―She‘s been great,‖ Mr. Anderson said. ―I keep asking her to be my TA, but she‘s playing hard-to-get.‖ He lifted his eyebrows as he looked at me. ―So? Today?‖

―Oh.‖ I tried again. ―Sure.‖

―Well then, I won‘t keep you, Jenna,‖ said Ms. Sherman. ―It sounds like you‘re adjusting and things are going fine.‖

―Yeah,‖ I said, finally. I know: very articulate. ―Things are great.‖

―Excellent. Don‘t look back,‖ Mr. Anderson said as we took the stairs. The tardy bell rang and the halls emptied except for one or two stragglers. When we got to his room, he said, ―Well, here‘s where I get off. You‘re welcome to work here during your study hall, you know that. Or—‖ His lips twitched into a grin. ―Eat the sandwich you haven‘t gotten out of your locker yet.‖

I didn‘t know if I should thank him. ―Why did you do that?‖

He shrugged. ―You looked like you could use the rescue. She was hassling you.

People like The Tank make me tired. She means well, but I can‘t think of anything worse than being constantly reminded of things you‘d rather forget. What exactly does she think you‘re going to say, anyway?‖

All the things I wouldn’t mind telling you. That‘s what I thought, Bob. Of course, I kept quiet. We said good-bye and went our separate ways. I don‘t remember if I ate my sandwich that day.

That seemed to . . . start something, though. Some nights, he dropped by the library on the way to his car—to see how I was getting on, he said. He would talk about the cross-country team, which was not doing well, but he didn‘t pressure me to join. Other days, he didn‘t come in but looked toward my window on his way through the lot and raised a hand. The windows were polarized, so I don‘t know if he saw me wave back. But he knew where I was, Bob, he knew.

d

Then, ten days before Mom‘s book party, on a Tuesday: 6:45 P.M., and still no Mom. It would be dark in another ten minutes. The library would close in fifteen. Through the library windows, lights glowed on a soccer game on the lower field. The football team was scrimmaging on the upper field. Beyond was a dense thatch of blackness where the woods began.

When the library closed, I didn‘t know what I should do. I didn‘t have a cell yet. I couldn‘t go anywhere. Even if I could, I was afraid Mom would come, not find me, and then get pissed. She was really stressed out about the store and the book party. Times were tough at the store, and she‘d let two employees go, leaving just her and Evan, the store manager, to do everything. The last thing she needed was for me to go MIA. So, better for me to wait on the curb when the librarian shooed me out. If I got too spooked, I could always move under the lights in the breezeway.

One of the dubious perks of coming early and having to stay late all the time was I got my homework done, and I could use the library computer to write to Matt, which was safer than home because I wasn‘t allowed to lock my bedroom door either. (Honestly, Bob, it‘s amazing how much an open-door policy is just like living in a jail. There are so many things you just don‘t—can‘t—do.) Now, I found the sentence where Matt asked how things were going and started my reply again.

What‘s going on with me, the boy asks. Hah. After everything you‘ve been through? You are so brave. My life is nowhere near as exciting. School is, you know, school : But it beats the hospital. My favorite class is chemistry. I‘ve got this awesome teacher....

―Hey.‖

I was so startled I actually jumped. The librarian always retreated to her office so she could count down the seconds until I would stop being this major inconvenience and just leave already. No one else used the library this late. I‘d been so absorbed, I hadn‘t heard anyone come in. I craned my head around.

―Oh,‖ I said. ―Hi.‖

―Hi.‖ David‘s dark hair was damp, and pearls of sweat stood on his upper lip. He smelled of locker room soap and leather. A backpack hung from his right shoulder and a gym bag large enough for a cello dangled from his left. ―Want some company?‖

―Uh,‖ I said. ―What are you doing here?‖ Brilliant: like the guy had no right to be in the school library.

―Fencing practice.‖ He hunched his left shoulder with its huge bag. ―I saw you from the hall. Actually, I see you here every afternoon, but you‘re usually gone by now.‖

He‘d seen me every day? The idea that anyone who wasn‘t a teacher or guidance counselor would even think to look— or care—was a little jarring. ―Yeah, I . . . I have to wait for my mom. She‘s late.‖

―That sucks. Have you called her?‖

―I don‘t have a phone.‖

―No way. No cell?‖

―Well, I . . . I just never needed one. I mean—‖ I tried to be all jokey about it.

―Who‘s going to call me?‖

―If you don‘t have a phone, how will you ever know?‖ His eyebrows pulled down in a frown. ―Seriously, you should have one for emergencies at least.‖ He made a move for a front pocket of his jeans. ―You want to use mine?‖

―No, thanks. My mom probably got delayed at the store, that‘s all.‖

―Okay.‖ David studied me a moment. ―How come you don‘t have a car?‖

How long you got? ―I might get one.‖ I didn‘t have a license either, but he hadn‘t asked about that. ―Maybe this summer.‖

―Well, that sucks,‖ he repeated. ―Waiting around must be a drag.‖

―I don‘t mind too much.‖ Then, all bright and chirpy: ―I get all my homework done.‖ God, that sounded pathetic.

