It’s all part of the brainwashing process.

We’re building an army.

First Westland High . . . then the world.

Drink the Kool-Aid, my minions! It’s delicious!

Yes.

How you doing anyway? You settling in?

Are people being nice?

Were you sad to leave East River or was it kind of mixed emotions?

Most of my friends had already graduated. That made it easier to leave, but still, I miss it.

The East River kids do have a reputation for enjoying a good time. Weren’t some of the seniors arrested last year for constructing and then riding a motorized picnic table around campus?

I don’t like to say it but . . . #YOLO

I’ll let that one slide, but only once.

Never again. I swear it.

Very good. I’m glad we have an agreement.

*scraps idea for regular YOLO article*

Hey, if you’re happy to put your name on it, go right ahead.

No, no. I’m good.

The conversation ended there. Grace was still online for another hour, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I left it at that.

There were, of course, methods of finding things out about people from other schools if you were so inclined. Madison Carlson, in particular, seemed to run an interschool goods and information trading service so large and complex that she could’ve given the Silk Road a run for their money. Madison’s boyfriend went to East River, which apparently gave her unparalleled access to the lives of the East River elite (I made a mental note to ask her to write a Gossip Girl–style column for the newspaper). But what Madison Carlson giveth, Madison Carlson taketh away. If I so much as breathed a casual inquiry about Grace Town’s past life, the rumor that I kind of, maybe, sort of liked her would be known school-wide within a day.

Grace Town, for now, would have to remain a mystery.

ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, after the final bell rang, Grace was already waiting outside my locker. How she managed to escape her last-period class early on such a frequent basis I don’t suppose I’ll ever know, but after that day she was always there when I walked out.

“Lift?” she said, her expression and tone betraying that she was (confusingly?) unhappy to see me, like she’d been hoping I wouldn’t there today.

“Sure,” I said warily.

And so began the routine that would pattern our relationship. We walked to her house together, Grace abusing any cars that beeped at us to get out of the way. She made me wait on the overgrown front lawn while she got the keys from inside. Once she’d found them, she threw them to me and made me drive myself home. In the car, she’d either stare straight ahead, stony-faced and unspeaking, or ask me questions like:

“What’s your favorite song?”

And I’d say things like: “Why are these questions so hard to answer?”

And she’d say things like: “Because right now you’re trying to think of a song that’s both cool and socially acceptable to say it’s your favorite. Usually a minimum of twenty years old, because anything newer than that is generally considered pop trash.”

“Well, now that I know you’re judging me, I’m not going to be able to pick anything.”

“That’s what getting to know someone is about. Judging them.”

“So you really are judging me right now?”

“Always. Look, tell me a song that makes you feel something.”

“Fine. ‘Someday’ by the Strokes,” I said, remembering the night I’d fallen asleep with Grace’s favorite band playing in the background.

“Risky choice. Definitely not twenty years old yet, but indie enough that you might get away with it.”

“What’s yours? ‘Stairway to Heaven’? ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’? Something equally awesome and classic, I suppose?”

“‘She Will Be Loved’ by Maroon 5.”

“That . . . is not what I was expecting.”

“What can I say? Whenever I hear it, it reminds me of being happy.”

Yikes. If that was her idea of a happy song, what did she listen to when she was sad? Funeral marches? “Where do you hear it? Do they even play that on the radio anymore? Does anyone even listen to the radio anymore?”

“Ha-ha.”

“Not a Strokes song, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Strokes? You seem to be a big fan too.” Grace was still frowning like she didn’t understand. “You have decals on your car. On your key ring. It’s your phone background.”

“Oh yeah. The Strokes. Yeah. I had a friend who was a big fan. He used to listen to their stuff all the time.”

“Your friend liked the Strokes so much that you put decals on your car?”

“It’s his old car, actually.”

“What about your phone?”

“It’s his old phone too.”

“Right.”

After we got out of the car, I said, on an impulse, “Do you want to come in?”

Grace said, “Why?”

And I said, “Um. We could, like, hang out and stuff? I don’t know, like, if you wanted?”

“I go somewhere in the afternoons.”

“Sure. Yeah. I noticed that. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”