Jake nods. "Center. Got it. Where will you be?"

"Nowhere special."

"Nowhere special" is a pretty apt description of the boys' changing room. Its rows of orange- painted lockers and square windows that filter weak rays of real light into the room--real light that's promptly swallowed by the fluorescent lights overhead.

And it smells bad.

Chris is sitting on the bench closest to the door when I sneak in. There's a binder resting beside him--math homework. At least it better be.

"What if someone comes in?" My voice echoes around the room.

Chris stands, drags the bench to the tiny alcove where the door is and wedges it in such a way that no one should be able to get in. There was definitely a time when he wouldn't have cared if anyone caught us in here--and we'd been caught a few times--but now he's with Becky and those days are dead.

"So." I clear my throat. "How many pages of math will this be worth?"

He nods to the bench. I sit. He sits beside me.

This is the skankiest thing I've ever done.

I try to ignore how it starts with his hands carefully coming up past my cheeks and around my neck until his fingers are in my hair. He doesn't kiss me then, but he brings his face close, forehead against mine, and breathes me in because he wants me to feel guilty, I think. I think maybe it's working.

I haven't thought about the money in a long time.

His lips get excruciatingly close to mine and he pauses.

"Do you even miss me?"

"No," I say.

He finally kisses me, presses his lips lightly against mine. I know what he's doing. He's teasing me and I won't have it. I make him really kiss me, full on the mouth, and force his lips apart with my own.

And then he stops.

"What about everything you felt about me? Where does that go?" He leans in again and stops before anything can happen. "I would've stuck it out. You wouldn't let me help you."

"I didn't need your help."

"Yes, you did. You do. Everyone got through it together but you. You're so perfect, you just couldn't handle it--"

"You're as bad as Jake," I say. "You talk too much. Shut up and forget it because it's not worth your homework for me to sit here and listen to you nitpick the past."

That kills it. After a second, he presses his binder into my hands.

"Take it," he says, before I can ask. "Have it back to me by tomorrow morning."

"Oh, come on. Afraid you won't respect yourself afterward?" I study him. His cheeks are pink. "I'm not going to tell Becky."

"I just wanted to kiss you again."

"Stop it."

"You could've said no," he says, standing. He pulls the bench out. "You know I'm not over you. You could've said no and done the homework yourself, but you didn't."

"You're right," I say. "You know what? You're absolutely right. Call it a momentary lapse of sanity."

He opens the door.

"Or maybe you just wanted to kiss me again, too."

I roll my eyes.

EIGHT

Bailey's developed this weird attachment to me. He follows me from room to room, lays at my feet under the dinner table and stands guard in the living room for the two hours it takes me to copy Chris's math homework. My parents can't shut up about how cute it is, so three guesses for how I feel about it, and the first two don't count.

"Maybe you could take him for a walk, now that your foot is better."

Mom says it in a voice that tells me it's less of a suggestion and more of a command. I go along with it because I want out. I throw my coat on, attach Bailey to the leash--his tail wags back and forth excitedly--and escape.

"Hey, Parker!"

I've been walking a good forty minutes when I hear my name. Somehow I took a turn that landed me on Victoria Street, where the traffic is kind of heavy and I cross the paths of more people than I normally like to do. I cock my head to the side. Nothing. Maybe I didn't hear it after all. I keep walking.

"Parker!"

Damn. I turn in the direction of the voice and spot Jake emerging from the video store, holding a plastic DVD case in his hand. He jogs over.

"Didn't figure I'd see you before tomorrow," he says.

"That makes two of us."

"Who's this?"

Jake crouches down and gives Bailey a vigorous head petting. He scratches Bailey behind his ears, under his chin, the works.

"This is Bailey. Bailey, this is Jake Gardner."

"Hi, Bailey," Jake says, patting his nose. Bailey loves the attention. His eyes half close and his tongue hangs out, but his tongue always does that. I realize it's been thirty seconds and I haven't said anything mean to Jake.

Jake smiles at me. "I think Bailey likes me."

