Chapter 6

I’m two minutes from home when my phone rings.

“How did you not call me after chem lab?”

It’s more of a demand than a question, and I’m too exhausted (it took two hours to clean up that lab) to defend myself. “It’s your own fault for pushing off chemistry until next year, Hope,” I mutter into my phone. “If you were in our class you’d have seen the show for yourself.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I got Liam to notice me,” I point out.

“I heard that they had to call the fire department.”

“They exaggerated.”

“I’m calling the Octopus right now.”

“Why?”

“So Marcus can talk to Liam. Maybe he can turn this around. Tell him how awesome you are or something.”

“Hope, leave it alone.”

“I’m going to fix this for you.”

“Hope, it’s actually okay—”

But she’s already hung up. I sigh and push open the kitchen door.

Ethan is sitting at the counter when I come home. I’d expected to find him studying with his online tutor, but it looks like he is already done. Ethan has five different tutors to help him with basic subjects. After school, we finish our math homework together, but his formidable knowledge of biology is too intimidating, so he does that on his own. And then he’s basically free to memorize his anatomy slides. His afternoons used to be packed with therapy sessions. Until last year, each day was dedicated to a different treatment or therapy—speech, occupational, physical—plus a monthly meeting with his developmental pediatrician. But that part of Ethan’s life is just a memory now. Halfway through high school, my mother decided he didn’t need the specialists anymore and proceeded to cut them out of his schedule. The weaning process was so gradual that even Ethan didn’t notice at first. One cancellation, weeks in advance. Then another. By the beginning of junior year, the calendar was empty, for the first time since our childhood. Now it’s basically the tutor and me. My mom pitches in a little here and there when I’m not around. The reality is she handed the chief responsibilities over to me a long time ago. I want to believe it’s her vote of confidence in my abilities and my patience with Ethan. Maybe, though, it’s simply a result of her exhaustion, and no compliment is intended. My mother isn’t overly generous with compliments, overt or implied.

Ethan looks up as I come in and ducks his head to hide the cell phone in his hand. “I have to go now,” he says and hangs up, dropping the phone hastily into his pocket like he’s afraid I might run up and snatch it from him.

“Oh, please, Efan,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Do you really think I don’t know that you talk to Dad almost every day? I do live here.”

“You said I shouldn’t talk to him,” he points out. “I didn’t want to make you mad.”

“I’m beginning to feel like the cranky old lady that everybody tiptoes around,” I say. “You can do whatever you want. And I never said that you shouldn’t speak to Dad.”

“Yes, you did. You said, ‘Just because he sends us money for your lessons doesn’t mean that you should talk to him.’ That was last month, on the Sunday before school started. And then eight days ago on Monday, you said it again. Only that time you said—”

“Yeah, okay, I get it. I didn’t mean it literally, all right? Speak to him all you want. Just don’t tell Mom.”

He frowns. “Why? She knows I talk to him.”

“She does?”

“Yes. When I told her, she said that she didn’t care. Then she said, ‘Stupid bastard gets to be the good guy from five hundred miles away.’ And then she kicked the refrigerator. It started making noise after that.”

I can’t help smiling to myself. “She may have said that she didn’t care, Efan,” I prompt him gently. “But then she said some other stuff and started kicking things. Now what do you think that Mom is really feeling when she does that?”

He looks up suddenly and focuses on my face, his light eyes fix on me as if he’s trying to see right through me. It always freaks me out when he does that. Most of the time he’s staring at the floor or at the wall when he’s talking to me. But then, without warning, he’ll suddenly pierce me with those intense eyes until I find myself wishing he’d just look back at the wall already.

“What is Mom feeling?” he echoes.

“Yes,” I urge him. “What does it mean when she does that?”

His brows come together and his jaw tenses. For a moment I think he’s concentrating on the question, but then I realize that isn’t it at all. I thought I could read Ethan like a book. But this look—this expression, I’ve never seen him glare at me like this before. “I know what it means,” he snaps at me, his voice sinking into a harsh whisper. “I’m not stupid, Rain.”

