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  “Maybe you could let me take you out to dinner this weekend,” I go on. “I mean, if that’s good for you. I just—I’m not sure what things will look like next weekend. So this weekend would be good, if you can.”

  He nods slowly, his face softening a little.

  “I didn’t say that to make you feel sorry for me.”

  “Okay,” he says again.

  “But if you feel sorry enough to say yes and go out with me, that’s cool.”

  Finally, like a miracle, he smiles. I’m so happy and relieved that I smile back instantly. I almost laugh out loud, but I resist.

  Carmichael takes a step, closing the space between us, and touches me, feather-light, on the nose. Just the tip of his finger, just for a moment, but it makes my head buzz and my heart pound. “Thank you for that,” he says, his hand back in his pocket.

  “You’re welcome,” I whisper. We’re still standing too close, and I’m dizzy from having his hand on my face like that, like when your eyes are closed but you can tell someone is nearby. I remember learning why that was in biology at some point, something to do with survival instincts. I don’t remember exactly—that was another science class I shared with Brielle, so mostly I recall that every time I’d close my eyes after that day, she’d hold a pencil up to my forehead or wave her hand in front of me, laughing hysterically when I would jump.

  That’s just how Brielle was. That’s what no one gets, I think—she would tease you even if she did like you. Especially if she liked you. And then if someone was mean to her, or to one of her friends, she’d turn that teasing on to them. It would be a lot less nice, of course. It was pretty tough sometimes. But—and suddenly I know this, standing here with Carmichael, in the middle of passing period, in the middle of nowhere—that’s her survival instinct. That’s just how she deals.

  And without her, I can’t deal. Because my instinct is to just disappear. Thanks to Emma Putnam, I’ll never be invisible again, no matter how hard I try. With Brielle, I could’ve turned into a yearbook girl, a popular girl, a confident girl. Emma turned me into a mean girl.

  Right? Didn’t she? Or did Brielle do that, too?

  I wouldn’t have been so mean all on my own, would I?

  I blink, refocusing on Carmichael’s face in front of mine. He steps back again and says, “Yeah, I’m around this weekend. Maybe I should take you out, though. More traditional.”

  “You don’t seem that hung up on tradition,” I point out.

  He shrugs again and says, “You still don’t know me that well.”

  My cheeks burn, and suddenly I wish I had just gone to my car and left this alone. I can’t see my life past next week—past that courtroom I’ll be standing in, speaking in. I can’t see how life will keep going after this. I know we’re settling the case, but part of me still feels like the judge is going to hear what I say and go, “Never mind, put her in jail.”

  And maybe that would be easier. Because what do I do here? Make new friends? Figure out how to be someone that people can actually forgive?

  Be someone that Carmichael can forgive? That would be a start, I guess. I think that’s what I’m trying to do.

  “There’s time, though, right?” I say finally. “I could still know you. If you want.”

  It’s the craziest, bravest thing I’ve ever said to a boy. I think I’m going to fall over right there on the pavement and die of embarrassment.

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Carmichael says. “So I’ll pick you up on Saturday, okay? Take you out for a last meal.”

  I smile at his joke, at his offer. “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay. I’m gonna go now,” he adds, gesturing back at his bike. “You all right here?”

  I nod, watching as he unlocks the bike and pulls it off the rack. “See you later,” he says, and pedals away.

  My heart is still thumping away in my chest, practically kicking me, but I feel calmer, too. I feel like I’ve just accomplished something.

  I look toward the parking lot, wondering if it’s too late to hide in my car for a while. And right then a group of girls, including Alison Stipe, walks past me. I start to lift my hand to wave at Alison, but then I see her turn to one of the other girls. Lindsay something. Alison whispers to Lindsay and Lindsay looks over at me. They both laugh. The sound sends a shiver up my spine.

  I drop my head, staring at my shoes, wishing my hair were longer and covered my face more. I don’t know what to do here.

  “Slut,” one of the girls hisses.

  I feel like I’ve been slapped, but I keep my head down and wait for them to pass.

