A MONTH AFTER MRS. ACKERMAN pulled me into her office for a second time — for which I prepared and decided I now loved Chemistry — Ursula Ahmad and I were locking lips behind the cafeteria.

A funny thing had happened among the cheerleaders this fall. Originally I was with Lacey Hosseini, who had been my hook-up buddy since before the summer. She was a junior, too, with long dark hair and a curvy waist. I think she wanted to be my girlfriend, but she never said a thing to my face.

Lacey would make hints about spending holidays together and carelessly, carefully mention her favourite flowers — which, unfortunately, went in one ear and out the other — but she never sat me down and asked me out point-blank. Nice and straightforward. I would have said yes, too, if she had just piped up about what she wanted.

Anyways, I was totally content to keep seeing Lacey outside of school, within the bounds of the fuck buddy relationship, when disaster struck the cheerleaders and Ursula confessed her feelings for me to her entire friend group. Following those exciting-to-everyone-but-me events, Lacey decided to be a good friend to Ursula and end things.

After waiting the respectable five day flirtationship mourning period, Ursula went out on a limb and asked me out, for which I rewarded her confidence with moi. All six-feet of moi. We were taking things physically fast and emotionally slow; just the way I liked it.

I heard all the information about feelings and drama and girl code second-hand anyways, from the other guys on the varsity team who had cheerleader girlfriends — cough, Jamie and Francesca — and were mandated to keep up with the gossip.

To me, it was a travesty that I even had to store this vapid incident in my head, but Jamie insisted I memorised the dynamics so as not to put him in an uncomfortable position — because Franny was friends with Lacey — whenever we went to football afterparties.

I'm serious. Jamie made a whole afternoon of it, claiming the whiteboard in Dad's study and drawing the whole social situation in erasable marker. It was like learning a football play, except Jamie, Lacey, Franny and Ursula were the players, and I was the ball, being bounced around the four of them.

According to Jamie, who smacked a ruler on the stick figure titled U, "Ursula claims to have been in love with you since sophomore year. Remember Kay's older brother's party last year?"

I thought back to the party at Killian Fergusson's house, when he, Jamie and I were the only sophomore boys lucky enough to attend. There were a bunch of sophomore girls around, creepily enough. "Yeah."

"Since then."

"Shit," I raised my eyebrows. That was a long time to be girl-blue balled. Blue boobed?

"So at that party, Ursula drunkenly blurted it out to Lacey," Jamie explained, shifting the ruler to the stick figure labelled L. "But Lacey told all the cheerleaders she didn't remember, and that's why she went ahead and hooked up with you. It's just recently come to our attention that she did remember!"

Then Jamie stopped and stared at me with an expression so scandalised, I almost decided to do a dramatic gasp to humour him. He actually thrived on drama, despite his fervent protests. But I wouldn't sink to his level, and he grumbled at my stony expression before continuing.

"Anyways, half of them think Ursula broke the girl code by asking out a dude who was somewhat taken by her friend. The other half think Lacey broke the girl code by not backing off the night of the party when she realised her friend liked you." Jamie drew a huge split down the middle of the whiteboard, pinning U and the ball — me — on one side of the divide, L, F on the other, with poor little J sliced through the centre.

Before we called it a day and went to dinner, I wondered, "What if that ever happened with two guys and one chick?"

"Obviously, first check if she's down for being double-teamed," Jamie answered solemnly. I nodded along. Obviously. "If not, leave her alone. Dicks before chicks."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Ursula Ahmad was a nice girl.

Confident, charming and laidback. She had no qualms about making out anywhere, which is why I found myself with a hand up her shirt behind the Bishop High School cafeteria. She had her back pressed against the large, yellow dumpster bin that all the school's wastepaper went into at the end of the day, and the slightly pungent smell of leftovers permeated the air.

Ursula's moist lips swept across mine, hungrily sucking my bottom lip into her mouth with lots of teeth. I tried stabilising her head with my hands so I could get a better angle, but she covered my hands with her and kept them planted squarely on her chest. Ursula moaned appreciatively when I dutifully got to work, caressing and massaging her breasts between my fingers.