"Bailey doesn't have very discriminating taste," I warn him. "He adored his last owner and his last owner used to beat him, so it doesn't really say much about you."

Still got it.

Jake gives Bailey one last pat on the head and stands.

"So why did you run away from home?"

"How many minutes a day do you spend thinking about me?" I ask. "Like, do you have anything else to live for?"

"It's your own fault," he replies. "The less you want me to know about you, the more I want to find out. Especially if it bothers you."

"Nice. What gives you the right?"

"You kind of set the precedent when we met, didn't you?"

"Bailey, attack!"

I give his leash a sharp tug. He only stares at us happily.

Jake laughs. "So cute."

"Yeah, well, I don't know about you, but I'm walking now." "Wow, that's practically an invitation coming from you."

So we walk.

"Got any more ideas for our project?" he asks.

"I'm supposed to be thinking of ideas?" I ask back. "I wonder if Norton knows how dumb this assignment is. Do you think he does? Think he's just fucking with us?"

"I don't know, maybe. So why did you run away from home?"

"Okay, Jake?" I stop; he stops. "I'm going to tell you something and I want you to listen carefully and then every time you want to ask me a personal question, you can just refer back to this answer. Are you ready?"

He nods and his hair falls into his eyes. He brushes it away.

"I'm really fucked up," I tell him. "And I don't like people."

"Got it," he says. "But why?"

"It doesn't matter why. I don't give the people I know valuable insight into my psyche. You're the new kid. You have no chance."

"I'm going try to have a conversation with you anyway. Are you ready?"

I think if I roll my eyes any more this year, they might get stuck in my head, so I refrain. But not rolling my eyes leaves me with an anxious feeling, so I hand Jake Bailey's leash and start snapping my fingers.

"So, Parker," he begins. "How are you?"

"Oh my God." I give in to the eye roll. "I'm fine, Jake. How are you?"

"I'm good. Getting used to St. Peter's and stuff."

"Why bother? You'll just be leaving soon anyway."

"I believe in making the most of my time," he says. We head farther down the street. "It hasn't been easy. I used to go to a public school and now I'm stuck in your stupid uniforms. And the praying drives me crazy."

"You and everyone else." I stop snapping my fingers and cross my arms. It's chilly out. "Do you know how much harder it is to become popular when you have to wear a uniform? You can't rely on being fashionable to help you climb the social ladder. Becky and Jessie and I had a hell of a time working our way up in those uniforms."

"Tragedy," Jake says.

"Definitely," I agree. "Were you popular at your old school?"

"Would you like me less depending on my answer?"

"Jake, I don't think I could like you any less," I assure him. "Besides, I know you were. Popular people give off pheromones only other popular people can pick up on. Chris really took a liking to you, so I put two and two together."

"My best friend was the most popular guy in my old school," Jake admits. "His name was Adam Jenkins."

I don't say anything.

"I didn't necessarily want it," he adds, like that'll make me think more of him. "Why did you want to be popular?"

"Who says I wanted to be popular?"

"Please. You just said you worked your way to the top. Why?"

"Why does it matter?" "I'm curious."

"You should really do something about that." I take Bailey's leash back. "I thought it would be easier."

Jake nods like he understands, but popularity is always different for guys--way less maintenance involved. It really is easier for them. And besides, I'm totally lying anyway. I didn't want to be popular because it was easier; I wanted to be popular because in high school that's the best thing you can be: perfect. Everything else is shit.

We keep walking and I wish he'd leave. Being on this street feels wrong. All these people, the cars flying back and forth--it's like a scene out of a movie and I belong to it with Jake and the dog. It probably looks perfect to someone watching from the outside, but it really freaks me out, so I keep glancing up and down the street, hoping for an opportunity to ditch him. And that's when I spot this familiar face outside Al's Convenience Store and everything stops. Like time. Everything.

He looks terrible, gaunt. A male anorexic. Even from across the road, I can see the hollows of his cheekbones, and he's slouched over and pale and his hair's longer than he'd ever let it grow last year, like really long, like hanging-in-his-eyes long, and I don't understand why he's back. Why is he back and how soon before he leaves again?