“I…I didn’t say you were—”

“Mom doesn’t like it that I talk to Dad,” he continues heatedly. “But she knows I will anyway, and that makes her upset.”

“That’s it. That’s exactly right!” I offer him a proud grin, but he doesn’t appear to notice. He doesn’t seem at all pleased that he’s guessed correctly. His eyes narrow with frank resentment, and he leans closer to me, so close that I pull back a little.

“I also know what it means when you tell Hope that I will never get close to anyone.”

He lets the statement hang there like a bitter accusation. I sit stunned and silent before him, momentarily speechless at the ring of naked hostility in his voice. He had heard me say it after all, and he hasn’t forgotten it. Of course he hasn’t forgotten.

I open my mouth to defend myself but I can’t think of anything to say.

“It means,” he continues, his tone patient and deliberate, like a teacher explaining a difficult problem, “that you’re telling her to give up on me.”

“What?” I feel a painful lump rising in my throat.

“Just like the school,” he persists. “And just like you did. You gave up on me too.”

“I never—” I begin to protest, but I can’t bring myself to finish the thought. My eyes sting and blur with tears. He’s never spoken to me this way before. I brush my hand over my wet cheeks and start to back away from him.

“I also know what it means when Dad tells me that he wants me to visit him in DC over spring break,” he adds, triumphantly. “It means that he misses me.”

“He wants you to fly to Washington—?” I shake my head in disbelief. Has our father lost his mind? I want to tell Ethan the idea is completely crazy. But I’m afraid to speak. I’m scared to be honest with my brother.

He’s not listening to me anyway. “And I know what it means when you start to cry,” he finishes in a quieter voice. He drops his head and the fire in his expression flickers out. “It means that you’re sad that I screwed up again.”

“I’m not sad,” I insist automatically, but my flushed cheeks and streaming eyes belie my words. Even Ethan can see that.

“But you’re crying,” he states. There’s no sarcasm or irony in his statement; he’s just pointing out the obvious—just in case I haven’t noticed.

“I know I’m crying. But it’s not your fault.”

He looks genuinely relieved. “Oh. I thought it was because of me. Why are you crying? Did something happen at school today?”

Oh, for God’s sake, Ethan.

But, on second thought, I’m actually thankful he’s so literal-minded. For once it’s helpful to me because I really, really want to change the subject. His accusation is still ringing in my ears. You gave up on me…

And worse than his words was his expression in that moment. He’d glared at me as if he resented me. Not even during his worst meltdowns had I seen that look in his eyes. No matter how miserable he felt, I was always his comfort, his rock. When we were little, he refused to go to sleep unless I was curled up near him, like a human security blanket. At thirteen, I finally insisted on separate bedrooms, but every night before I went to sleep, I let him know I was near by knocking five times on the wall between us. The one time I forgot, he stayed up all night waiting for it.

You gave up on me… Had my one careless comment destroyed sixteen years of trust? It’s too much for me to absorb at the moment.

“I had a rough day,” I tell him, forcing a bright smile.

“What happened?”

“I yelled at Liam for no reason and then I blew up the chemistry lab.”

“Oh. I know that already.”

“You—you do? How exactly?”

“Hope told me.”

“She did?” Damn it, I need to stop sounding so surprised by everything. It’s just so unusual for him to be getting messages from a girl!

“Here’s her text,” he states and pulls out his phone to show me.

I blink at the screen. “She’s coming over this afternoon?”

“Yes. At three. She’s fifteen minutes late.”

“But—” I pull out my own phone and tap on it. There are no new messages. “She didn’t tell me she was coming.”

“She’s coming over to see me,” he states. No inflection in his voice at all. No triumph, no satisfaction. Just the fact. A clarification, for my benefit.

And meanwhile I’m struggling. I struggle not to stare and raise my eyebrows. I struggle not to be critical or amused. I struggle to be okay with it.

But I am so, so not.

There are so many reasons to freak out. How could Hope not tell me she was coming by to see my brother? That was not okay. I could spurt out an entire list of things to worry about. My brain is screaming doomsday warnings.