The other half of my brain kept a lookout while we pashed.

Bishop was a town just conservative enough that PDA like what Ursula and I were engaging in was frowned upon. Even though we were both on lunch break, no teacher would hesitate before pulling us apart and noting our names down on a misconduct register.

Every time I kissed a girl, my mind split in half. Left and right brain, or frontal lobe and back-al lobe. I was not a neuroscientist but all I knew was that while most of me was kissing a chick with gusto, not all my senses were dedicated to the task.

My ears would prick at the sound of distant footsteps and laughter, but fail to register changes in breathing coming from the person right in front of me unless I consciously focused. I saw black behind my eyelids with them closed, but then faces and sights and blue eyes would flash on them like a weird supercut of my short-term memory. I could taste Ursula's mouth, but then I also started wondering about what was for dinner.

The multi-tasking helped me stay alert, in case any teacher sprung up and caught us. A sudden gust of wind hit us, hoiking the hem of Ursula's skirt up to her hips. She screeched and broke away, lowering her hand to hold the fabric in place over her panties. Meanwhile, the loose sheets of paper in the metal bin flew up and away, scattering like leaves all over the concrete.

"Good job," I congratulated Ursula on the enthusiastic making out, pecking her softly on the cheek.

A moment later the bell went for the fourth period, and we rolled our eyes simultaneously. Before I hoisted my school bag back onto my shoulders, I chased down a few of the papers and started bundling them into a pile.

Ursula watched, amused, leaning against the dumpster. "What are you doing?"

"Picking it up," I explained matter-of-factly. When her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, I gave her a good-natured smile. "Be a tidy citizen, right?"

"It wasn't us who spilt it," she giggled.

"But we're here anyway." Truth be told, it was a good way to loiter around until I absolutely had to go to Chemistry class. I hated Chemistry. I shook my head fondly at Ursula, who was quite reluctant to bend down in her short skirt. "It's okay. Get your cutie patootie to class."

"Okay," she simpered, her features lighting up at the moniker. "I'll see you at lunchtime tomorrow?"

"Yup." Round two. "See you then."

"Bye, Jake," she called, disappearing around the turn.

Some of the papers had gotten tangled in the chain-link fence between the back of the cafeteria and the loading dock where food was delivered, which stopped them from flying away. I tended to those pieces last, stomping on papers and then catching them in my hands.

When I had cleaned up the area and formed a thick pile of papers in my hands — mostly old worksheets and assignment briefs — I lifted them above the rim of the dumpster to properly discard them.

And then I paused.

On the top sheet was my name: Jake Tanner. And it wasn't an old pop quiz or assignment. No, it was a handwritten note on refill paper. Elegant cursive filled about half the page, listing out things that made my blood boil with shock and insult the more I read.

Jake Tanner:

Does he have to be so loud all the time? Is he overcompensating for something?

Treats his twin like a child even though he's only minutes older. Stop being so condescending.

Show off.

Fuckboy. Fuckboy. Fuckboy.

Dumb. So dumb to choose football because concussions. Then concussions make him dumber, which makes him make more dangerous decisions. Cyclical.

Caveman sense of humour.

Can he even drive?

Doesn't take studying seriously.

Views all girls as potential flings. Flings. Pretty much number four, but.

Mercurial hair.

Each of the points made me even more confused. At first, I thought perhaps the anonymous grudge-holder was talking about Jamie since most people who didn't know us got us mixed up. I mean, loud, caveman, crappy sense of humour. Jamie totally fit the bill. But the writer mentioned the older twin, which everyone knew was me because I went around proudly declaring it from the moment I learned to speak.

So they were talking about me. Me.

Lovable Jake Tanner got a hater?

This wouldn't do.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The logical thing to do that lunchtime was to discard the hate note right where I found it and brush it out of my mind. There was no point obsessing over one negative opinion, especially not one whose owner wouldn't say to my face.

But I didn't do the logical thing. I dumped all the other papers back into the bin and kept that one, folding it neatly twice and pocketing it in my jeans. I wasn't planning to unleash a rampage to find out who it wrote it, or make a big deal out of having a hater. Football players had heaps of lovers, but also heaps of haters. It came with being well-known — as well-known as anyone could be in Bishop.

