The note lands on your desk so casually, you almost miss it. Van doesn’t even look at you when she drops it, just keeps slouching in her chair, tapping her pencil on the desk like she isn’t up to something.

You glance toward the front of the classroom, making sure the teacher is still droning on, before carefully unfolding the scrap of paper.

You bored? Or just thinking about me?

You roll your eyes but press your lips together to hide a smile. You knew she was going to start something—Van always does.

I was actually trying to pay attention. Some of us care about passing.

You flick the note back, watching out of the corner of your eye as she reads it. She smirks, shaking her head before scratching out a response.

Bet you five bucks I can make you stop caring.

You don’t get the chance to reply before another note lands on your desk.

You look cute when you’re pretending I don’t exist.

Your face burns. You don’t look at her, don’t give her the satisfaction, but you feel her watching you, waiting for a reaction.

You press your pencil to the paper, writing quickly.

You’re going to get us caught.

Van’s reply is instant.

Then hurry up and tell me what you’d rather be doing instead of sitting here.

You hesitate. Because you know what she means. Van’s always pushing, always seeing how far she can go without saying too much.

Your fingers tighten around the note as you scrawl out the truth before you can stop yourself.

Being alone with you.

You don’t throw it back to her this time. You slide it over, slow and deliberate, barely looking as her fingers brush yours.

For the first time all class, Van is quiet. When you finally glance over, she’s already looking at you—grinning like she just won something.