Oliver pivots toward the exit of the school. And unfortunately for Oliver, it’s the last day of school, and he’s the only person within a reasonable radius. But I’m in what my aunt Heather calls one of my “Millie Moods,” when everything is just so much that it feels like it’s going to spill out of me if I don’t find a place to put it. The thing is, I really shouldn’t waste this kind of news on Oliver, who prides himself on his ability to pretend I don’t exist. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not.” I scoot myself off the table as he heads out. But Oliver isn’t looking at me, focused on closing his physics textbook and jamming it into his backpack. I toss my hair back behind my shoulders, fully aware that the swoosh of curls is every bit as much a good comeback as any verbal one. “Woo,” Oliver deadpans without looking back up. “Well, I’m done with finals,” I tell him cheerfully, sitting on the edge of his table. Some of the casting decisions our theater teacher has made for me over the years likely have less to do with me looking the part of “Townsperson #7” and more to do with Oliver holding a Millie-shaped grudge. But he’s spent the last three years pestering me, so it only seems fair to get in a few last jabs now that my theatrical fate is safely out of his hands. Ordinarily he wouldn’t spare so many words for me, but there’s a slight warning in his voice-a reminder that he’ll be helping make the casting decisions and it would be in my best interest not to pester him any further. I had to sit in for all of the auditions.” He pulls it closer to him, out of my reach. “Finals are over,” I say, jamming a finger down on his open physics textbook.

I grab my sheet music off the copy machine and glide over to his table, brimming with the kind of excitement that even he and that irritatingly handsome face can’t puncture. But after three solid years he’s adopted a much more impassive micro-scowl, either because he’s too cool for a full one or because the two of us get on each other’s last nerves too often to warrant it. In the beginning it was far more pronounced-all furrowed brows and tight lips, aimed with the intent to burn.

Sure enough, he is fixing me with the same patented Stage Manager Scowl I’ve watched evolve since we first started mutually irritating the hell out of each other freshman year. But also in my defense, Oliver Yang would be annoyed with my existence in any room in this school, and likely every dimension hereafter. In my defense, I forgot I was in the library. I slam my phone down on the nearest table, jumping to my feet. I get about as far as “Dear Millie Price, we are delighted to inform you” before I emotionally black out like I’ve just been whiplashed by a rainbow and drop-kicked into a river of glitter.

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