  If survival instincts were worth anything, I would run away now. But there’s a different set of rules in high school. And then a whole other set for me. If you’re me, you just stand still while the wolves circle, licking their chops.

  Even if there’s life after my court date, I don’t think I’m gonna make it.

  But I have to. I can’t just give up. Like Emma did. That’s not the answer.

  Keeping my head down, I turn and walk back in to school, back to my locker. I can feel the stares, but I think about Carmichael instead, about how I’m going to get to know him better. Because he’s giving me the chance. Behind my curtain of hair, I find myself smiling, just a tiny bit.

  Something about this small glimmer of happiness feels wrong, but I can’t think about that. I just hold on to the glimmer, the shred. I let myself feel a tiny bit happy. Even though it hurts.

  March

  omg, you missed everything.

  u didnt rlly leave with man-ho dylan?

  text me back, stupid.

  ???

  god, whats yr problem?

  emma is fuh. reaking. out.

  kyle says she went apeshit on d-bag.

  where the forks are you?????

  I roll over in bed, ignoring the five-millionth buzzing of my phone. It’s almost noon and I’ve already been up for a whole day, practically—Alex needed a ride to his game, Tommy needed help with a diorama thing for his science project, Mom needed me to go to the store for the bananas she forgot to buy—but now they’re all having lunch and I’ve escaped back to my room. Of course my bed hasn’t been made, which just means it was that much easier to crawl back into it. I didn’t even bother to take off my jeans first.

  I figure the buzzes are texts from Brielle. I should’ve told her why I disappeared last night, but whatever, she shouldn’t’ve left me alone with Dylan. I’m sick of being her charity case. Or, like, the diorama thing in her science project. Social science. I tried to do what she told me to do, and look how well it turned out.

  I just want to sleep, but every time another text comes through I wonder what’s going to happen at school on Monday. If I can even manage to drag myself there, I mean. Obviously I’m not going to tell anyone what happened, and obviously Dylan doesn’t want anyone to know. He wishes it hadn’t happened at all—or at least, not with me. Is he not sleeping with Emma already? I mean, that’s why he wanted to sleep with me, right? I guess I don’t actually know that. But I thought that’s what was going on. What the hell were we doing, anyway?

  Whatever it was, it’s a secret. It’ll stay a secret. If Dylan doesn’t want to break up with Emma and be with me now, he’s not going to tell anyone. Especially Emma.

  Right?

  If he tells Emma I’m so, so screwed. She’s the one who’s the slut—she’s the one whose fault this is in the first place. But if Dylan doesn’t want to leave her, then people are just going to think I’m the slut now.

  I’m the most recent slut, so I automatically lose.

  God, this is so humiliating. I am never leaving this bed again.

  When I first started dating Dylan, I used to like how people suddenly knew who I was, how I could talk to senior guys and they were nice—or nice enough—and I felt less like Brielle’s plus-one and more like an actual popular girl, a girl who’d be in those pages in the yearbook with the photos of people just having fun. Those phot
os are always of the same few groups, the kids who have shiny hair and nice cars and letter jackets. Brielle ends up on those pages sometimes, but the closest I’ve come was sophomore year, when half of my head was in one photo. Next to Brielle’s smiling face, but cut off, because there was a big group of us, with Alison and some of the guys we used to hang out with before Rob and Dylan and all them. Being Brielle’s BFF has always made me more popular, but I’ve never really been in.

  And I mean, I know, with Facebook and everything, it’s not like the yearbook is that big a deal. But my mom’s yearbooks are still in the basement and she’s like the star of those things. When I was little I used to flip through them and think that all that would just happen to me—that I’d just grow up to be a girl like that, a cheerleader and a girlfriend to some great guy and a smiling face in a black-and-white montage that said Seniors Rule or whatever. Except now it’s the end of junior year and I’m not a cheerleader, I’m not anyone’s girlfriend, I’m not the star of the yearbook. I’m the same nobody I was when Brielle plucked me out of nowhere in eighth grade.

  Buzz.