I swallow all of it. Something has changed between Ethan and me, something I just don’t understand yet. But I know to keep my mouth shut until I figure it out. So I do.

I shut it tight. And I keep it that way even after Hope bounces in and wraps me in a cheery embrace. My hug is a little bit stony, and my smile is fake. I know she’s reading me loud and clear, even if Ethan is not.

“We’ll be in Ethan’s room, okay?” she calls out as they leave the kitchen together. Like it’s routine for them. Like everything’s totally normal.

Like I’m not left in the kitchen mouthing, What the hell?

Thank God my mother walks in five minutes after they leave. The inner turmoil might have split me in half if she hadn’t come in then.

“Hope is in Ethan’s room!” I tell her. “Alone!”

“Okay.” She digests it as I did, without comment. Without verbal comment, that is. Her face is commenting all over this news.

“Ethan and Hope are alone. In his room. Together,” I rephrase. Just in case my first statement wasn’t clear.

“I know, Rain. I got it,” she says wearily and slumps down at the kitchen counter. “Good for them.”

I’m momentarily distracted from my meltdown. My mother is looking more than usually pale and worn. There are dark shadows under her large blue eyes, and her cheekbones seem even more prominent against the pallor of her skin. “Are you all right?” I ask her.

She nods half-heartedly and gestures toward the tea pot. “My stomach’s been off for a little while. Make me a glass of tea will you?”

“What kind?” I ask, opening up the cupboard. It isn’t a simple question. We have about fifty different types of tea. My mother belongs to the school of medicine that believes all illnesses can be cured by some combination of plant or tree root. I remember my dad yelling at her that I would have gone deaf from ear infections if he hadn’t finally taken me to the doctor. She’d insisted the garlic clove in my ear was more than enough to draw out the infection. To this day I still associate the smell of garlic with pain, shaking chills, and the sound of my parents fighting.

“Hawthorn berry,” she instructs. “Put in a pinch of ginger, a teaspoon of apple cider vinegar, and two tablespoons of honey.”

It’s only a simple pot of tea, but I feel a calm settle over me as I add the ingredients. Though my mom limits herself to creating healing hot beverages, she’s always encouraging me to take my food cures obsession to the next level. We have bins full of weird and exotic spices, cabinets stuffed with grains from unlikely sources (arrowroot, chickpea) and a fridge packed with vegetables no one’s ever heard of.

I bring the steaming mug back to my mother, and she downs it like a tonic. “Thanks,” she says with a sigh, settling back against the counter. “That’s so much better.”

Truth is, she doesn’t look much better. I’d been noticing that she was a bit worn out over the last few weeks, but today I’m actually worried about her.

“Your clothes look loose on you,” I point out, reaching out and pinching her sleeve. “This shirt used to fit you well.”

“I’m fine,” she mutters irritably and pulls her arm away. “I’ve been a little stressed, and I haven’t been eating right. I’ll get it together after we settle on the Stenson case.” She’s helping a group of farmers sue their former employer for health damages from a strawberry pesticide.

“Okay,” I say, unconvinced. “I was about to make dinner. We have some gluten-free pasta.”

None of us are gluten sensitive—not if you believe the doctors anyway, which my mother doesn’t. She suspects there might be a link between gluten and autism—so we haven’t had a soft piece of bread in the house in years. (Notes for the blog: Flaxseed challah—it tastes better than it sounds!) During elementary school, she had the same theory about casein and autism, so we were practically vegan for a while. Twelve years ago, she decided that air pollution in the big city was the cause of Ethan’s issues. And so we moved out to Montana, leaving the smog and my father behind.

When I was little, I’d complained about her beet noodles and fennel cupcakes. It’s hard to be the only kid at the lunch table with snacks that no one wants to trade. But over time I’d learned to embrace weird food combos and substitutions. The day I took over the family kitchen was a turning point. I was going to find the perfect recipe for Ethan, and for all of us. Five years later, I was still searching. And we’d eaten a lot of seeds in the process.

“Pasta sounds good,” she says. “Do you think Hope will stay for dinner?” Her face still looks tired, but her voice is smiling. Oh, right. Hope. How did I forget?

