I once read that coffee is the most consumed psychoactive substance. It functions as a central nervous system stimulant, meaning it affects neural activity in the brain and increases alertness while reducing fatigue–the reason it keeps us awake. If the body ever becomes dependent on caffeine, then going cold turkey can cause withdrawal symptoms roughly one day after quitting.

So, that's the reason for my splitting headache at three in the morning. I toss and turn, telling myself that I don't need coffee, that Jake Carpenter isn't right about me, that I'm not some kind of caffeine addict, but as the night stretches on, the symptoms get worse.

I head downstairs and stand in the kitchen, looking at the coffee pot. One cup would make the headache go away, and Jake would never know. But I can't do it. My conscience won't let me. Even if Jake would never know what I did, I would, and I don't want to win this bet by being dishonest, I want to win it fair and square.

It takes another minute to look away. I don't need this. I don't. If former alcoholics can quit alcohol and ex-drug addicts drugs, then I can certainly quit coffee. How hard can it be?

I breathe in slowly, then breathe out. There's a lot to be said for breathing techniques because my headache starts to ease. I pull open the drawer and grab the painkillers, taking two of them dry. I glance at the coffee machine again. This is ridiculous. I am standing in the dark, in the middle of the night, staring at a coffee machine.

I look like an addict.

They say the only way to break a bad habit is to replace it with a better one, so I pour myself a cold glass of water. It doesn't taste nearly as pleasant, but it quenches my thirst.

I'm not addicted to coffee. This is just a temporary headache, a headache probably caused by the stress of being stalked by Jake Carpenter. The morning will be better, I'm sure of it.

***

The morning is not better, it's worse. My headache turns from a constant dull ache to a hammer being bashed against my skull. When my phone buzzes, I cover my ears and reach beneath my pillow, expecting it to be Priya. It's not like I only have one friend or something, but well, I do.

To my horror, it's not Priya. Instead, it's a text from the reason I have a headache in the first place: Jake Carpenter.

Don't forget the coffee house tonight.

Fantastic.

Jake is waiting in the parking lot for me when I get to the black ice. He steps beside me and offers out his arm. When I give him a look, he says, "Why do you even walk to school?"

"Because I hate public transport."

He sighs like this is somehow annoying to him, me walking to school. Then he grabs my arm and helps me through the slippery path. "If you drove or got the bus like a normal person, you wouldn't have to walk the ice path. There's a reason no one walks this way. Timmy Redwood broke his back on the same black ice last year and is wheelchair-bound for life."

I'd heard about Timmy's accident. He was a popular senior who seemed to be here one day and gone the next. But despite his injury, the school never closed the path. It's the easiest path to take when you're walking to school, and even though it's a pain trying to cross the black ice, I will never ride the bus again.

"Thanks for your concern," I say.

"You're insane," he replies.

We're getting closer to the main entrance. I start to feel nervous, like maybe someone is about to turn their head and see us walking together.

"You're breaking our rules again," I say. "I meant what I said yesterday. Even if I have to tutor you for the next two months, I want you to stay away from me in school."

"We aren't in school yet," Jake says. "No one can even see us. Plus, I wanted to apologize in person. About, you know." He lowers his head, dropping his voice an octave. "I didn't mean to embarrass you like that."

My heart lurches. "It's fine. Just don't be late tonight, all right?"

He turns his head to flash me a grin. "Me? Late? Never."

We continue to walk toward the entrance. Marisa Finch turns her head and sees us. She whips out her phone, furiously typing to probably everyone she knows.

"People are starting to look," I say, shifting away from him. "Can you let go of me?"

Jake notices Marisa and drops his hand like he can't stand to be seen with me. I know I shouldn't care–I don't exactly want to be seen with him, either–but my stomach drops a little.

If anyone should be embarrassed about this, it's me. Jake Carpenter is not the kind of person I want people to see me with. I don't want to be seen, period. When you are seen, you are spoken to, and when you are spoken to, you are spoken about.

In the distance, the rest of Jake's friends are hanging around the entrance. Jake spots them and, without even looking at me, says, "See you later, Hope."

So, that is that.

I spend the day trying to ignore my pounding head. In Maths, I hide my phone beneath the table and research how long this headache will last. According to researchers, symptoms of withdrawal can last over three weeks for heavy caffeine users.

Crap.

I manage to get through my lessons without dying. It's a feat in itself, and I start to wonder if all of this is worth it for a bet. Not just because of the symptoms, but because I'm certain if I don't drink coffee soon, the nightmares will get worse again; then it's game over.

At lunch, Priya is busy talking about something called the Fermi Paradox when I rest my head on the table. I think the cool metal might do something for my headache, but it doesn't.

"What's wrong?" Priya asks, pushing back my hair. "Your foot is tapping like crazy. Did you know people do that when they're sexually frustrated?"

I jerk my head up. "I'm not sexually frustrated."

"Are you sure?"

For a second, I glance across the cafeteria at Jake. He is sitting with his usual crowd, sandwiched between his friend, Kirk, and his on-off girlfriend, Lydia. He smiles at something one of them says, revealing the dimple in his cheek.

"Earth to Mia. Are you, or are you not, sexually frustrated?"

I glance back at Priya, ignoring the heat in my stomach. "I'm not," I say, taking one of her fries. "I'm caffeine-deprived."

"Oh," she says. "Well, that's a relief. At least can we do something about the coffee deprivation."

"Ha ha," I say, but she's right.

***

Later that evening, when I make it to The Coffee Pod, Jake isn't there. I sigh and take a seat at our table.

The Coffee Pod feels different during normal hours. I'm used to it being quiet, but right now, the place is alive: chatter fills the room with a low, familiar hum, and no one is reading or typing or sketching. This must be the time of day when the normal folk come out.