  Fine. I will read the damn messages. I’m not going to school ever again, obviously, but I’m kind of curious what’s so freaking important.

  Um. What?

  The phone starts buzzing again while I’m still holding it, reading the texts I missed, and I jump about a mile. It’s Brielle, but this time she’s calling—the photo of her at the pool last summer, the one that was her profile picture forever—jumps up at me. I just stare at her face for a second, my heart pounding and my thumb hesitating over the Answer button.

  Right next to it, the Ignore button stares back at me. Can’t I just hit Ignore instead? Can’t this just go away?

  “Hey, Brie.”

  “Sara. Jesus, where have you been? You just disappear into the freaking night, apparently with Prince Charming, and then you don’t answer your phone?”

  I fall back onto my bed, face-first into my pillows. “Mmph,” I say.

  “Well, that is simply not good enough, missy,” Brielle says. “Why is Kyle telling me that Emma’s lost her shizznit? Where did you and D-Bag go?”

  “Nowhere. Well, I mean, he brought me home,” I tell her. “I have no idea why Emma’s freaking. Isn’t that what she always does?”

  Brielle makes a little pshh sound, her version of a laugh. “True,” she agrees. “And it’s her lucky drama-queen day, because she’s already grounded for, like, ever. Mama finally responded to our tip on Jacob, I guess.”

  I sit up. “Is Jacob in trouble, too?”

  “God, no. Weren’t you just at his house last night? I told you, nobody actually cares. Or not once they start talking to those crazy parents of his, anyway. They make mine look like normal people, for Chrissakes.”

  “Oh. That’s good. I guess.”

  “Yeah, it’s awesome, Jacob can live to hump minors another day,” Brielle says dismissively. I can practically see her waving a hand in the air, brushing this aside. “Anyway, you still haven’t told me what happened! Did you guys totally bone? You totally boned. You’re totally boning and back together and Emma is going to run away in shame to some girls’ boarding school, finally.”

  If only I could just agree with her. But instead I’m mad that she’s making it all sound so easy. Everything is so easy, for her—she’s got plenty of other friends, she’s got all the money in the world, she’s pretty and effortless. Why did I think I could be that way too?

  “Nope,” I say finally. “Nothing happened. He just took me home.”

  “Boo!” Brielle yells. “Booooo. You know what would be a way better story? The boning thing. In fact, I think I’m going to make sure that Slutty Putnam hears that version of events. Let me just . . .” Her voice trails off and I hear tapping.

  “Wait. What are you doing?” I ask, panic clawing its way up my throat.

  “Ooh, this is good. Why didn’t we think of this before? Whatever, it’s genius now. And there’s the fact that you and D-Bag were actually hanging out last night, so she’s totally going to believe this.”

  I sink my face back into my pillow. I know what Brielle is doing—maybe not exactly—but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s starting another rumor. Or maybe just emailing Emma directly, who knows. Yesterday I would’ve been helping her, too; yesterday I would’ve even made up a story that pretty much matches what I did last night, just to get back at Emma. Now I’m just . . . tired.

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up at two, yeah? Wear something cute.”

  “Why?” I don’t remember having plans with Brielle today. After last night I kind of figured she’d still be hungover, or still hanging out with Noelle. I feel a rush of energy all of a sudden. How does Brielle do that? Just the words I’ll pick you up, and I’m up off my bed, walking to my closet.

  “Duh, the game! Jesus, what is with you today? Did D-Bag say something last night?”

  “No,” I lie. I know I can’t, but suddenly I want to tell her the truth so bad. She’d think it’s awesome—but at the same time, she wouldn’t understand. And it’s too embarrassing. God, I’m such a loser. I open my closet and there it is—nothing to wear.

  “Well, you can say hi to him when we get there. And Emma will find out you guys were hanging out again, and she’ll put on another freak show, and then boarding school, here we come! La la la la.”

  I’m actually kind of smiling as Brielle sings out a loud “Good-bye!” and clicks off. But my sour mood rolls back as soon as her voice is gone. What is Dylan going to think when he sees us at the game? It’s totally going to look like I’m stalking him.