“Honestly, what are they doing in there?” I mutter. I’m seriously considering tiptoeing up to his bedroom and listening at the door. I don’t care how wrong and invasive it is. It’s only because I’m worried about him, I swear. Mom seems to read my mind; she puts a gentle, restraining hand on my arm. “Rain, concentrate on the pasta, and leave them alone.”

“How are you not nervous for him?” I demand loudly. “How can you just sit there calmly doing nothing?”

“What would you want me to do? Barge in there and stare at them? Send Ethan the message that I don’t trust him at all?”

“Trust? What are you talking about? This has nothing to do with trust!”

“Okay, so what is it then?” she inquires patiently.

How am I the only person seeing it? It’s so obvious. “I’m scared he’s going to get hurt. I’m scared she’ll hurt him, and he won’t know how to deal with it.”

She stares at me for a while in silence and taps her fingers lightly on her clay mug. I can’t stand it when she gets this way. Whenever I’m upset, that’s what she does. She studies me. Silently. Like I’m a strange beetle in a glass jar, bumping around, clueless about the real world outside. And she’s the scientist with all the answers.

“Hope is your friend,” she remarks quietly after a moment. “You seem to have a pretty poor opinion of your friend if you can’t even trust her around your brother for a few minutes.”

“No, that isn’t it at all. I love Hope,” I say quickly.

“So do I. She’s a good girl. She’s thoughtful. Responsible. Somewhat naive.” My mom has a way of passing swift judgment on everyone and boiling them down to three adjectives. Hope has come out of her evaluation with fantastic marks. Most people don’t fare so well. (Marcus was pronounced self-absorbed, finicky, and melodramatic. Kathy was vain, talkative, and immature. I’m glad she hasn’t met Liam yet; I’m not ready for that verdict.)

“It’s just… Hope has lots of other options,” I begin slowly, testing out my thoughts. “She can date anyone. She dated Grayson for six months, and he’s the hottest guy in school. But Ethan—Ethan is so alone. What if he falls for her? And then screws it up? You know he’s going to screw it up. Or what if Hope just gets tired of the novelty and stops coming around? For her it’s just another adventure. But for him it might become everything. And when it ends it will just crush him.”

She nods solemnly and seems to consider what I’ve said. I wonder how I would fare in her three-adjective evaluation. If I asked her, how would she describe me? Reliable, stable, loyal? That’s what I hope she’d say. But I have no idea what she thinks. It’s not the kind of thing you ask.

“What makes you so sure that they will ever date in the first place?” she inquires after a moment. “They could be just friends.”

I can’t tell her, of course. I can’t reveal what Hope has told me in confidence. Even pointing out that Hope’s face lights up like a cherries jubilee flambé every time my brother enters the room seems like a betrayal. So I just shrug. “I’m scared he’s going to get hurt,” I repeat mournfully.

“Well, if he does, he’ll be just like other sixteen-year-old boys,” she remarks. “It’s a rite of passage, isn’t it? Getting your heart stomped on by a girl. No reason that Ethan shouldn’t experience that part of life just like everybody else.”

Well, that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. My mother is inviting her own son to get his heart broken—and she’s saying I should stand by and let it happen. I was pretty sure a cure for Ethan’s heartbreak didn’t exist in the natural world.

“You need a distraction, Rain,” she says after a moment. I get the bug-in-a-jar feeling again as her eyes focus on me. “Maybe leave Ethan alone a bit and concentrate on yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what are your plans for college? This is the year to strengthen your resume, you know. I’m not sure you’re doing enough to stand out.”

This again? I think irritably. Like I haven’t already told her my plan for managing college while caring for Ethan. “What are you talking about? I’m getting good grades. And I’m memorizing the psychology book just like you recommended. I’m even trying to apply what I’ve learned! My friends are actually pretty sick of my attempts at psychoanalysis.”

“You probably don’t want to put that on an application.”

