The next morning, my attention was riveted by tasks I generally managed on autopilot. They seemed filled with new significance when I imagined seeing them through Lucas’s eyes. What would Lucas say about the toothpaste clamp my mom and I used, the neat folds on the tube? Would he find it hilarious and beautiful and stare at it as if he’d never seen it before, the way I was staring now?

I brushed my hair in front of the mirror and remembered how he’d touched it in the park and again on the porch when he kissed me goodbye, gently palming the back of my head. I remembered that he’d said kissing on the porch felt familiar to him. He’d asked me, “You don’t remember this? This doesn’t feel like something you’ve done before?”

“What are you smiling about?” my mom asked me over her peanut butter toast.

“Nothing,” I answered, trying and not being able to swallow my smile. Two more bites into my own toast, I laughed out loud, then stifled it. I couldn’t explain that I was wondering what part of the Lucas story would bother her the most—that I’d been kissing a boy who probably had a hallucinatory disorder? That I’d been in the park after dark? That the boy had no plans to go to college? That he scared me and I was kissing him anyway?

That none of what I was doing was reasonable or wise or careful or planned or smart? And that I didn’t care?

My mom looked puzzled. She smiled like she was in on the joke, and then her smile faded when she realized she wasn’t.

At school, Rosemary had saved me a seat in assembly. She was wearing a tight yellow miniskirt and had to tug it down as she crossed her legs and moved her backpack out of my way. I was late. “Did Lucas come over?” she said. “You never called me.”

“I kissed him,” I whispered.

Flipping a sheet of hair to one side to put up a wall of privacy, Rosemary treated me to a pantomimed look of surprise.

“You?” she mouthed. “Kissed him?”

“He kissed me,” I whispered, and then I covered my mouth with my hand. I was sure that ten people around me had heard.

“What kind of kiss?”

Rosemary had told me Jason was a 7.5 as a kisser, which was a disappointment because she’d strongly suspected him to be at least an 8.3, what with being in college and all.

“It was amazing,” I said.

Newspaper office. Third period. I was writing about how First Lady Hillary Clinton’s failed health care reforms actually would have been great for the country when I looked up to find Lucas’s eyes on me. I didn’t know how long he had been watching me, but there he was, leaning against the doorframe, waiting for me to notice. I smiled and he swaggered into the room. A bunch of kids working at computer terminals raised their heads. I wondered if they thought he’d come to beat them up. The newspaper room belonged to kids who tunneled from honors classes to debate to newspaper to chess, and I could tell Lucas knew that from the way he lifted and rolled each shoulder as he walked. Hockey players never tunnel.

He laid his hands on the table where I was working and leaned forward onto his arms, his elbows locked. His piney, soapy smell again. “Hey,” he said in a low voice befitting a library patron, or maybe he was just expressing his desire to talk only to me and not to anyone else in the room. “So this is where a smart kid like you hangs out.”

“Hey,” I think I said. He lowered himself into the seat next to me. Where his arm brushed against mine, my skin felt warm.

“Did I freak you out yesterday?” he asked. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

I said nothing.

“I’m a little freaked out,” he said.

“You are?”

“I had this dream.”

“What was it about?”

We were whispering, but still, Lucas looked over his shoulder at the kids sitting at the terminals. “I’ll tell you later. What are you doing after school?”

“Debate,” I said. I looked at him to gauge his reaction. Would he tease me about debate? All he said was “I’ll meet you at the circle afterward, smarty-pants.” Then he was gone.