For once, all tables are occupied. Several waitresses flutter around, wiping down tables or handing over coffees. I spot a free table in the corner and plonk myself down. Around me, the usual coffee house goers are drinking their coffee, and for a second I imagine myself visiting each table and downing what's left of their drinks.

"Hey." Jake collapses into the chair opposite.

I straighten up and pull out my folder. "You're late."

He glances at his phone before rolling his eyes. "By like, 5 minutes."

I open my mouth to tell him late is still late, but he gets up before I can argue. He orders himself a coffee before bringing it back to the table, his eyes fixed on mine. I don't have to look at it to know what he's ordered; a steaming Espresso, black.

My favorite.

Nothing has ever looked so good right now. The coffee is hot–I can see the steam as it rises to the top–but that doesn't stop me from wanting to pour it down my throat. I push back my hair and meet Jake's gaze, feeling insane. "Do you really think that's going to work?"

"What?" he asks innocently.

"You," I say, leaning forward. "Ordering my favorite coffee and sipping it in front of me. Do you really think I'm dumb enough to fall for it?"

He takes a sip of his coffee. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I open my English book and shake my head. Nothing will make me happier than the day Jake realizes he has to pay me triple; I just need to last until Christmas.

"I don't know how you even drink this," he says, taking a sip. "Tastes like dirt."

My leg bounces beneath the table. It's taking everything I have not to claw that cup from his hands. "You know, I always pegged you as the type to go around eating dirt. Now I know I was right."

He pulls the kind of sour expression that would make me look ugly, but goddamn, it looks cute on him. "Seriously," he says. "There are so many other types of coffee out there. Why do you drink this?"

My eyes swiftly dart to the clock. All I need to do is last the hour, and then I can crawl into bed. "Because it has the most caffeine in it. 212 milligrams, to be precise."

It's the wrong thing to say, I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth, because Jake Carpenter grins. "I knew it," he says, his perfect teeth on display. "You're an addict."

I fold my arms, then unfold them again, trying to look nonchalant. "Don't be so ridiculous. I'm not addicted." I don't know why I let him wind me up like this. How can one person be so annoying?

Jake raises an eyebrow like he doesn't believe me. "You know exactly how many milligrams of caffeine there is in your coffee," he says. "Admit it, Hope. You're an addict."

Another headache forms. I rub at my temples the way an exhausted parent might do when they are talking to their insufferable child. "I'm sorry, did we come here to study or did we come here to talk about me?"

Jake laughs and pushes my book to the side; I can tell which he'd prefer. "Have you drank any coffee yet?"

"No. I told you, I don't need it."

He furrows an eyebrow. I have to admit, it makes him look serious and somewhat inquisitive–the complete opposite of the truth. "I hope you know I'm putting a lot of trust in you here," he says. "I mean, for all I know you could be drinking your way to an early grave at home."

My eyes narrow. He's making me sound like an alcoholic or something. Who doesn't love a good cup of coffee? "Okay, look," I say, pulling out our reading book. "Our paper on The Handmaid's Tale is due in three weeks and it'll be a big contribution in pulling your grade up. I'm assuming you've read the book by now, so I just want to see what your level of understanding is. Can you tell me what it's about?"

Jake shifts in his seat and takes another sip of coffee. He flashes a grin that must make other girls swoon–or he thinks makes them swoon–but I don't crack so much as a smile.

"Well," he says. He puts down his cup and leans forward over the table. He's stalling. "Obviously, The Handmaid's Tale is one of the greatest literary pieces to date, and it says a lot about society."

"Great," I say, not blinking. "What's it about?"

He runs a hand through his hair. I'm about two seconds away from taking this book and smacking him with it. "It's about a handmaid," he says, taking another sip. When he's finished, he puts his cup on the table and shoots me a smoldering gaze. If he thinks his good looks are going to dazzle me somehow, he is sorely mistaken. "With a tail. She spends the whole book worrying people won't find her attractive but finally learns to accept herself." He says it with such conviction that I almost believe him, but then I remember I have read this book, and Jake Carpenter is an idiot.

"You haven't read the book," I say, slapping it down on the table. "The paper is due in three weeks, will probably be one of the deciding factors on whether or not you're staying on the team, and you haven't even read the book. You are unbelievable, Jake."

Jake raises his hands like he's trying to surrender, but his mouth is still curved in a smile. "You're right," he says, searching my face. "It's just, Coach has been riding us hard in practice, and I didn't get chance to read it. I'm sorry, Hope. I just didn't want you to think I was stupid or something."

For a second, I believe him. "It's fine," I say. "I get it, but if you want to pass English, you're going to have to find the time."

He looks up now, his gaze intense. "Well, you're so good at this kind of stuff that I thought maybe you could help me write my paper."

The penny drops; I am such an idiot. "You mean you were hoping I'd write it for you," I say, shaking my head. "You are unbelievable, Jake. You go around thinking you're the next messiah, never being told no to anything, never getting in trouble for anything, and now I find out that you are so unbelievably entitled that you don't even expect to write your own damn paper. Well, your act doesn't work on me. I can help you understand the book and I can give you some writing tips, but I'm not doing it for you. No way."

Jake blinks at me, dumbfounded. He goes to say something but stops again; he clearly isn't used to 'no.' "Fine," he says, finishing his coffee. "We'll do it your way, but if I'm putting all this work in, you better believe that I'm planning on winning this bet."

"You can believe that if you want," I say, skimming the book, "but there's no way I'm losing this bet." My left foot taps like I've got a nervous twitch. He's still watching me, his expression a mix of annoyance and amusement.

"Well, neither am I," he says.

"Fine."

We stare at each other for what feels like forever. His gaze is intense, challenging even. For a second, I wonder if he's right.