I give Galen the opportunity to leave first. I open my binder, shuffle around some blank notebook paper, and make a show of tightening the straps of my backpack. He doesn’t move. Fine. I stand, snatch up my things, and glide past him. The lava rallies at my wrist when he grabs it, like he’s branding me with his touch.

“Emma, wait.”

He remembers my name. Which means he remembers that I nearly knocked myself out on his bare chest. I wish I had applied the porcelain foundation this morning—it might have covered up at least some of my blush.

“Hi,” I say. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.” I’m aware of a few stares coming from the back of the class—some of his fans have stayed behind and are patiently waiting their turn. “Well, welcome to Middle Point. You probably have to get to class, so I’ll see you later.”

He grips harder when I try to pull away. “Wait.”

I glance down at his hold and he releases me. “Yes?” I say.

He looks down at his desk, runs a hand through his black hair. I remember that Galen’s gift is not small talk. Finally, he looks up. The confidence has returned to his eyes. “Do you think you could help me find my next class?”

“Sure, but it’s pretty simple. There are three halls here. The one hundred hall, the two hundred hall, and the three hundred hall. Let me see your schedule.” He fishes it out of his pocket and hands it to me to unwad. Smoothing it out, I say, “Your next class is in room one twenty-three. That means you’re going to the one hundred hall.”

“But can you show me where it is?”

I check my schedule to see where I’m going, knowing even if my next class is in the complete opposite corner of the school from his, I will take him to room 123. Lucky for me, my next class is in room 123 as well—English lit.

“Uh, actually, we have the next class together, too,” I tell him apologetically. He follows me out the door and keeps my slowish pace as I scan over our schedules to see how many more classes he will have to endure my awkward company—and how many more classes I can expect to be blushing in. The answer is all of them. I groan. Out loud.

“What?” he says. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, it’s just that … it looks like we have the exact same schedule. Seven classes together.”

“Is that a problem?”

Yes. “No. I mean, well it isn’t for me, but … I just thought maybe you’d rather not have me around after what happened that day at the beach.”

He stops and pulls me out of student traffic to a row of lockers. The intimacy of the move gets the attention of some passersby. Remnants of his fan club linger behind, still waiting for me to relinquish my turn.

“Maybe we should go somewhere private to discuss this,” he says softly, leaning closer. He glances with meaning around us.

“Private?” I squeak.

He nods. “I’m glad you brought it up. I wasn’t sure how to approach you about it, but this makes it easier for both of us, don’t you think? And if you keep cooperating, I’m sure I can get you leniency.”

I gulp. “Leniency?”

“Yes, Emma. Of course you realize I could arrest you right now. You understand that, right?”

Ohymysweetgoodness, he came all this way to press assault charges against me! Is he going to sue me, sue my family? I’m eighteen now. I could legally be sued. The heat on my cheeks is part kill-me-now embarrassment and part where’s-a-knife-when-you-need-one rage. “But it was an accident!” I hiss.

“An accident? You’ve got to be kidding me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“No, I am not kidding. Why would I ram into you on purpose? I don’t even know you! And anyways, how do I know you didn’t run into me, huh?” The idea is preposterous, but it leaves room for reasonable doubt. I can see by his expression he didn’t think of that.

“What?” He is struggling to follow, but what did I expect? He can’t even find his class in a school with only three halls. That he found me clear across the country seems more miraculous than a push-up bra.

“I said, you’ll have to prove that I ran into you on purpose. That I meant to cause you harm. And besides, I checked with you at the time—”

“Emma.”

“—and you said you didn’t have injuries—”

“Emma.”

“—but the only witness I have on my side is dead—”

“EM-MA.”

“Did you hear me, Galen?” I turn around and yell at the remaining spectators in the hall as the bell rings. “CHLOE IS DEAD!”

Sprinting is not a good idea for me in the first place. Sprinting with tears blurring my vision, even worse. But sprinting with tears blurring my vision and while wearing flip-flops is a lack of respect for human life, starting with my own. So then, I am not surprised when the door to the cafeteria opens into my face. I am a little surprised when everything goes black.

6

HE PULLS into the driveway of the not-so-modest house he asked Rachel not to buy. Cutting the engine to the not-so-modest car, he throws his backpack full of books over his shoulder.

He finds Rachel in the kitchen, where she’s pulling fish fillets from the oven. She wears an apron over her polka-dot dress, and her hair, a chaos of black curls, is pulled into a ponytail. She huffs up at her bangs to get them out of her face as she turns and smiles. “Hiya, cutie! How was your first day of school?” She pops the oven shut with her hip.