“And there’s my cooking blog—”

She dismisses me with a wave. “Nobody cares about your experiments with lemongrass and kale. You need extracurriculars that will look good on your resume. What about volunteering at MCC? Take your experience with Ethan and use it to help others. They have a program that teaches high school students how to interact and work with kids with autism—”

“That sounds great, Mom. But I don’t need extra experience. And we’ve already talked about this. I’m going to U of M so that I can be close to home. For Ethan.”

She sighs and takes another drag of tea. “Of course you’ll have to stay close to home. But that doesn’t mean you can skate through high school—”

We’re interrupted by the sound of a door slamming on the second floor and the hurried dash of feet on stairs. A moment later Hope appears in the kitchen and waves hastily to my mother and me. Her face is flushed and her lips widen into a large fake smile. “I gotta go now, guys. See you later. Bye,” she calls out and is gone before I can stop her.

I blink at the closing porch door and turn to gape at my mom.

“What happened?” Her face wears the same blank question as the one I ask.

I head to Ethan’s room, my mother trailing behind me. The door is open, and I knock gently and peer inside. My brother is sitting on the floor, his anatomy textbook open across his knees; the carpet around him is littered with drawings of body parts. He’s clicking away on his laptop and staring at a large projection in front of him. The television and the computer screen are facing him, so I can’t see what he’s looking at, but based on the intensity of his concentration, I guess that he’s absorbed in his favorite subject again.

“Hello, Rain,” he says. “Hello, Mom.”

Nothing seems wrong here; everything is just like it always is. Why was Hope in such a frantic hurry to go then? She’d seemed eager enough to hang out with him just a few minutes earlier.

“Is everything okay?” I ask him tentatively. He frowns in my direction, then turns back to his computer.

“No, it isn’t,” he grumbles. “I got everything wrong.”

I advance slowly into the room and settle down on the rug next to him. “I’m sorry it didn’t go well,” I tell him earnestly. I really am sorry for him. As much as I’d been against the two of them becoming a couple, a part of me had hoped it would miraculously work out—at least for a little while. I certainly didn’t want him to fail on the very first try.

He focuses on my face and his eyes widen hopefully. “Secret Rule?” he inquires.

“Really?”

“Yes. I need it.”

“Okay,” I answer automatically. “What can I do?”

“Would you talk to Hope for me?”

“Of course. What do you want me to say?”

“I need you to tell her to come back. I made a mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“The fetus can implant on the cervix in rare cases,” he replies. “Not just in the fallopian tube.”

“Excuse me?” Next to me I hear my mother make a choking noise, and I glance back to find her gesturing mutely at the television screen. I turn to look at the still projection and freeze, openmouthed, and all thoughts of calling Hope evaporate as quickly as they came.

“Efan, was that picture up when Hope was here earlier?” I ask.

He shakes his head and taps quickly on the mouse. “No, this one was. And this.”

“Oh my God!” my mother and I exclaim in unison.

It’s a series of dissection slides, and the photos are close-ups of a cut-up uterus. With everything—everything—clearly labeled. And on one of them there’s a bloody bit of—well, let’s just say I won’t be able to get that image out of my head for a long, long time.

“Why would you show those to Hope?”

He seems perplexed by the question. “Why not?” he asks innocently. “She said she wanted to talk about what I was interested in. So I said I’d show her.”

“Why didn’t you just show her a picture of a lung or something then? Why did you choose that…that…”

“Ectopic fetus,” he finishes helpfully.

“Why?”

“Hope’s a female,” he replies simply. “I was trying to show her things that might affect her. She may need this one day.”

My mother gives him a tight and patient smile. “Ethan, do you think that Hope enjoyed going through those slides with you?” she asks him in a voice that’s straining to be gentle.

“She said she did,” he responds, clicking through his slide show again. “But I got some of the facts wrong when I explained them to her. It’s not my fault, though. This lecture was incomplete.”

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” I murmur without conviction.

“Just call her and explain, okay? She left before I realized my mistake.”

She sure did, I think, as we turn to leave the room. It seems cruel to tell him he really had gotten everything wrong but not at all in the way he thought. Better let him think his error was anatomy-related.

