Only this time, classroom doors all around me were being flung open, and students started streaming out into the breezeway. There is no bell system at the Mission Academy—the trustees don’t want to disturb the serenity of the courtyard or basilica by having a Klaxon ring every hour on the hour—so we just change classes every time the big hand reaches twelve. First period was, I realized, as the hordes started to mill around me, over.

“Well, Suze?” Paul asked, staying where he was, in spite of the sea of humanity darting past him. “Is that it? You don’t want me dead. You want me around. Because you like me. Admit it.”

I shook my head incredulously. It was, I realized, hopeless to argue with the guy. He was just too full of himself ever to listen to anyone else’s point of view.

And then, of course, there was the little fact that he was right.

“Oh, Paul, there you are.” Kelly Prescott came up to him, flinging her honey-blonde hair around. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Listen, I was thinking, about the voting, you know, at lunchtime. Why don’t you and I stroll around the yard, passing out candy bars. You know, to remind people. To vote, I mean.”

Paul wasn’t paying any attention whatsoever to Kelly, though. His ice-blue gaze was still on me.

“Well, Suze?” he called, above the clanging of locker doors and the hum of conversation—though we were supposed to be quiet during period changes, so as not to disturb the tourists. “Are you going to admit it or not?”

“You,” I said, shaking my head, “are in need of intensive psychotherapy.”

Then I started to walk past them.

“Paul.” Kelly was tugging on Paul’s leather coat now, darting nervous glances at me the whole time. “Paul. Hello. Earth to Paul. The election. Remember? The election? This afternoon?”

Then Paul did something that would, I realized soon after, go down in the annals of the Mission Academy—and not just because CeeCee saw it, too, and filed it away for later reporting in the Mission News. No, Paul did something no one, with the possible exception of me, had ever done in the whole of the eleven years Kelly had been attending the school:

He dissed her.

“Why can’t you,” he said, pulling his coat out from beneath her fingers, “leave me alone for five freaking minutes?”

Kelly, as stunned as if he had slapped her, went, “Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” Paul said. Though he did not seem to be aware of it, everyone in the breezeway had stopped what they were doing suddenly, just so they could watch what he’d do next. “I am freaking sick of you and this stupid election and this stupid school. Got me? Now get out of my sight, before I say something I might regret.”

Kelly blinked as if her contact lens had slipped out. “Paul!” she said with a gasp. “But…but…the election…the candy bars…”

Paul just looked at her. “You can take your candy bars,” he said, “and stick them up your—”

“Mr. Slater!” One of the novices, who are assigned to patrol the breezeway between classes to make sure none of us gets too noisy, pounced on Paul. “Get to the principal’s office, this instant!”

Paul suggested something to the novice that I was quite sure was going to earn him a suspension, if not expulsion. It was so inflammatory, in fact, that even I blushed on his behalf, and I have three stepbrothers, two of whom use that kind of language regularly when their father isn’t around.

The novice burst into tears and went running for Father Dominic. Paul looked after her fleeing, black-gowned little figure, then at Kelly, who was also crying. Then he looked at me.

There was a lot in that look. Anger, impatience, disgust.

But most of all—and I do not think I was mistaken about this—there was hurt. Seriously. Paul was hurt by what I’d said to him.

It had never occurred to me that Paul could be hurt.

Maybe what I had said to Jesse—about Paul being lonely—had been right after all. Maybe the guy really did just need a friend.

But he certainly wasn’t making many at the Mission Academy, that was for sure.

A second later, he’d broken eye contact with me, turned around, and strode out of the school. Shortly after that, I heard the rev of the engine of his convertible and then the squeal of his tires on the asphalt of the parking lot.

And Paul was gone.

“Well,” CeeCee said with no small amount of relish as she came up to me. “Guess that takes care of the election, doesn’t it?”

Then she held up my wrist, prizefighter-style. “All hail Madam Vice President!”

chapter

fifteen

Paul didn’t come back to school that day.

Not that anybody expected him to. A sort of all-points bulletin went through the eleventh grade, stating that, if Paul did come back, he would be put on automatic suspension for a week. Debbie Mancuso heard it from a sixth grader who heard it from the secretary in Father Dom’s office while she was there handing in a late pass.

It seemed the best thing that Paul stayed away until things cooled down a little. The novice he’d cursed at was rumored to have gone into hysterics, and had had to go lie down in the nurse’s office with a cool compress across her forehead until she recovered. I had seen Father Dom looking grim faced, pacing around in front of the nurse’s office door. I’d thought about going up to him and being all, “Told you so.”

But it seemed too much like shooting fish in a barrel, so I stayed away.

Besides, I was still mad at him about the whole Jesse thing. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. It was like the two of them had conspired against me. Like I was just a stupid sixteen-year-old girl with a crush they’d had to figure out some way to handle. Stupid Jesse was too scared even to tell me to my face he didn’t like me. What did he think I was going to do, anyway? Pop him one in the face? Well, I sure felt like it now.

In between feeling like I just wanted to curl up somewhere and die.

I guess I wasn’t alone in feeling that way. Kelly Prescott seemed to be feeling pretty bad, too. She handled her victimhood better than I did, though. She very dramatically tore the Slater part of the wrapper off all the candy bars she had left. Then she wrote Simon on the inside foil with a Sharpie instead. It appeared she and I were running mates once again.