Nash stared at me like he’d never seen me before. “I don’t want to think about what life’s going to be like on Friday, and I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this!”

Fighting fresh tears, I pulled him into the alcove by the restrooms, and Sabine followed at an almost respectful distance. “How am I supposed to react?” I dropped my bag on the floor again and stared up at him, silently challenging him not to look away. “You want me to pull out my hair and start wailing for myself? I’m trying to accept this with dignity and good humor. You’re only making that harder.”

“That’s because this is hard,” Nash insisted. “It’s supposed to be. We were supposed to have hundreds of years together, and now we don’t even have hundreds of hours. I’m not okay with that, and I’m not going to pretend I am.”

The first hot tear rolled down my cheek, in spite of my determination not to cry. “Fine. I understand. But I have to deal with this my way, and you can either be a part of that or you can walk away.”

Please, please don’t walk away… The only thing more terrifying than knowing I was going to die was knowing I’d be alone when it happened.

“I’m not going to turn my back on you, Kaylee.”

“Thank you.” I stood on my toes to kiss him and blinked away more tears. “Because this is really scary for me, and no matter what else I fill my head up with, it’s always there, in the back of my mind, just waiting for a chance to shove everything else over and take center stage.” As Thane had shown me less than six hours earlier.

Nash’s arms wound around me again and he held me close enough to whisper in my ear. “Well, maybe I can take your mind off it for a little while tonight, if your dad’s going to be out again.”

“He won’t be home till dinner,” I said, and my pulse jumped a little at just the thought of finishing what we’d started.

Sabine cleared her throat to get our attention, but it was too late. Coach Tucker, the girls’ softball coach, was marching across the hall toward us, pink detention pad in hand. “I saw that, Mr. Hudson,” she called, already scribbling on the pad with a red pen. She stopped two feet away, ripping the first slip off the pad, and handed it to Nash. “And you, Ms. Cavanaugh. Kylee…” she thought out loud, already writing on the next sheet.

“It’s Kaylee,” I corrected.

“My mistake.” She scribbled through whatever she’d already written and started over. “And your mistake was the public display on school grounds. That’ll get you a detention apiece.”

I glanced at Nash to find him grinning at me, the browns and greens in his eyes swirling with mischief. I shrugged and went up on my toes again, speaking to Coach Tucker even as my lips met Nash’s. “Better make it two.”

It’s not like I’d be there to servethem.

8

“What are they for?” Emma whispered, staring at the detention slips I was now using to mark chapter fifteen in my algebra book.

“Public display.”

“Both of them?”

I’d made Nash and Sabine promise not to tell Emma that I was days from death, in spite of our new “full disclosure” policy, because it seemed cruel to make her anticipate what was coming for days in advance. That was hard enough for me and Nash—Sabine didn’t seem to be suffering—and I wouldn’t put my best friend through it, if I could possibly spare her. And I have to admit, it felt good to talk to someone who didn’t get sad and overprotective the minute I walked into the room. So she didn’t understand my new cavalier approach to the school’s code of conduct.

I shrugged, grinning from ear to ear. “I guess we didn’t look sorry enough after the first one.”

Emma gaped at me, and I almost laughed out loud. Knowing I was going to die changed everything. Consequences no longer mattered, so long as they didn’t hurt anyone else—and Nash’s detentions didn’t count. There was no way they’d make him serve them while he was mourning the death of his girlfriend.

I could do whatever I wanted. And that incredible liberty—the only thing even approaching a bright side to the terrifying reality of my own death—left me feeling light-headed. And maybe a bit reckless.

I could stay up till four in the morning and eat pizza and ice cream for every meal. I could stay out all night. I could get drunk. I could have sex. I could get a piercing or a tattoo. I could stand up in the middle of sixth period and tell Mrs. Brown that the past perfect conjugation of irregular French verbs would never come in handy for me at all, and yes I did know that for a fact!

Next week, no one would care whether I’d gained weight or fallen asleep in class, or skipped school entirely. What did it matter if I failed French, or my piercing got infected, or I got pregnant?

But thinking of pregnancy killed my rebellion buzz with a single, gruesome mental image of Danica Sussman bleeding on the floor. Which reminded me of Mr. Beck, and when I looked up, he was walking down the aisle toward me and Emma, a stack of graded quizzes in hand.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe, afraid that he’d take one look at me and know exactly what I was thinking. That was entirely possible; we still didn’t know what he was. So when he put a quiz facedown on my desk, then moved on to the next student, I exhaled with relief.

Okay, I guess some consequences still matter…

I flipped the paper over. Eighty-two. Normally, that would bother me. I was pulling a high B in algebra II and I’d hoped to push that into the low A range by the end of the term, mostly because Nash’s grades—at least, pre-frost addiction—made me look bad. But now, a low B was the last thing on my mind.