"Max Caulfield," Victoria said. "Those jeans? With that top? Helloooo, hipster central."

It was Friday morning, and the halls bustled with students moving between classes. Usually, Victoria did not stoop so low as to associate with persons like Maxine Caulfield, but today was a special day. Today, Max wore a pair of ripped skinny jeans and a hip-hugging flannel. She was basically begging to be mocked.

Max closed her locker. "Really?" she said. "I thought jeans went with anything."

Victoria suppressed an eye-roll. She couldn't stand when she smirked like that, as though pleased by her own cleverness. God, what a conceited little… "Well, your impression is wrong," Victoria fired back. "Flannel is so 2008."

"Certain subcultures still wear flannel in 2015," Max shrugged. "Lumberjacks, for example, and lesbians."

Victoria arched a (perfectly done) eyebrow. "Newsflash, Max. You're neither of those—last I checked," she added as a two-pronged dig at Max's femininity and sexuality. Damn, she was good.

But Max only quirked her head. "Last you checked."

Victoria opened and closed her mouth. Comebacks shuttered through her brain."Hmph, so you're a wood-chopping dyke now?" No, too hamfisted. "Oh, I've checked plenty"—what? No, Victoria, you sound like a stalker. "A fashion faux paus is a fashion faux pas"—good, now say it, quick!

The bell rang. "See you sixth period, Victoria," Max said, and smiled; then she turned and left.

Ugh! Who did that weirdo think she was? Victoria primly adjusted the hemline of her cashmere sweater, and turned on her heel. Whatever—she was over it.

She wasn't over it.

Even as she sat in Mr. Jefferson's classroom—the first one there, as usual—she would not, could not stop thinking about the exchange with Maxine Caulfield. She had the audacity to smile at her—smile! At her! She needed to be bashed off her high horse. First the sanctimonious quip in class about the daguerreotype, now the comment about lumberjack subcultures. Lately, Max was always one step ahead of her.

The door swung open, and Max came in. God, what was with her—she always looked like a sad puppy. A sad puppy with atrocious fashion taste. "If it isn't the gay lumberjack herself," Victoria said as Max slid into her seat.

"Subtle homophobia," Max said, taking out her books. "Nice touch."

"Oh, please." She waved her hand. "I'm not homophobic. If I were, I'd be going after that Alyssa girl." Alyssa Whatshername had dyed hair, which was—as any educated person would know—a lesbian's calling card. (And flannel shirts, apparently.) Either way, she was an easy target.

"'Going after'?" Max raised her eyebrows. "I don't think you know what homophobia is."

"I—," Victoria said, and that was when Mr. Jefferson cleared his throat and told the class to settle down. She bit her tongue and steered her gaze toward the whiteboard. For the rest of class, she glared straight ahead, pointedly ignoring Max's amused gaze upon the back of her neck.

That night, Victoria tossed and turned in her dorm bed, unable to find a comfortable position. She had a ton of tests tomorrow, and she was so stressed out, and that Max thing didn't help either—she drifted in and out of sleep, and the hours passed quickly; when she finally slumbered, it was almost three.

She was in Max's room. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, and acoustic music came from a set of speakers on the desk. A guitar case leaned against the foot of the bed. Max herself lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Come here, Victoria," said Max.

The order made sense, somehow. Victoria walked to the bed and lay down next to Max. Her body was warm and soft. Max turned to face her, all gentle blue eyes. "Do you like the song? It's Bright Eyes."

"Bright Eyes. So hipster," said Victoria. "But this is a nice song."

"Right? It's my favorite."

They stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other, then Max said: "Do you want to kiss me?"

Victoria's pulse was somewhere in her neck. "Yes."

She leaned in and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was staring at the ceiling of her own room, and the clock read seven A.M. Birds were twittering outside her window, and somewhere in the belly of the dorm building, people were moving.

Victoria bolted upright in her bed, mouth wide with horror—"What the fuck!"

She slapped her hand over her mouth. Don't scream, don't scream, don't scream don't—

Victoria fumbled for her phone. She needed to tell someone, no, she needed professional psychiatric help, she needed to be committed to a fucking hospital because she just dreamed about kissing Maxine Caulfield. Maxine Caulfield, who dressed like a homeless, washed-up version of James Franco and was not pretty at all, her nose was too skinny and she was bony in all the wrong places, and, and, and…

She was halfway through a text to Courtney when she froze.

What the hell was she thinking?

She shakily saved the text to her notepad app. No one needed to know. No one but her. Yes. She would bury this secret deep in her heart. Max had no way of finding out, no way at all, unless she was a mind reader on top of everything else.

Victoria let out a deep breath and dropped her phone on her bed. A dream was just a dream. Who didn't have weird kissing dreams? Never mind that shewanted, in the dream, to kiss Max (her guts shriveled in shame); dream logic made no sense in the real world. Right? Right. Right.

Riiiight.