33

“How serious are you about this guy?” Chloe asks. We’re having Miguel and his mom over for dinner tonight, but this time I’m cooking. Penne Arrabbiata. And we’ll eat on the back patio so nobody has to clean.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I like him.”

“A lot? A little?” Chloe rummages through the cabinet for the bottle of olive oil.

“I don’t know. He’s my first real boyfriend. I don’t have anything to compare it to. But I’ve never felt this way about a guy before.” Chloe and I have been hanging out more ever since the Mel incident. Mel’s come over a couple times since she got out of the hospital. She seems different. Better.

“How about you?” I place the colander in the sink and carry the steaming pot of noodles over to it. “You into anyone?”

She ducks her head. “Maybe.”

“Someone I’d like?”

She laughs. “Thank you, Mom. Yes, I think you’d give your vote of approval for this one.” She chews her lip. “Not sure if he likes me yet though. He’s different from the other guys I’ve been with. Kind of shy.”

“That’s okay,” I reassure her. “Shy is good.”

The doorbell rings. They’re early. Miguel carries a casserole dish with tamales layered across. He holds it with a towel and does a fake curtsey, holding the pan up so that the tamales don’t go sliding out. What an idiot. I kiss him, a quick peck but enough to breathe in his Downey freshness.

A lot, I decide. I like him a lot.

I spin the combination to open my locker, lunch bag in hand. There’s a playing card taped onto my math book. This means he has my combination. It’s one thing to slip cards through the slats, but taping a card onto my math book takes this to a whole new level.

I whirl around, eyes scanning the kids around me, wondering if he’s watching. He’d have to be, wouldn’t he? Don’t guys like him get off on watching someone else’s panic? Does it make him feel powerful?

There is one dude watching me. I’ve never seen him before. Sort of preppy looking, like he shops out of a teen magazine. He’s off in the corner, earbuds in, nodding his head to the music. As soon as I make eye contact, he looks away.

I hold my locker partially closed, so I can examine the card without anyone else seeing it. A joker. Drawn over in black Sharpie to look like a burnt-up skeleton. Remnants of a bomb on the ground. Those same block letters around the edges. Would anyone care? Granted, I’m a jaded piece of shit, but I sure as hell wouldn’t.

I look back for that preppy kid, but he’s gone.

Dad gets home late. I’ve been waiting up to show him this card. Apparently I’m not the only one. Mom corners him the moment he walks through the door. I stand on the top step of the stairs and listen.

“I’ve got it all set up,” Mom says softly. “The girls don’t know yet.”

Dad sets down his stuff with a thud. “Okay, hon.” He sighs. “Change is hard. Let’s hold off on telling them for a couple days, okay?”

Shit. I slink back upstairs. Private school, here we come.

Maybe I won’t tell Dad about the skeleton card just yet.