Chloe's room smelled like vanilla and warm laundry, the single lamp casting everything in a dull orange glow that made the shadows soft and forgiving. Her floral comforter bunched under my bare back as I lay spread across her bed, my gray "I ♥ Pi" shirt and tiny denim skirt in a heap on the floor beside Chloe's desk.

The radiator clicked and hummed, heat pressing against the window glass while a loose floorboard groaned under the shifting weight of Chloe's chair. I watched the ceiling fan rotate in lazy circles, its blades catching slivers of lamplight, and let the silence stretch just long enough to feel how good it was to be out of those clothes. Out of that cafeteria. Out of the reach of Pearl's smug little face.

"So," Chloe said, her voice dry and expectant. I turned my head on the pillow. She had her legs tucked under her in the old desk chair, a cracked ceramic mug cradled in both hands, steam curling past her chin. Her honey-blonde hair was tucked behind one ear, and her green eyes had that glint they got when she knew she was about to hear something good. "You going to tell me, or do I have to guess?"

I stretched, arching my back against the floral fabric, letting the cool air of her room trace over my skin. The comforter was rough under my shoulder blades, slightly pilled from years of use, and I twisted a loose thread between my fingers as I found the right place to start.

"It worked," I said. "Better than I planned."

Chloe's eyebrow lifted. She took a slow sip of whatever was in that mug—tea, probably, she was always drinking tea—and waited.

"I gave Derek just enough," I said, and I could hear the smile creeping into my own voice. "A little touch on his arm. A look that said *maybe*. Not even a good look. Just—lingering. Like I was thinking about it."

I propped myself up on my elbows, the comforter bunching under my weight, and looked at her. "You should have seen his face, Chlo. He practically preened."

"Derek preens at a breeze."

"Yeah, but this was different." I let the thread I'd been twisting snap free, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. "He thinks he's winning. He thinks whatever he's been doing finally worked."

Chloe set her mug down on the desk, the ceramic clinking against wood, and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "And Pearl?"

I grinned. Wide. Sharp. The kind of grin that would have made anyone else take a step back. "Oh, Pearl was *perfect*."

I let myself fall back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling again, tracing the crack in the plaster that ran from the light fixture to the far wall. "She made it so easy. She couldn't help herself. She had to make that comment about how I probably didn't even know what a derivative was. Right in front of Marcus. Right in front of everyone."

"What did you do?"

I turned my head to look at her. "Looked at Marcus. Let my face do this thing—" I demonstrated, letting my expression crumple just slightly, the corners of my mouth turning down, my eyes going wide and vulnerable. "Like she'd actually hurt my feelings."

Chloe barked a laugh. "You didn't."

"I *did*. And then I said, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch,' and I *left*." I let the grin return, slow and satisfied. "I walked right over to the football table and sat down next to Derek, and I let him put his hand on my thigh, and I made sure Marcus was watching the whole time."

The radiator clicked again, a low metallic sound that filled the pause between us. Somewhere down the hall, footsteps passed—muffled, casual, someone heading to the bathroom or a friend's room—and then faded into nothing.

"You're terrifying," Chloe said, but she said it like a compliment. Like she was proud.

"I know."

I rolled onto my side, the comforter twisting under me, and propped my head on my hand. The lamp cast a warm triangle across Chloe's face, catching the freckles scattered across her nose, the way her lips curved into a knowing smile. She reached for her mug again, wrapping both hands around it, and took a sip.

"So what's the play now?" she asked. "You've got Derek hooked, you've got Pearl looking like the villain, and you've got Marcus—" she paused, her smile widening, "—watching you. What's next?"

I traced a pattern on the comforter with my finger, following the floral print, letting the fabric catch against my skin. "I let it breathe. I gave Derek attention, so now he'll act without me having to ask. He'll see Pearl being mean to me, and he'll *do* something about it. That's who he is. He plays the protector when it makes him look good."

"And Pearl?"

"Pearl already dug her own grave. She was cruel in front of witnesses. In front of Marcus." I shook my head, my hair sliding across the pillow. "She thinks she won because I walked away. She thinks she scared me off."

I let out a low laugh, the sound vibrating in my chest. "She has no idea."

Chloe set her mug down again and stood, stretching her arms above her head. Her cropped sweater rode up, exposing a strip of pale skin above her jeans. She padded across the room—barefoot, the floorboards groaning under her weight—and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her.

"You played it perfectly," she said. "I mean that. The whole thing—the hurt act, the Derek move, the exit." She shook her head. "I couldn't have written it better."

"I know," I said again, and this time I let the satisfaction bleed into my voice. "But it's not over. It's barely started."

I rolled onto my stomach, the comforter rough against my bare skin, and looked up at her. "Marcus was watching me the whole time I was at that table with Derek. I could feel it."

Chloe's eyebrows lifted. "You could?"

"I didn't look. I didn't have to. I *knew*." I pressed my palm flat against the comforter, feeling the threads beneath my skin. "He was watching me let another guy touch me, and he didn't do anything about it. He just sat there."

