I’m about to answer when Zoey tosses a mechanical pencil and hits me in the boob. “Are you talking to Beck?” “What? No.” I lie. “Yes, you are.” Zoey motions at my face. “You’re all red, and you’re rubbing your legs together. You’re talking to Beck.” “No, I’m not.” Clearly my lie isn’t very convincing, because Zoey is pushing all her things to the side and snagging my phone from my grasp before I can stop her.
