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approaches, I’d swear he gives me a lightning-quick head-to-toe appraisal. Only fair, since I do the same to him, taking in his slightly damp blond hair, blue-blue eyes, and swimmer’s build. He leads the guys’ team in butterfly.
    His features soften into a slow smile. “Aislyn, you came.”
    â€œYeah.” Deep breath, get words out of mouth. “Evie forced me to.”
    â€œI hoped she would.”
    â€œUm, yeah.” I swallow a beer burp. Why is this so hard? Jack and I have what pass for interesting conversations online, and we’ve e-mailed a zillion times about submissions for
The Drizzle
. But now, no matter how much I will my heart and lungs to slow down, my knees to hold up, and my brain to focus, my body resists on all counts.
    I say, “Um, congrats on the science competition.”
    â€œI thought for sure you’d win. Your stuff is always way beyond the rest of ours.” He pulls at his shirt. “This place is crazy hot.”
    I resist the urge to tell him exactly what, or who, is crazy hot, and point toward the glass door like a robot.
    â€œGood idea.” He opens it, letting in the evening breeze.
    Ah, that’s delicious against my burning face. A few minutes of this and I could cool down enough to avoid fainting or puking. With major luck.
    He starts through the door. “You coming?”
    Oh, no, he wants me to go outside with him. Actually make these feet move.
    There’s a hand at my back. Abby says, “Way to work fast,” and gives me a push.
    I stumble outside behind Jack. About twenty kids hang around the yard, but Jack’s able to find a couple of deck chairs. It’s a relief to get off of my feet, which I don’t trust to support me anyway. My belly is the next body part to fail me, turning all quivery with the thought that here I am with the object of all my—well, with Jack. I take a deep breath. God, I want to cry. Just break down and let all my anxiety out in a gushing torrent of tears. No one would ever expect me to do any kind of exposure therapy ever again.
    He points to my cup. “What’s in there?”
    I peek inside as if I don’t know. “Um, beer. There’s a keg in the kitchen.” I’m slurring. Great, I’ve finally gotten out two complete sentences and I sound drunk.
    He shrugs. “Maybe later.”
    Guys like him don’t need liquid bravery, which makes me feel more pitiful. Stop, stop, think of something to say, like a normal person would. I ask, “So you start at the radio station next week?” He scored an internship that would look great on his college app, along with dozens of other accomplishments.
    â€œYeah, Kids Eat Free is coming for an interview on my first day.”
    I shake my head. “I can’t imagine doing something so . . . so public.”
    Jack shrugs those smoothly muscled shoulders that make a wide V down to his waist. “Goes with the territory.”
    â€œStill, always having to be so
on
.” Oh no, a bead of sweat rolls down my face. Probably the first drop in the tsunami of misery I expect to melt into at any moment.
    He laughs. “You make it sound like shoveling elephant dung.”
    Oh, now he thinks I’m insulting the band. “No, no, they’re great. Just like you. You’re always great.” I blink rapidly and put a hand to my head, partly to steady my vision, partly to wipe away another drip along my temple.
    He cocks his head and gives me that look he often does, which makes me feel so
seen
. Usually it causes a combination of thrill and terror, but tonight I’d rather be as unseen as possible. “Can I get you something?” he says.
    â€œNo, I’m okay. Just a little dizzy. Not used to so much beer.” I stand up and lean toward a bush to dump out the rest of my cup, but stumble and spill it on his foot instead.
    â€œOh, God, I’m so sorry!”
    He jumps up.