―I‘d hate having to depend on my folks all the time. It would drive me nuts.‖

Been there, done that. I didn‘t know what else I could say, though, so I kept quiet.

Why was he even talking to me? Student council elections had come and gone. (Yes, Bob, he won.)

After another moment‘s silence, David thumbed off his gym bag, which settled with a dull metallic clatter to the floor. ―So,‖ he said, dropping into a chair alongside mine,

―what are you working on?‖

―Oh.‖ I made a move to minimize the screen, but he was crowding in at my right elbow, his eyes skimming the words. This close, I could see the fine film of sweat along his temples, too. He smelled . . . really nice. ―It‘s, uh, a letter. To my brother.‖

―Yeah? Where is he?‖

―Away,‖ I said, and then I did close out of the account. ―It‘s private.‖

―Oh, okay. Sure,‖ he said, and easily enough that I didn‘t think he‘d seen the word hospital. Or maybe he was just nice enough not to let on. No, on second thought, the word passed him by. David was a decent guy and didn‘t seem to be that good a liar. Believe me, Bob, it takes one to know one.

More. Awkward. Silence. I glanced at the librarian, who was studying us through her office window. God knows what she thought was going to happen. She caught my eye then did the whole checking-her-watch routine. Like I always had guys drop in at the last second just to piss her off.

I turned back to David. ―So how was practice?‖

―Not so great.‖ Wrinkling his nose, David tipped his chair back and then gave this long and very languid stretch so his shirt rode up and I could see bare skin. ―My focus is crap. I‘m making a lot of dumb mistakes.‖

―Oh?‖ His stomach was staring me in the face, so I couldn‘t help but look. David was a couple cans shy of a six-pack, but his belly was still muscular and trim—and crisscrossed with bruises. Some were fresh, angry, purple wheals; others, a mottled yellow-green, were healing. He looked as if he‘d been whipped. ―What happened?‖

―Hunh?‖ Startled, he followed my gaze and then rolled up the edge of his shirt and studied his skin as if seeing it for the first time. ―Oh. Those are saber cuts. You get used to it.‖

―But don‘t they hurt?‖

―Oh yeah, but saber‘s not like foil or épée. You can score with the whole blade, not just the tip, and everything from the waist up is target area. So it‘s really fast, and there‘s a lot of cut and slash.‖ He gave a lopsided grin. ―It‘s why I like it, I guess. But this year the coach thinks I‘m more interested in just beating the hell out of people.‖

―How come?‖ My eyes zeroed in on the tail of very pink scar tissue, as thick as my little finger, snaking down along his left side, just below his ribs. Take it from a pro, Bob: that slice had been deep and bad.

―Pissed off, I guess.‖ His laugh was humorless, more like a bark. ―You know . . .

just stuff.‖

Just stuff. Well, that was an invitation for a follow-up if ever there was one. Because the truth, Bob, is that I‘d kind of forgotten how to talk to normal people. You know: the give and take, the little lies you let stand, the black holes you avoid because all friends know what shouldn‘t be said? The sucky thing about a psych ward is that you have to watch what you say. Therapists love hidden meanings, especially when their patients morph into these mini-me‘s. It‘s like the more people who agree with you, the truer whatever you think becomes. Complete psychopaths really get into it because they‘re total suck-ups, the best liars around, and when the therapist‘s watching, they‘ll hammer until you either get angry or break down and agree that, yes, yes, what you said isn‘t what you meant. Silence is not an option, either. Silence is resistance and, as we all know, resistance is futile.

David wanted to talk. That was clear. Why else would he bother with someone like me? So the normal response would be: like what kind of stuff?

Instead, I pointed. ―What‘s that from?‖

An arrow of surprise shot across his face. ―Where? Oh.‖ He pulled up his shirt even further, and now I could see how the cut had unzipped his skin all the way to his armpit.

―It‘s from last year. The other guy‘s blade broke in the middle of a bout and got in under my jacket. It happens way more than you think.‖

―Really? Why?‖

―Because a saber blade is really whippy and light, so you can go fast. Blades break all the time. The doctors said I was lucky this one went up instead of in, though. There was blood everywhere. Totally freaked out the coaches and the ref. Me, too.‖

―Wow,‖ I said, and then my hand was floating into the space between us before I could call it back. Or, maybe, I really didn‘t want to, Bob. I don‘t know. But it was like watching myself in a dream, the way my fingers homed in.