Tell Me Three Things by Julie Buxbaum

the act completely. Starts reading right in front of them. His energy sapped.
    “Okay, well, bye!” Heather smiles her best smile—perfect teeth, of course, since LA is the land of the porcelain veneer. I Googled “veneers” last night and found out they cost at least a thousand dollars a tooth, which means her mouth cost five times more than my car.
    “Bye-ee,” the other girls say, and finally walk away. The Batman looks relieved that they’re gone.
    “Can I help you?” he asks, like I’m the next customer at a drive-through. I remember our English project, and how he just assumed I could be railroaded like everyone else.
    “So ‘The Waste Land’…,” I say, and tuck my hands into my back pockets, trying to look casual. “If you don’t want to work together, that’s fine. But then I need to tell Mrs. Pollack and find another partner. I’m not just going to let you do the work.”
    There, I said it. That wasn’t so hard. I breathe out. I feel lightheaded and shaky, but nothing that can be seen from the outside, I hope. My mask firmly still in place. Now I wish he could just hand me my Happy Meal and end this thing.
    “What’s the problem? I told you I’ll get an A,” he says, and leans farther back. He owns that chair even more than I own my lunch bench. He stares at me again. His blue eyes look almost gray today: a Chicago winter sky. Why does he always look so tired? Even his hair looks tired, the way it sticks up in random little peaks and then folds down, as if bowing in defeat.
    “That’s not the point. I can get an A on my own. I don’t need to hand in your work,” I say, and cross my arms. “And anyway, it’s against the honor code.”
    He looks at me again, and I see the faintest hint of a smirk. Better than a dismissal, I guess, but still obnoxious.
    “The honor code?”
    Screw him. He’s probably the son of some famous actor or director, and he doesn’t have to worry about his place here. Or getting into college. He’s probably never even heard the word “scholarship” before. Would have to look it up.
    “Listen, I’m new here, okay? And I don’t want to get kicked out or in trouble or whatever. And it’s junior year, so it all counts. So I don’t really care if you think that’s dorky or stupid or whatever.”
    “Or whatever,” the Batman says. Another inscrutable smirk. I hate him. I really do. At least when Gem and Crystal make fun of me, it’s for things that I can tell myself don’t matter. My clothes, not my words. I hear my mom in my head, for just a second, since her voice has mostly evaporated—water to air, or maybe disintegrated, dirt to dust—but for one easy second, she’s right here with me:
Other people can’t make you feel stupid. Only you can.
    “Or whatever,” I say again, like I’m in on the joke. Like he can’t hurt me. I bite back the sudden tears. Where did they come from?
No, not now. No way.
I take a breath, and it passes. “Seriously, I’ll just find another partner. Not a big deal.”
    I force myself to look him in the eye. Shrug like I don’t give a shit. Make it sound like I too have people lining up to talk to me, like the lionesses do for him. The Batman looks right back at me, shakes his head a little, as if trying to wake up. And then he smiles. Not a smirk. Nothing mean or cruel about it. Just a good old-fashioned smile.
    He doesn’t have porcelain veneers. He does have a cleft. His two front teeth are slightly crooked, veer just a tiny bit to the right, as if they’ve decided perfection is overrated. I don’t think he wears eyeliner. I think he was just born like that: his features enunciating.
    “Okay, let’s do it,” he says.
    “Excuse me?” I am distracted because his smile transforms his face. He turns from beautiful, moody teenager to a goofy, slightly awkward one in an instant. I can almost see him at thirteen, vulnerable, shy, not the same person who holds court at the Koffee Kart. I bet I would have liked him