but she blocks my way.

“I was thinking we could, you know, hang. You’re always so busy

that I never see you around.”

The smell that comes from her is like rotting fruit and the

spearmint gum she’s chewing. I try to cover my nose politely. “Okay,

how about I call you tonight?”

“Okay!”

“Good. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“I’ll be waiting!” She blows me a kiss as I run the other way,

slowed down by the crowded hallway of students. Another girl calls out

my name, but I keep moving forward. I make a left into the stairwell,

where more couples are grinding against each other. I mean, damn,

there are plenty of dark corners in this old school without having to

do it all together.

A loud pop crashes against the wall, right over my head, and

breaks into itty-bitty pieces. It’s a peppermint ball. Or it was a

peppermint ball. Then another. And another, until one finally hits me

square on the forehead.

“I hate you!” she says. It’s Diana, from the tennis team. We dated

briefly last summer. Her serving arm was impressive, but she never,

ever stopped talking.

She’s holding a bag of assorted candy and chocolates, the big ones

you get at Coney Island for $4.99. “Why didn’t you call me back?”

“Diana, look, I’m sorry.”

“It’s D e anna!” She throws the bag of candy on the floor and runs

up the steps.

Okay. I have to find my friends. This is beyond my level of

strange.

I skid on the tiles when I round the corner to History. They’re

gathered around the door. Layla is leaning against the wall. She

smiles the way I haven’t seen in days. Her head is cocked to the side,

and she’s twirling a silky strand around one finger until it makes a

coil of its own. She’s flirting. She’s flirting with Kurt, whose

shoulders are relaxed and easy as he mimics the movement of throwing a

lance. She laughs, but when she looks down the hallway to where I’m

walking, her laugh goes away.

I’ve used the word killjoy plenty of times, but I never thought

I’d feel like one.

“Well?” she says. I have her and Kurt’s undivided attention. For

the first time, I notice that the couple making out in the corner is

Ryan and Thalia. Guess he can’t ask too many questions if he can’t

form a coherent sentence. Not that either of them seems to mind.

“She says she doesn’t have it.”

“Oh,” they both say.

“Yeah.” I walk past them. I’m not going to add to my recent

Strange Encounters of the Mer-Kind, because that’ll just add to the

list of things I haven’t figured out. I can smell their

disappointment, like flowers wilting in heat. An outstretched hand

stops my forward motion.

“Must be careful, Mr. Hart, or you’ll walk right past my classroom

for the third time since your miraculous return.” Mr. Van Oppen stands

in white slacks and a dark green blazer over a crisp white shirt that

looks like it resists wrinkles. He’s the only dude I know who can pull

off all of that, plus a blue scarf tucked just so around his neck and

into his collar. When he smiles, it’s sort of slanted, revealing teeth

that look like he drinks too much coffee. His blue eyes are ringed

with dark circles. I can picture him walking around his apartment,

smoking cigarettes that he rolls himself and wishing he could burn our

weekly essays.

I take my usual seat against the wall. This is the whitest of all

the classrooms. The shutters are pulled tight, and there are curtains

that don’t let in any light. It’s one of the few rooms that’s air

conditioned, so it always gets the most requests for transfers.

There’s a small gasp behind me; it comes from Thalia. I guess even

mermaids can’t resist his strange charms. She uses Ryan as a shield

and pulls him to the back of the classroom. Van Oppen is ruffled

himself, like he can’t resist her mermaid charm.

The last time I saw Mr. Van Oppen was in my dream, something I

would never admit to anyone. Layla sits in front of me, right at the

front. I can smell her lavender shampoo and something else.

“I forgot your cousins were joining us, Mr. Hart,” Mr. Van Oppen

says.

Kurt walks in slowly. He sits beside me. He sniffs the air, and by

the subtle growl on his lips, I can tell he smells something he really

doesn’t like. Everything about him, from his shoulders to the way he

balls up his hands into fists, screams tense.

“Where was I? Oh yes, Helen of Troy.” Van Oppen clears his throat

and looks paler than usual. He stands over his desk and rifles through

a stack of papers.

Bracelets jingle all over the class as hands fly up. The girls

know to answer just by the way he looks at them, all Yeah, that’s

right, I’m calling on you.

A girl with purple-rimmed glasses leans forward so hard that I

think she might teeter toward him. “Well, there was this thing on the

History Channel about how this lady was trying to prove Helen of Troy

was really real. But some text is missing. Or was it a building that

was missing? I can’t remember.”

“Ah, yes, the best thing about history is perhaps also the most

frustrating. There are some things you can’t prove. Because the

evidence has crumbled or washed away, or in some cases, it’s been

hidden.”

“So was she real or what?” a girl in the back asks sweetly.

The girl beside her says, “I’d like to think she was. It’s

romantic that they went to war over her.”

“Kingdoms go to war over less,” Kurt says darkly.

“You’re right,” Van Oppen says. He stands in front of Layla and

lifts her chin with his finger. If he weren’t my teacher, I’d shove

him off her. “Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships, / And

burnt the topless towers of Ilium? / Sweet Helen, make me immortal

with a kiss. / Her lips suck forth my soul: see where it flies!” He

hands her the handouts to pass along, and I can swear I can hear their

tiny hearts fluttering all over the classroom.

“That wasn’t in the reading,” someone says.

“No, it was written by Christopher Marlowe. This story has

fascinated people so much that they’ve spent their whole lives trying

to prove it could’ve been true. They don’t have much to go on, but

they chase all over the world for clues. Sometimes it’s something as

small as a rumor about a distant island claimed to be the home of the

oracle that warned Menelaus about protecting Helen.”

That’s a thought. I raise my hand. “What do you mean, Menelaus and

the oracle?”

“I’ll forgive the question, since you had a concussion for a few

days. I’ll assume that’s the reason you don’t remember the reading on

it.”

“Uhm, thank you?” I go. “So what did Menelaus do to talk to the

oracle?”

Mr. Van Oppen bares his teeth in a curious smile. “I do not wish

to fill your head with fodder, Mr. Hart. The Greek oracles were girls

chosen for their beauty. It was their burden, but it also was a great

honor. The oracles would sit in a room with burning herbs and stones,

the smoke so potent it would make them hallucinate. This would be

translated as the prediction or sight. Hardly more than a girl’s

delirious ramblings. It’d be like the president taking advice from a

socialite tripping on acid, which, well-never mind.”

“So you believe Helen might be real but not oracles?”

“I did not say that, Mr. Hart. I merely stated what I know about

village oracles in ancient Greece.” I just remembered why I always

fall asleep in his classes or take extended bathroom breaks. “Now, if

you’re asking me about real oracles, that’s a different story.”