"What do you want him to do?"

I thought about that. The ceiling fan rotated. The radiator clicked. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, distant and irrelevant.

"I want him to want to do something," I said slowly. "I want him to feel it so badly that he can't sit still. I want him to *ache*."

I pushed myself up, sitting cross-legged on the bed, the comforter pooling around my thighs. The air was cool against my shoulders, my bare chest, and I didn't bother covering myself. This was Chloe. She'd seen me in every state there was.

"But I also want him to be scared," I continued. "I want him to wonder why me. Why someone like me would want someone like him."

Chloe's smile turned knowing. "Because he's already wondering that."

"I know." I picked at a loose thread on the comforter, winding it around my finger until the tip turned white. "He called me pretty today. Did I tell you that?"

"You mentioned it."

"He stuttered through the whole thing. Could barely get the words out." I let the thread go, watching it spring back into place. "It was the most genuine thing anyone's said to me all week."

Chloe was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "You really like him."

It wasn't a question.

I looked at her. The lamplight caught the dust motes floating between us, suspended and spinning, and I realized I'd been holding my breath since I started talking.

"I don't know what 'like' means," I said. "Not the way other people use it. But I want him. I want him to look at me the way he looked at me when he said I was pretty. I want him to say my name without stuttering. I want to be the only thing he sees."

Chloe reached out and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, her fingers brushing my temple. "That sounds like like to me."

"Maybe." I pulled away, lying back down, staring at the ceiling. "But it doesn't matter what I call it. What matters is that Pearl doesn't get him. What matters is that he *chooses* me."

I was quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the room—the radiator, the fan, Chloe's steady breathing. The candle on her nightstand had burned down to a shallow pool of wax, its vanilla scent mingling with the laundry softener in her sheets.

"I acted hurt by Pearl," I said, my voice softer now. "And it worked. I saw it in Derek's eyes. He wants to be the one who fixes things. He wants to be the hero."

Chloe snorted. "Derek couldn't hero his way out of a paper bag."

"Doesn't matter. He just has to *try*. And when he does, Pearl's going to look like the problem. Not me."

I rolled onto my side, facing Chloe, my hair spilling across the pillow. "And the best part? I didn't have to lie. Pearl *was* mean. She *did* try to push me out. I just—" I smiled, slow and sharp, "—made sure everyone saw it."

Chloe shook her head, laughing quietly. "You're going to destroy her."

"I'm going to make her irrelevant," I corrected. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

I thought about Pearl's face when I'd walked away from the table. The way she'd sat up straighter, thinking she'd won. The way she'd probably touched Marcus's arm the second I was gone, trying to reclaim territory she never actually had.

"She'll be fine," I said. "She'll find someone else to obsess over. Someone who isn't mine."

The word hung in the air between us. *Mine*.

Chloe reached for her mug again, found it empty, and set it back down with a sigh. "So what's tomorrow?"

I stared at the ceiling, tracing the crack in the plaster with my eyes. "I sit with them again. I act like today didn't happen. I smile at Marcus, I laugh at Isaac's jokes, I ask Tony about that comic he was talking about. And I ignore Pearl completely."

"Completely?"

"Completely. She doesn't exist. She's furniture." I rolled onto my back again, stretching my arms above my head, feeling the pull in my shoulders. "If she wants to fight for his attention, she's going to have to do it while I'm acting like she's not even in the room."

Chloe let out a low whistle. "Cold."

"Effective."

I lay there for a moment, the silence settling around us like the warm air from the radiator. The candle flickered, its flame bending toward the window where a draft crept through the frame. The scent of vanilla and wax and laundry softener filled my lungs, and I let myself breathe.

"He's going to figure it out eventually," I said. "That I'm not just being nice. That I actually *want* him."

"And when he does?"

I smiled, and it wasn't sharp anymore. It was soft. Hopeful. The kind of smile I didn't let anyone else see.

"Then he'll have to decide what he wants."

The radiator clicked. The fan turned. Chloe reached out and squeezed my ankle, her palm warm against my skin.

"He's going to choose you," she said. "There's no way he doesn't."

I wanted to believe her. I *did* believe her, mostly. But there was a small part of me—a part I didn't show anyone, not even Chloe—that was afraid. Afraid that Marcus would look at me and see exactly what I was. Afraid he'd prefer Pearl's quiet desperation to my sharp edges.

But I pushed that part down, the way I always did, and let the satisfaction rise to the surface.

"He doesn't have a choice," I said. "I've already decided."

I lay there, bare on Chloe's floral comforter, the warmth of the room settling into my skin, and let the hum of the radiator fill the space around my words. The ceiling fan carved its lazy circle overhead, dust motes drifting through the lamplight like slow-motion snow, and I felt the weight of the day pressing against my eyelids.

"He's mine now," I whispered. "He just doesn't know it yet."

The room fell quiet except for the hum of the radiator.