I feel her gaze burning through the sweaty, cotton shirt I stole. I stare at the brick wall out in front of me, hoping she’ll go, but she doesn’t, so I look at her.

Go the fuck away, I try to tell her with my face.

It’s the girl from homeroom. She’s got brown-blonde hair, and these striking, clear blue eyes that always seem to follow me. I felt them on me that first half hour. Right after the fight, I spotted them again, widened with fear. Of me or for me? Not that I give a fuck.

This whole damn day has been a pain in the ass, starting at the Crenshaws’. Rupert—yeah, his fucking name is really Rupert—Crenshaw, an entitled, 15-year-old twat, emptied my bag into the washing machine sometime late last night, so when I woke up—at four fucking thirty—all my shit was wet. He told his mothers he was just making sure my clothes were clean.

Rupert is so scrawny, I can’t wear his shit. Since the Crenshaws are both moms, it was girl shirt or nothing, so I ended up in a T-shirt with a big, pink flower on it. I wore my jeans wet, commando, because I’d rather deal with wet denim against my dick than wear a skirt. I’m all about acceptance and whatever, but I’m not wearing a skirt.

As soon as I got checked in at the school office, I asked to use the restroom, and then I made my way to the locker room beside the gym and nabbed this white T-shirt. It had a stain on the side, making it identifiable. But I’m a careful thief. I took the liberty of scrawling my initials on the tag. When mofo tried to jump me in the cafeteria, I played it cool instead of really waling on him. Then when we got hauled off to the office, one peek at my tag got me off the hook.

Except here I am now—not exactly off the hook, am I?

The girl doesn’t move, so I tighten my face.

God, her eyes are blue. Why won’t she fucking go?

She bites her lip, and I’m annoyed to feel my dick stir in my damp jeans.

Go. I clench my jaw.

Obviously, she’s not getting my ESP, because instead, she comes toward me, moving hesitantly at first, then with purpose. Her soft lips press into a line as she comes through one of the glass doors, stopping a few feet from me.

Up close, I can see some freckles on her nose. Her lips are pink and smooth, her blonde hair silky. Her blue eyes are wide and nervous, and her crisp clothes look brand new. “What do you want?” This girl doesn’t belong in my arms’ reach.

“Nothing.” She bites down on her lower lip again. “I— we had homeroom together.”

“Yes.”

“I saw you out here. I just wanted to stop and…say hi.”

Her manner annoys me instantly. As if I would believe she happened upon me randomly, up here by the school’s front doors, and decided to say “hi.” What is this, a fucking country club social? I give her a slight glare. “Don’t you have a class to go to?”

“Don’t you?” Her eyes widen.

“What do you care?”

She shrugs, and I can see her swallow. “You seemed upset, so I thought maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“I wanted to check on you,” she says at last. She squares her shoulders and looks up at me, her blue eyes sparkling in the light that’s streaming through the glass doors.

“I’m fine.” I turn away from her, because I hate that fucking look on her face. As if she’s trying to decode me. I’ve seen this look before from doctors and social workers, and the pity mixed in with it makes me ill.

“Well if you’re fine, you should come to class.”

I turn back to her, simmering with renewed irritation. “Are you my teacher now?”

“No. I’m just trying to help. It’s your first day, and it seems like it hasn’t gone all that well.”

“You think?” I actually laugh, the sound dry and completely humorless.

Her eyes fall to my right hand, the one I just used to punch the wall. “Is it okay?”

I look down, noticing the blood on my knuckles for the first time. Now that she’s mentioned it, it starts to throb. “It’s fine. Now go away.”

“Do you need a Band-Aid?”

“Do you know how to take a hint?”

Her jaw tightens. Then she blows her breath out. “It doesn’t matter if you’re mean to me. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

I arch an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.” She folds her arms in front of herself, pulling on her purple shirt, so I can see the outline of her bra under the thin cotton. “I’m not super sensitive or anything, and it’s clear you’re only being rude because I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, so we’ve got a psychologist in the house.” I offer some light applause, despite my throbbing hand.

The girl’s mouth curves slightly. She looks befuddled, and also a little bit amused. “You’re right, I’m not a psychologist. I’ve never even been to see one. But I am a fellow person, and I know you must be having a bad day.”

She doesn’t know the half of it.

“A fellow person?” Even to my own ears, I sound like a dick.

“A potential friend.”

“Is that what we’re calling this? Your stalking me? Potential friendship?”

Now she laughs—but doesn’t take my bait. “You never know. I could be the best friend you’ve ever had.” She spreads her hands, smiling patiently, and my heart beats off-rhythm.

“Aren’t you late for class or something?” I try.

“Yes. And like I said already, so are you.”

“If I come inside, will you go away?”

She nods, giving me a small smile, and opens the door for me. “So tell me,” she says as we walk back into the lobby, “is it really yours?”

“The shirt?”

She nods.

“Why would I steal a fucking undershirt?”

“Maybe you needed one.” Her side-eye is annoyingly omniscient.

I arch one eyebrow. “Maybe I didn’t.”

“Pax shouldn’t have done that. He’s hot-headed. I think you are too.”

“Is that what your psych training tells you?” I ask.

“That’s what your bleeding hand tells me.”

Touché. This girl is something else. “Any other brilliant observations?” I stop at my locker, and she waits. I pull some books out, and she steps a little closer.

“Is that a Richard Feynman book?”

I blink down at the paperback I’ve got atop my textbooks. Then, reluctantly, I meet her angel eyes. “Does it look like one?”

“It is. It does.” Her whole demeanor brightens, like a flower blooming. “Are you reading it for class?”

