I’m usually the first one through the door, but today I make it to Spanish just as the fourth-period bell rings. Señor Argotta watches me with this surprised look on his face, like I’m the last person he expects to be late for his class. He waves the bright yellow tardy slip back and forth in front of me as I walk by. “Hola, Señorita Park.” He tries to look stern, but he can’t hold the expression for more than a second before his face relaxes back into a grin. 

“Hola, señor.” I race past him with my head bowed at first, but then I turn around and give him an apologetic smile as I collapse in my chair. I remove my spiral notebook from my backpack and dig around for a mint while I contemplate the mystery this day has become. 

He’s real. And he’s here.

I can’t stanch the flow of questions racing through my head. First: Where has he been all morning? I’ve walked The Donut between every class so far and he’s nowhere to be found. Second: Why would a high school kid who’s new in town be hanging out at a university track at 6:45 a.m. on a Monday? Third: Why did he look at me like he knew me, but pass right by me two hours later like I was a total stranger? Unless . . . maybe he just didn’t see me. If I could just find him, I’d know. 

Where is he?

Siwon flops into the seat next to me, and Argotta picks up the pad of tardy slips and waves it at him with a scolding voice and matching expression. “You’re late, Señor Choi,” he says in his thick accent. But within seconds he returns the pad to his desk, and Alex gets the same understanding smile Argotta gave me. 

“Sorry, señor,” Alex says toward the front of the room, and then he leans across the aisle, well into my space. “Hola, Dara.” I blink from the glare of his teeth, blinding under the harsh fluorescent lights. 

"Hey, Siwon."

He opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can verbalize the thought, Argotta clears his throat at the front of the room and begins speaking

“Attention, please! Today we are welcoming a brand-new student.” I look up and my breath catches. “This is Jiyong Kwon.” Argotta pauses dramatically while the new guy shifts his weight from one leg to the other and adjusts his backpack over his shoulder. “Everyone, please welcome our new amigo and make him feel at home here.” Argotta points theirs in some conservative, neatly parted style. Others sport  ultrashort Caesars or leave it a little long on top but shaved on the sides. But their hair is never this long. Bennett’s is unkempt, hangs just a little over his eyebrows, and looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in days. I can’t remember what he was wearing at the track, but the hair . . . That’s definitely the same. The hair I remember. 

When the bell rings thirty minutes later, everyone stands up and moves for the door, blocking my view. I rise and reach for my backpack, quickly deciding to talk to him on his way to lunch, but all I catch is the blur of his head as he vanishes through the doorway.

When I go through the double doors to the dining hall, I spot him right away. He’s sitting alone at a table in the corner, with his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows. I make my way through the salad bar, grab a banana, and fill a large cup with Coke, all while stealing glances in his direction. As it turns out, I’m in no danger of being caught. In the five minutes it takes me to get my food, he doesn’t look up once. He just sits in his chair, holding a paperback in one hand while he picks at his food with the other.

Chaerin is already planted at our usual table, and as I set my tray down, I steal another quick look in Bennett’s direction. He spoons out bites of red Jell-O without looking away from his book.

“Scoping out the new guy already?” Chaerin asks.

I look at her with surprise, then panic. “No.” I sit down and reach for my drink. “Why?” 

“Oh, come on! I’ve been watching you. I’ve never seen anyone work a salad bar with her eyes glued on someone twenty feet away. It’s impressive. Quite a skill.” 

The tips of my ears begin to burn. Again. 

She laughs and takes a sip of her Coke. “You’re talented, Dara, but you’re hardly subtle.” She moves close and gives my arm a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry. He didn’t notice. I don’t think he’s looked away from that book once.” 

Bom arrives breathless, plops her tray down on the table, and takes her seat. “So . . . what do we think?” She draws out