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graceful-as-a-swan figure—glide past her.
    â€œMarisol,” Erica said, in a way-too-strong Southern accent for having left the South almost ten years ago. In the words of NFL wide receiver OchoCinco: “Chile please.”
    â€œErica,” she said with a nod.
    The air between them was cool. No hate. No drama. But no love lost either. Marisol just didn’t care that Erica looked down on her more rhythmic dancing. As she walked away from the stage, the strains of Beethoven’s gazillionth symphony began to play. Bor-ring. Whateva.
    Erica could do ballet until she bored a hole in her pointe shoes. Marisol wanted to do it all. She was fine and fabulous about being more Alvin Ailey than Bolshoi Ballet.
    â€œGood job.”
    â€œGirl, you worked it.”
    â€œErica can’t touch you.”
    Marisol smiled at all her well-wishes before she picked up her tracksuit from the floor where she’d tossed it on top of her book bag. She had just zipped up her jacket when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, notrecognizing the number that sent her a text. She scrolled with her crimson-painted nails to open it.
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    Cooley’s. After school. The butterscotch table.
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    Cooley’s was the hangout spot for Pace Academy students and any teens in the area. The exterior was in the shape of a huge ice-cream cone and that, plus its all-white decor, latest music and servers on roller skates, made it a popular spot for teens, regardless of cliques.
    Marisol walked away from the chatter and dancing of the rest of the dancers backstage to dial the number back. It just rang for a while and went straight to voice mail. She tried it again.
    The cell phone automatically went to voice mail, offering no clues as to who the text came from. Meet at Cooley’s? For what? With whom?
    She texted a reply.
    Â 
    Who is this? Do I know you? Hellooo?
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    Marisol paced a little in an imaginary two-foot square as she waited for a response. And waited. And waited some more. Erica had sashayed off the stage, and the bell signaling the end of the period let out a shrill alarm.
    Bzzz.
    The vibration surprised her and she almost dropped her phone, juggling it between her hands. She caught it just inches before it fell to the ground.
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    Better question—how did I get ur # since u wouldn’t give it 2 me?
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    Marisol checked her Rolex as she hurried from the auditorium. “How did I get your number since you wouldn’t give it to me?” she repeated.
    It was definitely a boy. Definitely.
    But which one?
    As she made her way to her locker, she tried to figure out who it could be. She wasn’t vain, but plenty of boys had tried to get her number and that wasn’t counting the ones crushing from afar.
    Dionne was at her locker, stacking her Gucci book bag with books. “Hey, Marisol,” she said, tossing her ponytail behind her shoulder as she bent down to zip her bag.
    â€œWhaddup,” Marisol said, her mind on the text as she opened her locker. She didn’t even notice the shirtless poster of Trey hanging on the inside of the locker door.
    â€œWhat’s up with you?” Dionne asked, standing up straight and smoothing the silk sweater she wore under the charcoal-gray blazer.
    Marisol showed Dionne the text on her cell.
    Dionne’s slender cinnamon-brown face went from curious to teasing. “Another crush, Marisol?” she asked, handing her back the cell phone with a tilt of her head.
    Sometimes having so much swag and being so popular scared a lot of boys off, and stopped them from even trying to approach anyone in their clique. Being a Pacesetter could be pretty lonely, even if you wanted a boyfriend.
    â€œDo you remember me telling y’all about some dude asking for my number recently?” Marisol asked.
    â€œJust Percy,” Dionne reminded her, with a wiggle of her eyebrows as she held up three fingers that she wiggled as well.
    Ah.