“I got the assignment yesterday. Wait—” I slap my forehead. “I didn’t go to school here yesterday.”

She tilts her head, the way that dogs do when they’re curious. “I think I like you, James.”

“Is that your way of saying you like Feynman?”

“That’s my way of saying I like you.”

She smiles again, and walks away, and I’m left with my racing pulse.

* * *

My last class of the day is marching band. I’m playing my clarinet and moving through our halftime formations on the practice field, but I’m not really there at all. My mind is in the school’s front entryway.

Who is this guy, and why does he make me feel…strange?

Normally I’d never be so forward with a stranger, but he brings out a new side of me.

Something drags down in my lower belly, the tugging of some cord, as I remember standing near him. Up close, I felt it even more: that quiet energy I noticed when I first saw him—a blend of aloofness and something else…a kind of holding back. This feeling that he’s got up walls—but I can feel something behind them.

I don’t know anything about him.

But I want to.

I don’t know why I have this feeling, like this boy is the most important person I’ve ever met, but I’m taking it home with me. I’m going to curl up with it tonight, and wake up with it tomorrow, and keep thinking on it.

I’m still replaying our encounter when I remember—I’ll get to meet the new kid when I get home.

He’ll be my eleventh foster sibling. We’ve had three babies, four toddlers, and four other kids over the years—all under the age of ten.

The babies usually aren’t with us for long. Most parents clean up their act fast when there’s a squishy baby on the line. The toddlers are usually temporary, too, most often because of a hiccup in their adoption process. The older kids are available for adoption while we have them. In two of our four older kid cases, the kids’ parents had passed, and no one was immediately around to take them, so we had them briefly while their extended families regrouped. In one other one, the girl was a cute, curly haired four-year-old who, by chance, got adopted out of our house.

And in the last case, the boy had…troubles. He was only ten, but the poor guy had a lot of baggage. He threw a butter knife at Em when she was crying, rolled my father’s bowling ball down the stairs because he wanted a toy I had, and called our housekeeper a bitch. Those things were okay—my parents didn’t want to give up on him—but then one day, he walked up to the waterfall in the woods behind our house, swallowed a bunch of water, and told my mother, who was hot on his heels, that he wanted to drown himself. We wanted to keep him with us and help him, but my parents work too much to offer a good home to a kid with additional needs. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone. So he got shifted into a high-needs home.

Our spare bedroom was vacant for a long time after that—close to a year. And then Mom and Dad got the call about Landon.

I think about him as we gather at the edge of the practice field behind the school, listen to the drum major give her criticisms, then trudge into the band classroom in the back right quadrant of the school.

I listen to Makayla, who plays flute, complain about her sore feet as we pack our instruments away. She tells me Pax might get suspended for the fight with James, and my heart seems to stop.

“Oh, really? Do you think the new guy is in trouble too?”

She shakes her head. “Pax told me in history that it’s only him they’re mad at. They believed the new boy’s story.”

“Why’d Pax do that anyway? Who starts a fight like that with a new kid?”

Makayla shrugs. “He says he really thought that was his shirt.”

Poor Pax. He really isn’t the brightest crayon in the box. He has good qualities, like pizzazz and loyalty, but he’s not so good at keeping his cool.

“That’s sad,” I say, as I hoist my heavy backpack up onto my shoulders.

“It is,” Makayla agrees. “So…call me later?” She’s walking through the band classroom, toward the hallway, and ultimately toward cheer practice in the basketball gymnasium.

“For sure,” I say, as I make for the classroom’s back door. I usually go through the hallway, too, but I’m not in the mood to deal with all the hustle and bustle as everyone pours out of school. I’d rather walk around the building, even in the heat, so I can have more time with my thoughts.

I’m almost to the door when Mr. Browne, the band instructor, calls my name. I turn around.

“I forgot—I got a note for you during practice.” He hands me a small, folded slip of paper.

“Thanks.”

I walk outside and unfold it.

Evie’s mother called. Evie should call Mom before going home. Important. The word important is underlined twice.

I swallow. Did something happen? I hesitate a second, thinking of pulling my book bag off to get to my phone, but I decide that I can wait until I reach the car. If it is an emergency, I’d rather find out about it inside the privacy of my car.

After a few minutes walking through warm grass, I reach the parking lot and the crowd spilling out the front doors. As I scan the throng of people rushing toward their cars, I notice a tall figure ahead of me. My stomach does a flip-flop. It’s him—James.

With a book in his hand and his head dipped, he’s walking between cars, headed toward the rear of the lot.

I trail him as he passes two more rows, rows I need to cross anyway to get to my Focus. He slows near my car, and my heart hammers at the thought that maybe we parked by each other.

I’m getting closer now—close enough that I could throw a rock and hit him. He turns toward the school, and I think he’s about to unlock the white truck beside my Focus. Then he leans against my car.

My stomach bottoms out as my throat tightens.

What?

He folds his arms and tips his head back, looking at the sky. He doesn’t move from where he leans against my passenger side door.

I think frantically of stopping, opening up my bag, calling my mom, but my legs don’t seem to get the message. I keep moving until I reach the car’s hood. Our eyes meet, and for a long moment, we stand there staring at each other like a deer stares when you spot one in the forest—a long, calm, assessing look while the wheel of time slows, jerks, and then jolts forward a few notches.

I know before we exchange words. And even so, I have to say them.

“Why are you at my car?” My voice sounds hoarse.

I can see his brows rumple, his eyes sharpen as he assesses me with a look that seems both skeptical and irritated. “Are you Evelyn?” he says at last.

“I’m Evie.”

His gaze falls to his battered sneakers for a moment before tugging back to mine. “Evie…I’m your foster brother.”