“Hey, you feel like driving today?” he asks. “I don’t want to walk to the bus stop. It’s too cold.”

“You feel like dying today?”

“Sure. I like risking my life. Keeps things in perspective.”

I chuck my bagel at him and he catches it in midair. I look at the closed door to Mom’s office. He smiles hopefully.

“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll go warm up the car.”

“See,” he says as we slowly make our way down the long road to school. “You can handle this driving-on-snow thing. Pretty soon you’ll be like a pro.”

He’s being suspiciously nice.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” I ask. “What do you want?”

“I got on the wrestling team.”

“How’d you pull that off if tryouts were back in November?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I challenged the best wrestler on the team to a match. I won. It’s a small school. They need contenders.”

“Does Mom know?”

“I told her I’m on the team. She wasn’t thrilled. But she can’t forbid us from all school activities, right? I’m tired of this ‘we better lay low, or someone will figure out we’re different’ crap. I mean, it’s not like if I win a match people are going to say, who’s that kid, he’s a really good wrestler, he must be an angel.”

“Right,” I agree uneasily. But then Mom isn’t the type to make rules simply because she can. There has to be an explanation for her cautiousness.

“The thing is, I need a ride to some of the practices,” he says, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “Like, all of them.”

For a minute it’s quiet, the only sound the heater blowing across our legs.

“When?” I ask finally. I brace myself for bad news.

“Five thirty a.m.”

“Ha.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Get Mom to drive you.”

“She said that if I was going to insist on being on the wrestling team, I’d have to find my own ride. Take responsibility for myself.”

“Well, good luck with that,” I laugh.

“Please. It’ll just be for a few weeks. Then my buddy Darrin will turn sixteen and he can pick me up.”

“I’m sure Mom will love that.”

“Come on, Clara. You owe me,” he says quietly.

I do owe him. It’s because of me that his life is upside down. Not that he seems to be suffering much.

“I don’t owe you squat,” I say. “But . . . okay. For like six weeks, tops, and then you’ll have to get someone else to be your chauffeur.”

He looks genuinely happy. We might be on some kind of road to recovery, he and I, like it used to be. Redemption, isn’t that what they call it? Six weeks of early mornings doesn’t seem like too big a price to pay for him not hating me anymore.

“There’s one condition though,” I tell him.

“What?”

I put in my Kelly Clarkson CD. “We get to listen to my tunes.”

Wendy’s wearing a shirt that reads, HORSES ATE MY HOMEWORK.

“You’re adorkable,” I whisper as we slip into our seats for Honors English. Her current crush, Jason Lovett, is staring in our direction from across the room. “Don’t look now, but Prince Charming is totally checking you out.”

“Shut up.”

“I hope he can ride a horse, since you’re supposed to ride off into the sunset together.”

The bell rings and Mr. Phibbs hurries to the front of the classroom.

“Ten extra credit points to the first student who can correctly identify the quotation on my shirt,” he announces. He stands up straight and rolls his shoulders back so we can read the words written across his chest. We all lean forward to squint at the tiny print: IF SCIENCE TEACHES ANYTHING, IT TEACHES US TO ACCEPT OUR FAILURES, AS WELL AS OUR SUCCESSES, WITH QUIET DIGNITY AND GRACE.

Easy. We only finished the book last week. I look around, but there are no raised hands. Wendy’s trying not to make eye contact with Mr. Phibbs so he won’t call on her. Jason Lovett is trying to make eye contact with Wendy. Angela Zerbino, who can usually be counted on to chime in with the right answer, is scribbling away in her notebook, probably composing some twisted epic poem about the injustice of her life. Someone in the back of the room blows his nose, and another girl starts to click her fingernails on the top of her desk, but nobody says anything.

“Anyone?” asks Mr. Phibbs, crestfallen. Here he’s gone through all the trouble to have the shirt made, and none of his fine Honors English students can identify a passage from a book they just studied.

Screw it. I raise my hand.

“Miss Gardner,” says Mr. Phibbs, brightening.

“Yeah, it’s Frankenstein, right? The irony in the quote is that Dr. Frankenstein says it moments before he tries to strangle the monster he created. So much for dignity, I guess.”

“Yes, it is quite ironic,” chuckles Mr. Phibbs. He marks down my ten extra points. I try to look excited by this.

Wendy slips a piece of paper onto my desk. I take a moment to unfold it discreetly.

Smarty-pants, it reads. Guess who’s not here today? She’s drawn a smiley face in the margins. I survey the classroom again. Then I realize that nobody’s trying to glare a hole in the back of my head.

Kay isn’t here.

I smile. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

“I brought the brochure for the veterinary internship that I was telling you about,” Wendy tells me as the bell rings for lunch. She follows me as I dart into the hallway, hurry down the stairs, and book it for my locker. She has to jog to keep up.

“Whoa, are you starving, or what?” she laughs as I fumble with my locker combination. “They’re serving the meatball sub today. That and the baked potato bar are the best things on the menu all year.”

“What?” I’m distracted, scanning the sea of passing faces for a set of familiar green eyes.

“Anyway, the internship is in Montana. It’s amazing, really.”

There. There’s Christian, standing at his locker. No Kay anywhere in sight. He puts on his jacket—black fleece!—and picks up his keys. A jolt of quivery excitement shoots straight to my stomach.

“I’m going out for lunch today,” I say quickly, grabbing my parka.

Wendy’s mouth shapes into a little O of surprise. “You drove?”

“Yeah. Jeffrey roped me into driving him for the next few weeks.”

“Cool,” she says. “We could go to Bubba’s. Tucker used to work there, so they always give me a discount. That’s good eating, trust me. Let me get my coat.”

Christian’s leaving. I don’t have a lot of time.

“Actually, Wen, I have a doctor’s appointment,” I say unsteadily, hoping she won’t ask me which doctor.

“Oh,” she says. I can tell that she’s not sure if she believes me.

“Yeah, and I don’t want to be late.” He’s almost to the door. I shut my locker and turn toward Wendy, trying not to gaze directly into her eyes. I’m a terrible liar. But there’s no time for guilt now. This has to do with my purpose, after all. “I’ll see you after school, okay? I’ve got to go.”

Then I practically sprint for the exit.

I follow Christian’s silver Avalanche out of the parking lot, keeping a couple of cars between us so I don’t appear to be tailing him. He drives to a Pizza Hut a few blocks from school. He climbs down from the cab with a guy I faintly recognize from my English class.

I plan my approach. I’ll pretend like I just stumbled into them.

“Oh hey,” I murmur to myself in the rearview mirror, feigning surprise. “You guys come here, too? Mind if I sit with you?”

And then he’ll look up at me with those swimmable green eyes and say “yeah” in that slightly husky voice, and he’ll scoot to make room for me at the table, and the chair will still be warm from the heat of his body. And I’ll somehow untie my tongue and say something amazingly witty. And he’ll finally see who I really am.

It’s not a foolproof plan, but it’s the best I can do on such short notice.