umbrella as she darts across the front yard toward the main entrance, splashing mud with each soggy step. If I’m going to this study session, I should go now.
    Backpack over my head, I make a mad dash for the side door. Thankfully, it’s unlocked. I take a moment to collect myself before continuing down the hall to our classroom, peeling off my raincoat and fluffing my damp hair. The hallway is still semi-dark, and most of the classrooms along it are completely black behind their closed doors. Only our room and the chem lab look inhabited. Dr. Mann’s door is swung open, light streaming out from inside along with the distinct sound of our teacher’s voice.
    I’m not sure why I do it. Maybe because there’s a light on inside. Maybe because the door is slightly ajar. But as I’m passing the chem lab, I glance in through the vertical window and see them. Caitlin is talking. Josh is smiling. Alone in a half-lit room.
    My breath catches in my throat, even though I know instinctively that it’s not what it looks like. There’s nothing going on between them. Nothing scandalous, anyway.