“Do you have a vacuum cleaner in there, too?” he asks, tapping my backpack.

“That’s where I draw the line.” Though I have considered bringing a hand broom and dustpan to sweep up crumbs. Not that he needs to know that. “Does it look all right?”

“Fine.”

He follows as I head out, pausing to pull the door closed. It locks automatically, so we’re good to go. That thought depresses me. Oblivious to my chagrin, he trails me downstairs; it’s ten minutes until closing and Miss Martha has started turning off the lights. I wave at her as I go out the front door; she smiles back. She’s a pleasant woman in her mid-fifties with short salt-and-pepper hair and a fondness for beads, reflected in the bedazzled top she’s wearing.

Outside, he gets to watch me put on my reflectors. Clearly, there’s nothing hotter than a hygiene-and-safety-obsessed girl. But part of my deal with Aunt Gabby involves this gear; she said she could only allow me to ride my bike after dark if I agreed to her terms. Which means this stupid helmet with a light on it, and glow strips all over my body, like I belong in a bizarre off-Broadway show. My cheeks heat as I get to work while Shane studies me in horrified fascination.

“You can go,” I tell him through clenched teeth.

“What are you doing?”

“My aunt makes me. It’s the cost of nocturnal bicycle freedom.” At his blank look, I explain, “She thinks I’ll get run over if I don’t wear it.”

“Ah. Well, you’re pretty hard to miss.”

I have no idea what that means, if it’s a compliment, or a crack about the size of my butt, or a reference to my awesome light helmet; I could totally go spelunking in this. When I buckle the chin strap, I’m wishing for death.

“Think you’ll come back next week?” I ask.

“Unlikely,” he says.

So it was the free pizza. Well, that’s to be expected.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, and then I wish I hadn’t because it makes me sound like I’ll be looking for him.

“In geometry, right? You’re next to me, one seat back.”

“Yeah.” I’m so absurdly pleased that he saw and recognized me that I offer a ten-thousand-watt smile. Then I remember my teeth are a little crooked and I have suck-your-blood canines.

Shane doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice. “Be careful out there. How far are you going?”

“Two miles, give or take.”

If he offers to drive me home, I’ll have to pass, as I don’t ride in cars. Not that the automobile industry has been noticeably impacted by my boycott. Aunt Gabby says it’s good that I stick to my principles even if they’re inconvenient for other people. For the first time, I wonder if my principles would mind shutting up for a minute. But it’s not only that. My dad died in a car wreck when I was younger, and I’m still skittish.

“Which way?”

God, he’s totally going to ask to drive me home. I brace for it. “West.”

“Ah.”

The euphoria drops like a brick. There’s nothing from him but a chin jerk in acknowledgment. I misread everything. At least I didn’t show any of it—I don’t think I did. His face would be full of embarrassment if he realized. I take the trash bag from the meeting around to the side and sort everything into the recycling containers. It took me six months to convince the town council to adopt this measure, but it was worth it. When I turn, Shane’s still there, which leaves me feeling weird. Doesn’t he have somewhere to be? It’s almost eight, not full dark, just saturated in shadows; the air is cool with a gentle wind sweeping through. This is my favorite part of the year, after the heat of summer dissipates, but still some warm weather before the first cold snap. I say I’ll be back by nine thirty, but the truth is, I’m always home before nine. I build a buffer into my promises to Aunt Gabby so there’s no chance I’ll break them.

“Night,” I say, shouldering my backpack with both straps.

Then I swing onto the bike, careful to wrap my skirt so I can ride. I try not to think about what he’s seeing, but I have on leggings, so it’s totally fine, even if it’s not pretty. I realized a long time ago that some guys are assholes and they’ll do anything to peek at your underwear, which makes a skirt hazardous.

Shane doesn’t answer. When I turn the corner, he’s still standing in front of the library watching me ride away.

CHAPTER THREE

At school the next day, Shane pretends he doesn’t know me. When I spot him in the hall before lunch, his gaze slides away; he’s back to playing the invisible boy. I understand why … the jocks have targeted him as their latest victim. Since JFK is a small school, serving a number of rural communities, the sports program is streamlined. There’s no fluff—no lacrosse, rugby, field hockey, certainly nothing European like soccer or fencing. We have football in the fall, basketball in the winter, then baseball and track for spring. That’s it. That means the athletes often double and triple letter, participating in more than one sport. This creates a tight clique and when a new guy drops into the mix, he better find a crew in a hurry. Otherwise, he’s fair game. Dylan and his cronies blow by; and it happens so fast, even I’m not sure what went down.

Shane hits the ground, his backpack smacking open. His iPad doesn’t bounce out, but everything else does: dog-eared notebooks, nubs of pencils, and what looks like sheet music. Only it’s not the professional preprinted kind. This is blank white paper with lines, notes, and bars drawn in. I’ve never known anyone who wrote music before. I break away from Ryan and Gwen, who’re talking about logistics for the cleanup next week. Shane doesn’t even glance up as I help him gather his stuff; he snatches his music, shoves to his feet, and strides away.

Ryan watches with a faint frown. “He seems pretty antisocial.”

“It’s hard being the new kid.” I remember how hard I tried to hide my desperate fear that people would sense that I wasn’t like them … and how much I wanted to make friends, but I couldn’t show it, not like grade school when you can hand over a juice box and seal the deal. By high school, there’s so much judgment.

“You did okay,” he points out.

“Because of you.”

Ryan laughs. “It wasn’t a hardship. In case you didn’t notice, in junior high, I had exactly one friend, who was sick that day.”

I remember. “Then Phillip moved to Cleveland. Do you talk to him much?”

“Online sometimes.” Ryan slings an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get to lunch.”

People act like we’ve been dating for two years, but in fact, he’s never asked me out. Early on, I obsessed over it, trying to decide if he like liked me, but eventually we settled into a comfortable routine. Now he’s my best friend; since I got my laptop, we’re always on Skype when we aren’t together, but I can’t imagine making out with him anymore.

We stand in line, so I can get what passes for a veggie entree at this school, macaroni and cheese with a side of withered green beans. I’m offered Jell-O, but that has pig parts in it, so I pass and follow Ryan to our table. Gwen from Green World doesn’t eat with us, but the freshmen do, and we let them because we remember how much it sucked. Sometimes Ryan’s other friends join us; he’s a Renaissance man these days, so in addition to all the academic clubs and the debate team, he also takes pictures for the yearbook and the school blog. Which doesn’t sound cool, maybe, but everyone knows who he is. I’m definitely the sidekick in this relationship.

As I take my first bite, Ryan asks, “So what’s with you and the new kid?”

I can’t place his tone, but I’m feeling squirrelly. “Huh?”

“You invited him to join our stuff?” He says the last two words like some people say “our song,” as if it’s private and privileged, just for the two of us. But he’s never been exclusionary.

“He was there when I showed up,” I say, puzzled. “So I told him about the meeting. Was I not supposed to?”