  A series of options runs through my head, even as I’m pulling my best jeans out of the laundry pile on the floor of my closet. I could take my brothers with us; call Brie back and say I’m sick; just drive myself to Mexico right now—but I can’t. I can’t even convince myself that I want to do any of those things, because I know the truth. I want to see Dylan. I want him to see me. I still think he might pick me. And just maybe, maybe Brielle is right. Maybe Emma will transfer. Maybe the rest of the school year can go back to the way it was supposed to be, with me at Dylan’s prom, at his graduation. At the parties. In the yearbook. Maybe at college parties next year . . .

  It’s okay that Dylan made a mistake, that he made out with Emma on Valentine’s Day. Maybe a couple of other times too, I guess. It’s okay that he’s confused now. But the warmth and power and excitement I felt last night had to be the real thing, he had to be feeling that too. We’re good together, he likes me. Emma is just a horrible distraction. And she’s in trouble now. She won’t be around at all for the rest of the weekend—she won’t be at the game. She’ll be hearing that I’m at the game, just like she heard I drove away from a party in Dylan’s car last night. She’ll break up with him. Or he’ll break up with her.

  It doesn’t matter. All that matters is I need to find a stupid sweater right now and then everything is going to be fine.

  Finally.

  “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

  “Yeah, I mean—Brielle was coming, and I really miss this. Coming to your games, I mean. I just—I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  Dylan rubs his hair, still wet from the shower. Brielle is down the hall, talking to Marcus, and I’m leaning against the wall next to the locker room Dylan just came out of. The game was at the indoor field at the Catholic college downtown, and the concrete brick walls are all painted a blinding combo of blue and yellow. I feel like I’m squinting at Dylan—when I can force myself to look right at him, anyway, which isn’t very much.

  All my clever flirting from last night has evaporated. Now I’m just a stalker with nothing to say for herself.

  But Dylan shrugs and smiles a little. “It’s nice to see you,” he says quietly.

  I look up at him hopefully.

  “We’re gonna get something to eat. Maybe at that diner down here?”

  My heart does a little leap. I know the place he’s
talking about—it’s one of those old-fashioned silver-sided places like in movies. Downtown has a couple of cool places that make this feel like a real city, and that’s one of them. I don’t know why I’m so excited about a restaurant, but I nod more enthusiastically than I should and keep holding my breath until—

  “Do you guys wanna come?”

  “Yes! Yeah—I mean, yeah, let me just tell Brielle, okay?”

  I pause as Dylan picks up his bag and walks away, over to another group of guys. I can’t believe this is actually happening.

  “Dude, check this.” Brielle is suddenly at my side, holding out her phone. I look down and see a picture of me from just now—talking to Dylan, smiling. Brielle has just posted it on Facebook. “Operation Boarding School is on, bitches.” She pulls her phone back, putting it in her coat pocket. “Did he invite you to the diner, or what?”

  “Yeah,” I say, trying not to laugh out loud. “Can we go?”

  “Can we go? We are already there!” Brielle turns and strides toward the gym doors, swinging her arms up in a grand gesture. “What a photo op! I am a genius!”

  At two in the morning I’m still online, scrolling through the mobile uploads Brielle put on her wall, my wall, the baseball team’s wall. Me and Dylan in the hall, me and Dylan wedged into the diner booth (seating arrangements by Brielle), me and Dylan at the cool music store a couple of blocks from the diner, me and Dylan at 7-Eleven buying gum. I expand the diner shot again, peering at our faces. Can you tell we’re in love? Everyone can see it, right? Not just me?

  We all hung out downtown for hours, walking around in the cold and going into random stores. Brielle unceremoniously disappeared with Marcus around ten, and Dylan offered to drive me home again. I was so happy that I totally forgot I hadn’t called my mom all day and I’d probably be in trouble when we got there. Well, happy, and nervous. It’s not like my last trip in Dylan’s car had been so stress-free.

  But tonight was like a brand-new everything. We didn’t even talk, really, while he drove. And when he pulled up in front of my house, we both just sat there.