I guessed Bishop played a part in why I kept the hate note on me. I'd never known anyone to keep a vendetta in all my sixteen years living here. Sure, people got pissed off at each other, but they made it known. Usually by driving by their house and screaming their grievances out the window as they passed.

I appreciated the upfront quality of that interaction, and it bugged me that someone was harbouring such ill intent for me. Writing it down on a piece of paper, sure, but most definitely letting it fester in their hearts. That wasn't a good way to do high school. If anyone had a problem with someone, I reckoned they should be honest and then fight it out. Get your blood good and pumping and then get over it.

More disturbing still was that I couldn't really determine who had written it, though I most definitely knew everyone in the school. Even the teachers. I could be annoying, yes, but I never meant any harm. And I hated no-one. Which meant that someone I considered at least an acquaintance was out there, deriding my hair and my sense of humour and my brains, without me even knowing it.

At football practise the next day, I realised the hate note had well and truly wormed its claws into my mind. I couldn't let it go. I couldn't have someone slandering me like that, even if it was only in their head. Jake Tanner was a lover, not a fighter, damn it.

All this overthinking, coupled with strenuous exercise as the afternoon sun fell on my back, made me parched. I walked to the bench alongside the football field and picked up my drink bottle, taking long swills of icy water. Jamie decided to take a break, too, while I was occupied.

When he sat down next to me, I wondered, "Do you know what mercurial means?"

Jamie scrunched up his eyebrows, but he wasn't taken aback by my question. Being twins, we often just blurted our most random thoughts to each other. "Yeah," he eventually said slowly. "Like mercury. The stuff that's in thermometers."

Mercurial hair.

"No..." I murmured, dousing my head with cold water. I shook the moisture from my hair, feeling refreshingly cooled. "I don't think that fits."

Just as Jamie shrugged and pulled his own water bottle to his lips, Killian Fergusson — Kay, to the boys — jogged over to the bleachers. He was the quarterback, and first pick for captain next year, so he liked to keep a finger on the pulse of the team. Also, the three of us were close. If someone asked me to name my best friend without the potential of family members, I'd pick Kay.

"What's going on?" Kay questioned with panting breaths.

"Kay, do you know what mercurial means?" Jamie filled in.

"Mercurial?" He nodded thoughtfully. "Sure. Anything found on Planet Mercury is mercurial. Mercurial dust. Mercurial craters. Mercurial aliens."

Jamie looked over at me, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively. He wanted to see if he'd solved it for me.

Mercurial hair.

"Hmm," I hummed lightly. That did not work at all, but I appreciated the complete surety with which Kay gave his answer. That confidence would see him go far in life. "I'll keep thinking. Thanks, though."

"Why? What do you need it for?" Kay asked.

"Yeah. You've been looking all brooding the whole practice," Jamie added. "Spit it out—"

Coach Ibraham stormed over with his whistle and blew it straight in Kay's ears. He had to lift onto his tiptoes to reach, but the startled jolt that Kay gave was well worth it. Jamie and I snapped to attention before Coach had time to come over to the bleachers and whistle at us. "What are you three pansies doing idling?"

"Coach," Kay began, "Do you know what mercurial means?"

The only reason Kay could talk back to Coach was that his family was a sporting dynasty in Bishop. The Fergussons had three generations of football stars in their ranks, beginning with his grandfather, continuing through to his father and his older brother, and ending with the Killian Fergusson himself.

He was well-primed to take over as captain next year, and Lord knew he milked that fact to get leeway with Coach. Except now. "Mercurial means your sorry asses are gonna be running the bleachers if you don't shut up and get tackling!"

The three of us started jogging back to the tackling dummies. Tackling wasn't even relevant to me anyway, as a wide receiver. But Jamie — linebacker — was dutifully avoiding Coach's withering glare.

I turned my head over my shoulder, glimpsing Coach walking slowly behind us. "But do you know what it means?"

"Shut up, Tanner," Coach yelled towards us. "Just shut up."