Textbooks and papers, mine and his, went flying. We both bent down to collect our scattered things and our foreheads connected with a crack.

I straightened, rubbing my temple. “Ow! Jerk!”

“Um, you do know you ran into me, right?”

I looked up.

Emphasis on up.

See, when you are a young woman of almost Amazonian proportions, looking up at someone is a rare occurrence. But the Bionic Man had at least four inches on me.

I stared for a little too long at his face. His features were just a bit off. Like, if you moved his nose and his eyes a millimeter here and a millimeter there, he’d be almost handsome. Instead he looked like a Picasso, before Pablo went one hundred percent abstract.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

I didn’t know whether he was referring to our accidental head-butt or to my fainting spell in history class, and I didn’t care. I slipped past him and headed to my locker. Post-Maxine, idle chitchat was difficult for me. Also, I had only five minutes left to clear out before the hall filled with students. Last year, when I was worse, I’d seriously considered wearing one of those masks to school, like the ones people wear in China when the pollution gets bad. Now I just did the commonsense basics, like not touching people or surfaces and washing my hands for the length of two rounds of “Happy Birthday.” And I didn’t linger in this hothouse of germs.

The Bionic Man followed me and stood there as I twirled my lock right, then left. “You shouldn’t follow people,” I said. “Especially girls. It’s creepy.” His off-white fisherman’s sweater reeked of mothballs.

“Seriously. Are you okay? You dropped like a sack of potatoes.”

Like I needed to be reminded. When I’d come to, Ms. Cassan’s cardigan was under my head and the Girl Formerly Known as My Best Friend was gazing down at me with concern. “Did anyone see my underwear?” I blurted.

He looked confused. “No. Why? Did you want them to?”

“No.” I yanked my locker door open and grabbed my peacoat; I was so close to freedom I could almost taste it. But when I tried to step around the Bionic Man, he held out his right hand. “I should introduce myself. I’m Jacob Cohen.”

I couldn’t help it. I gaped.

Because his hand wasn’t real. It was sleek, black, and definitely man-made.

He saw me staring at it. “Pretty cool, huh? Like something out of I, Robot.”

“Or The Iron Giant.”

“Ha! Yes. Great movie.”

“Better book.” It was one of my childhood favorites.

“It was a book?”

I let that pass. His robot hand still hovered in front of me. “Go on, shake it,” he said. “It has twelve different grip patterns.”

I was caught. If I told him the truth—that I never shook hands—he would think his robot limb freaked me out. Which it did. But while my social skills these days were “subpar,” as I’d overheard some girls say in gym class, I wasn’t cruel.

So I stuck out my hand. I heard a mechanical whirring sound, and the fingers of his gleaming black fake hand closed over mine. After what felt like an eternity, I heard more whirring and my hand was released.

The bell rang. Anxiety started to rise up in my throat. “I’ve really got to go.” I shoved my schoolwork into my tote bag.

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere else. Like, before today. But I only moved here a week ago.”

I clicked my lock into place and slipped past him, down the hall. I wasn’t about to tell him where he’d seen me, for his sake and for mine. What happens in counseling services stays in counseling services.

I pushed open the front doors with my elbows and stepped outside. I breathed in, enjoying a moment of temporary relief. I’d survived another school day.

Now I had to survive the journey home.