My mother shakes her head. “I’m going to let you cover this one, Rain,” she says. “Maybe go over the basic rules of dating with him? And do it before he scares anyone else.”

There’s a subtle sting of criticism beneath her mild suggestion, and I hang my head. She’s right, of course. I should have given Ethan rules for talking to girls. We had rules for everything else. But somehow, showing graphic anatomy slides had never come up before. How could I have anticipated that? My mother takes one last look at the screen, shudders, and then quickly crosses the hall, shutting her bedroom door behind her. It’s up to me now. But isn’t it too late to speak to him? Hope has already fled the scene, probably forever. If I tell him why she left, won’t it just make him feel bad? I’m considering the question when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

“I’m coming back,” Hope declares before I have a chance to say hello. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I slip out of Ethan’s room and shut the door. “You don’t have to apologize,” I assure her. “I saw what he showed you—”

“No, there’s no excuse. I can’t believe I ran off like that. I have to come back and explain—”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I’m on my way—”

“It’s seriously not a big deal—”

“I’m outside.”

“Oh.”

I hang up.

I come downstairs to find her standing by the kitchen door, jiggling back and forth like a kid waiting to use the bathroom. The blushing confidence of her first visit has vanished; she’s a portrait of indecision and embarrassment now. “God, I’m so ashamed of myself,” she blurts out when she sees me.

“Hope, I just talked to Ethan—”

“He must hate me—”

“Not even close.”

She pauses and glances anxiously toward the stairs. “Are you sure?”

I walk up to her and place a hand over hers. “You’re freezing cold. Doesn’t your car have heat?”

She hesitates, and a little color creeps back into her face. “I didn’t make it to the car. I’ve been walking in circles around your house for the last few minutes.”

I can’t help smiling at her anxiety. “You know Ethan has no idea that he offended you, right?”

Her eyes grow large, and she squeezes my fingers eagerly. “He doesn’t?”

“Nope. But he is very worried that he made a medical mistake when he was telling you all about—”

She waves her hand to stop me. “I wasn’t offended,” she insists. “I was just freaked out for a second. But then when I got outside I realized that he hadn’t meant to shock me or anything. He really believed that he was making interesting conversation, didn’t he? And then I felt just awful.”

I’m not sure what to say to her. I knew this would happen sooner or later. But I’m also sorry for her—for both of them. It’s like watching two people who don’t speak the same language try to communicate. Still, I can’t tell her that. I’ve already hurt my brother by suggesting their relationship wasn’t going to work. The only decent thing to do is step aside and let her figure this out for herself.

“You didn’t hurt him,” I say. “Ethan generally believes whatever you tell him as long as it’s reasonable. So he probably bought whatever excuse you blurted out.”

She shakes her head and covers her face with her hands. “I’m a little out of my depth here,” she admits after a brief silence. “I think I need a guidebook.”

There’s something so lost and vulnerable about her; I reach out and wrap my arms around her. She falls against my shoulder and buries her face in my sweater. “I should have warned you that I was coming over to hang out with him,” she admits. “But I knew what you would say if I told you. So I figured I’d just show you that there was nothing to worry about. Now I just proved the opposite, didn’t I?”

“Not at all,” I say. “But if you’d told me, I could have written you a little guidebook. Just to get you started.”

I don’t know why I suggest it. It’s the last thing I wanted to do, really. But Hope is my best friend. She’s going down this path whether I like it or not. Even if I’m sure she’s making a mistake, I can at least try to be supportive. And writing rules for her is way easier than the detailed dos and don’ts of dating I’ll have to submit to my brother. I have no idea how to even begin that task. Instead, I can start by helping Hope understand Ethan. And while she learns, I’ll have to watch over Ethan even more carefully than I already do. Maybe if I get involved, instead of just shouting warnings from the sidelines, I can minimize the damage.

“I’ll do it now, if you want.”

She pulls back and gives me a funny look. “I was just joking, Rain.”

I head over to the counter and open one of the drawers. “Well, I’m serious.” I grab a notebook and tear out a page. “This may actually be helpful to you,” I add as I start to scribble.

