"Did you get my message?"

I let go of the gate and head for the office, envisioning the awful moment when I'll step inside and get nailed for yesterday's ditching and today's tardy.

"What's wrong?" he asks, grabbing hold of my hand and turning my insides to warm molten liquid. "I thought we had fun. I thought you enjoyed it?"

I lean against the low brick wall and sigh. Feeling rubbery, weak, completely defenseless.

"Or were you just humoring me?" He squeezes my hand, his eyes begging me not to be mad. And just as I start to fold, just when I've almost swallowed his bait, I drop his hand and move away. Wincing as memories of Haven, our phone call, and his strange disappearance on the freeway rush over me like a tidal wave.

"Did you know Drina went to Disneyland too?" I say, and the second I say it, I realize how petty I sound. Yet now that it's out there, I may as well continue. "Is there something I should know? Something you need to tell me?" I press my lips together and brace for the worst.

But he just looks at me, gazing into my eyes as he says,

"I'm not interested in Drina. I'm only interested in you."

I stare at the ground, wanting to believe, wishing it were only that easy. But when he takes my hand again, I realize it is that easy, because all of my doubts just slip right away.

"So now's the part when you tell me you feel the same way," he says, gazing at me.

I hesitate, my heartbeat so severe I'm sure he can hear it. But when I pause for too long, the moment flees, and he slips his arm around my waist and leads me back to the gate.

"That's okay." He smiles. "Take your time. There's no rush, no expiration date." He laughs."But for now, let's get you to class."

"But we have to go through the office." I stop in my tracks and squint at him. "The gate's locked, remember?"

He shakes his head. "Ever, the gate's not locked."

"Uh, sorry, but I just tried to open it. It's locked," I remind him.

He smiles. "Will you trust me?"

I look at him. "What's it going to cost you? A few steps?

Some additional tardy minutes?"

I glance between the office and him, then I shake my head and follow, all the way back to the gate that is somehow, inexplicably open.

"But I saw it! And you saw it too!" I face him, not understanding how any of this could have happened. "I even shook them, as hard as I could, and they wouldn't budge an inch."

But he just kisses my cheek and ushers me through,

laughing as he says, "Go on. And don't worry, Mr. Robins is incapacitated and the sub's in a daze. You'll be fine."

"You're not coming?" I ask, that needy, panicky feeling building inside me again. But he just shrugs. 'Im emancipated. I do what I want."

"Yeah, but—" I stop, realizing his phone number's not the only thing missing. I barely even know this guy. And I can't help but wonder how he can possibly make me feel so good, so normal, when everything about him is so abnormal. Though it's not until I've turned away that I realize he's yet to explain what happened on the freeway last night.

But before I can ask he's right there beside me, taking my hand as he says, "My neighbor called. My sprinklers failed and my yard was flooding. I tried to get your attention but you were on the phone, and I didn't want to bother you."

I gaze down at our hands, bronze and pale, strong and frail, such an unlikely pair. "Now go. I'll see you after school, I promise." He smiles, plucking a Single red tulip from the back of my ear.

Usually, I try not to dwell on my old life. I try not to think about my old house, my old friends, my old family, my old self. And even though I've gotten pretty good at heading off that particular storm, recognizing the signs—the stinging eyes, the shortness of breath, the overwhelming feeling of hollowness and despair—before they can take hold, sometimes it just hits, without warning, without time to prepare. And all I can do when that happens is curl up in a ball and wait for it to pass... which is pretty hard to do in the middle of history class.

So while Mr. Munoz is going on and on about Napoleon, my throat doses, my stomach clenches, and my eyes start to sear so abruptly, I bolt from my seat and race for the door, oblivious to the sound of my teacher calling me back, immune to my classmates' derisive laugh.

I turn the corner, blinded by tears, gasping for air, my insides feeling empty, cleaned out, a hollow shell folding in on itself. And by the time I see Stacia it's way too late, and I knock her with such speed and force she crashes to the ground and rips a hole in her dress.

"What the—" She gapes at her splayed limbs and torn dress, before leveling her gaze right on me. "You fucking ripped it, you freak!" She pokes her fist through the tear, displaying the damage. And even though I feel bad for what happened, there's no time to help. The grief is about to consume me and I can't let her see.

I start to brush past her just as she grabs hold of my arm and struggles to stand, the touch of her skin infusing me with such dark dismal energy it robs me of breath.

"For your information, this dress is designer. Which means you are going to replace it," she says, fingers squeezing so tight, I fear I might faint. ' And trust me, it doesn't stop there." She shakes her head and glares. "You are gonna be so fucking sorry you ran into me, you're gonna wish you never came to this school."