He looks around, to see if Rhiannon is near, and to see if the other guys in the room are seeing this happen.

“Whoa,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I really like you.”

He sits back. Shakes his head. “Um … no.”

I’ve been too forward. He needs it to be his idea.

“Why not?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’m a complete idiot.

“Why not?” he says. “How about Rhiannon? Jeez.”

I’m trying to think of a comeback for that, but there isn’t one. And it doesn’t even matter, because at this point, Rhiannon returns to the table.

“I don’t want this,” she says. “Stop.”

Justin, fool that he is, thinks she’s talking to him.

“I’m not doing anything!” he protests, his leg firmly back on his side of the booth. “Your friend here is a little out of control.”

“I don’t want this,” she repeats.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be!” Justin yells. “God, I don’t know how they do things in California, but here, you don’t act like that.” He stands up. I steal a glance at his groin and see that despite his denials, my flirtation did have at least one effect. But I can’t really point it out to Rhiannon.

“I’m gonna go,” he says. Then, as if to prove something, he kisses Rhiannon right in front of me. “Thanks, baby,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to me.

Rhiannon and I sit back down.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her again.

“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve known.”

I’m waiting for the I told you so … and then it comes.

“I told you that you don’t understand. You can’t understand us,” she says.

The check comes. I try to pay, but she waves me off.

“It’s not your money,” she says. And that hurts just as much as anything else.

I know she wants the night to end. I know she wants to drop me off at home, just so she can call Justin and apologize, and make everything right with him again.

Day 6008

I go to the computer as soon as I wake up the next morning. But there’s no email from Rhiannon. I send her another apology. I send her more thanks for the day. Sometimes when you hit send, you can imagine the message going straight into the person’s heart. But other times, like this time, it feels like the words are merely falling into a well.

I head to the social-networking sites, searching for something more. I see that Austin and Hugo still list their relationship status as being together—a good sign. Kelsea’s page is locked to non-friends. So there’s proof of one thing I managed to save, and another where saving is possible.

I have to remind myself it’s not all bad.

Then there’s Nathan. The coverage of him continues. Reverend Poole is getting more testimony by the day, and the news sites are eating it up. Even the Onion is getting into the act, with the headline: WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TO REVEREND POOLE: ‘THE DEVIL MADE ME EAT THE PLUM.’ If smart people are parodying it, that’s a sure sign that some less smart people are believing it.

But what can I do? Nathan wants his proof, but I’m not sure I have any to give. All I have is my word, and what kind of proof is that?

Today I’m a boy named AJ. He has diabetes, so I have a whole other layer of concerns on top of my usual ones. I’ve been diabetic a couple of times, and the first time was harrowing. Not because diabetes isn’t controllable, but because I had to rely on the body’s memories to tell me what to look out for, and how to manage it. I ended up pretending I wasn’t feeling well, just so my mother would stay at home and monitor my health with me. Now I feel I can handle it, but I am very attentive to what the body is telling me, much more so than I usually am.

AJ is full of idiosyncrasies that probably don’t seem all that idiosyncratic to him anymore. He’s a sports fanatic—he plays soccer on the JV squad, but his real love is baseball. His head is full of statistics, facts and figures extrapolated into thousands of different combinations and comparisons. In the meantime, his room is a shrine to the Beatles, and it appears that George is by far his favorite. It isn’t hard to figure out what he’s going to wear, because his entire wardrobe is blue jeans and different variations of the same button-down shirt. There are also more baseball caps than I can imagine anyone needing, but I figure he’s not allowed to wear those to school.

It’s a relief, in many ways, to be a guy who doesn’t mind riding the bus, who has friends waiting for him when he gets on, who doesn’t have to deal with anything more troubling than the fact that he ate breakfast and is still hungry.

It’s an ordinary day, and I try to lose myself in that.

But between third and fourth periods, I’m dragged right back. Because there, right in the hall, is Nathan Daldry.

At first I think I might be mistaken. There are plenty of kids who could look like Nathan. But then I see the way the other kids in the hall are reacting to him, as if he’s this walking joke. He’s trying to make it seem like he doesn’t notice the laughter, the snickers, the snarky comments. But he can’t hide how uncomfortable he is.

I think: He deserves this. He didn’t have to say a word. He could’ve just let it slide.

And I think: It’s my fault. I’m the one who did this to him.