“I’ve been watching YouTube videos,” she muses as I write. “But they haven’t been so useful, really. Each person is so different—”

“Trying to understand autism by watching videos is like trying to understand boys by reading Cosmo quizzes on dating,” I point out.

“Yeah, I’m beginning to realize that. I watched a couple of movies too—”

“Let me guess. Rain Man.”

She nods, grinning. “Oh my god, that is so not Ethan.”

I scrawl down her instructions and push the paper toward her. “No, but this is.”

“The Rules of Ethan,” she reads out loud.

“It’s just the basics that I’ve learned over the years,” I tell her as she scans the page. “Every time Ethan tries to interact with others he has to stick to rules that are hard for him—that make him feel different. It’s only fair that we should get a set of rules too.”

“Which one of these is the Secret Rule?” she inquires.

“The Secret Rule’s not on there,” I reply, shortly. “That rule isn’t relevant to you.”

“Oh. Okay.” She looks down, disappointed.

“I can give you more details if you need,” I continue. “There are plenty more minor ones—” But she’s not listening to me. Her eyes have frozen at the bottom, on the last rule. Ethan doesn’t like to be touched, especially without warning.

She looks back at me, her brow furrowing. “I was wondering about the touching thing,” she says, hesitantly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I knew it would be painful for her to read, but I wrote it down anyway. She needs to hear the truth.

“Not at all?” she inquires in a small voice.

I suppose I should give her some kind of encouragement. But wouldn’t that be lying?

“Sorry,” I reply.

She nods and takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

I wonder if she’s questioning their future together already. Or does she think she’ll become the exception to Ethan’s rules? She doesn’t look nearly as dismayed as I thought she might. In fact, if I have to be completely honest, she actually seems a bit…relieved. My theories about her motives are looking doubtful. The whole Sleeping Beauty adventure idea doesn’t make sense to me anymore. I have no idea what to make of that quiet smile on her face.

Well, whatever her motivation, as long as she sticks to the rules I’ve written out, I can’t exactly object to her trying to get closer to him.

“You told Ethan you were leaving,” I point out, indicating rule number five with my finger. “He’ll be upset if he finds you hanging out in the kitchen.”

“I know, I was about to go. But I wanted to tell you something first.”

My phone buzzes while she’s speaking, and I frown at the unfamiliar number on the screen. “I don’t know who this is.” I begin to push it back into my pocket, but she puts out her hand to stop me.

“Answer it,” she commands. Her face is beaming with suppressed excitement. “Answer it, answer it.”

I’m suddenly extremely wary of her abrupt change in mood. “What are you up to, Hope? What’s going on?”

“Answer it!” she squeals, banging her hand on the counter.

“Who’s on the phone?” I demand. We’re on the fourth ring already, and she looks like she’s going to explode.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she huffs and grabs it from my hand. “Hello?”

“What are you doing?” I ask quietly.

“No, this is Hope,” she purrs into the phone, ignoring me. “Can I take a message?”

“Who are you talking to?” But she’s not even looking at me now.

“Hi, Liam,” she murmurs pleasantly. “No, that’s fine. I’ll go get her.” And she shoves the phone back into my hand. “Speak,” she growls in a menacing whisper. “Now.”

I stare at the cell in my hand for a moment and then slowly bring it up to my ear.

Thirty seconds and about five hundred heartbeats later, I hang up and hold my phone out in front of me. “He wants to get together after school tomorrow.”

“You’re welcome,” she trills and waves at me as she heads toward the door. “My work here is done.”

“Hope, what did you do?”

“Wear your green sweater,” she calls out over her shoulder. “And don’t forget to call me after!”

I still have a thousand questions to ask her, but she disappears into her car and begins to back out of the driveway before I’m even on the lawn. “It’s only a study date,” I shout after her. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything—”

“Just don’t overanalyze this too, and you’ll be fine!” She throws the suggestion out of the window and flees before I can protest.

Not overanalyze it? What is she talking about? What am I supposed to do until tomorrow evening? Turn my head off?