Jackson Tate just walked into my English class.

He’s wearing jeans that have faded to the palest blue, holes at the knees, hems ragged. His dark gray T-shirt hugs his shoulders and chest and hangs loose at the waist, and the canvas backpack he has slung over one shoulder looks as well-worn as his jeans. His honey-blond hair is tousled and wild. And his eyes are hidden by a pair of bronze wraparound shades. On anyone else, sunglasses inside school would look ridiculous. On Jackson Tate they look . . . amazing.

His style is his own, and it works. And I’m not the only one who thinks so, because pretty much every girl in the room stares.

I’m not surprised to see him. Not exactly. There were enough warnings that on some level I knew he’d show up at Glenbrook eventually. My friends were talking about the hot new guy with the aviator shades right before I got pulled for the first time. Then Carly was all pissed at me because she saw me with the guy she’d called dibs on—with Jackson—when I was at the park. So it isn’t as though I didn’t know he was the new guy. But knowing it and actually seeing him standing here in my classroom, on my turf, are two totally different things.

I wonder why he wasn’t in class yesterday, then I remember what he said last night about being away.

Dee gasps, then whirls and starts whispering to Carly. Kelley has her palms pressed together, her fingertips against her lips, her eyes wide. I can hear the murmurs from some of the other girls in the class. I don’t turn my head. I don’t look at anyone, don’t talk to anyone. I just watch Jackson as he hands Mr. Shomper a couple of sheets of paper, then turns to survey the room.

Mr. Shomper says something to him. I don’t hear it over the thudding of my pulse, but as he heads down the center aisle, I figure Mr. Shomper told him to find a desk.

My heart’s pounding so hard, it’s a wonder it doesn’t jump right out of my chest. There’s an empty desk beside me, and another on Carly’s far side. I don’t know if I want Jackson here, or there. Doesn’t matter; I don’t get a say. He cuts between desks and takes the one on Carly’s far side, and as her smile widens into an all-out grin, I find myself glad he did. Carly’s just started talking to me again. If he’d chosen to sit next to me, that wouldn’t have been healthy for our reunion.

As Jackson drops into the seat, Mr. Shomper looks at the paper in his hand, looks at Jackson, looks back down, and says, “Mr. Tate, I don’t know about the rules in your previous school, but at Glenbrook High there are no hats or sunglasses permitted in the classroom.”

“Understood, sir. I’m not wearing a hat.”

The room’s dead silent, everyone waiting for the explosion.

Mr. Shomper blinks. “The sunglasses, Mr. Tate.”

“Medical necessity, sir. It’s there in the papers I brought you. There’s a doctor’s note and a memo from Guidance.” Jackson’s tone is calm and even, completely respectful, and completely inflexible.

“I’m not familiar with any medical condition that requires sunglasses, Mr. Tate. Please remove them. Immediately.”

I shoot a glance at Jackson. What happens if he takes off those glasses? What happens if people look in his eyes? The same thing that happened to me when I looked in the Drau’s eyes? I shiver. Then I tell myself that Jackson won’t let it come to that. He’ll just leave. He’ll find another option. He won’t risk exposure.

Jackson rubs his palm against his jaw, then says, “Are you familiar with scotoma, sir? Macular degeneration? Congenital amaurosis? Glaucoma? Any and all of the above require sunglasses.”

The whole class gasps. No one challenges Mr. Shomper. But did Jackson really challenge him? There was nothing inflammatory in his tone. He sounded completely respectful.

Mr. Shomper stares at him, then does something I’ve never seen him do, not once, and this is my second year having him for English. He smiles. It’s a little scary to look at. His teeth are yellow with a few brown spots and his pale, papery skin crinkles so much it looks like it might crack.

“Point well made, Mr. Tate,” he says. “You appear to have some skill with argument. I look forward to reading your essay on Lord of the Flies.” The smile disappears. “How many times have you presented your case to a dubious teacher?”

“This is my eighteenth school.”

Eighteen schools? Even Mr. Shomper looks stunned.

“That includes elementary and middle schools,” Jackson clarifies, as if that makes the number any less shocking.

That night, teeth brushed, ready for bed, I go to my window and look out. My skin isn’t prickling, I don’t feel that electric certainty that Jackson’s out there, but I look for him anyway. Hoping. English was the only class we had together, and though I looked for him in the halls, I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. I’m honest enough to admit that I’m disappointed.

I’m about to turn away when I see it: a white package on the porch roof. I open the window and lean out far enough to grab it. It’s a book, wrapped in a white plastic bag that’s taped down like weatherproof gift wrap. I smile. I can’t help it. Whatever book it is, it’s from Jackson.

I run my finger under the tape, open the bag, and peer in, feeling like I’m about six years old and it’s Christmas morning.

The latest edition of Bleach looks back at me. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, smiling and trying not to.

There’s a sheet of white paper, folded in half, sticking out from inside the front cover. I pull it out.