THE OFFER

THE DAY WOLF AND I NEARLY BLEW UP HIS HOUSE WAS THE SAME day my parents’ divorce finally went through.

They had been split city for a while—I’d already visited Dad once in Tallahassee—but there were questions concerning my father’s income and custody arrangements and who got the leftovers in the fridge or whatever. My mother refused to talk about the details and I didn’t ask. If it happened to come up she simply said, “I’m working on it,” and let it go at that, and I let her let it go. But finally the papers came through and Mom had to visit the lawyer to sign on the dotted line, so I went to Wolf’s to hang out. Deedee was out of town and Bench had baseball practice for the entire afternoon, leaving just the two of us. There was nothing wrong with two sometimes. It wasn’t four, of course, but spending the afternoon with Wolf was infinitely better than sitting at home eating Cap’n Crunch straight out of the box and watching SpongeBob reruns in my underwear.

It was too hot to be outside, so we holed ourselves up in his room, underneath the plastic jets and painted starships, listening to music and flipping through his impressive comics collection. It was big enough he had to keep them in giant plastic tubs under his bed. None of them were in sleeves—that was more like something Deedee would do. Wolf didn’t see value in the books beyond what he got from reading them. He was also strictly a Marvel guy, but I didn’t hold it against him.

We sat and read and ate and occasionally said something to each other. After an hour, we’d practically burned through an entire bag of Cheetos. Wolf held the last one up for inspection.

“Turds,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Cheetos. They look like turds. Little cheese turds. Especially the stubby ones. I never noticed that before.” He was sitting cross-legged on his bed with a copy of X-Men #25 spread out in front of him. The one where Wolverine has his adamantium sucked out of his pores by Magneto. Brutal stuff. Good stuff. I looked at the Cheeto like it was some divine artifact worthy of a museum. He wasn’t wrong. They did sort of look like that. I’d always imagined them more as tree roots.

“When I was little I thought they were supposed to look like toes. Cheese-toes,” Wolf said.

“I’m pretty sure nobody’s toes look like that,” I said.

“I think my grandmother’s toes probably look like this.” He popped the crunchy cheese turd in his mouth and started chewing.

“And I’m pretty sure you have now ruined Cheetos for me for life.”

Wolf gave me a giant grin with bright orange mush smeared across his teeth.

“Really? You’re disgusting.” I buried my face back in The Incredible Hulk. The ticked-off green behemoth had just ripped a helicopter out of the sky and was tying its propellors like shoelaces. There were days I wished I could do that. I’d tie a couple of kids’ arms behind them and hang them from the flagpole so everyone could point and laugh as they walked by.

“So it’s like, official,” Wolf said, his teeth no longer orange. “Your parents.” He made some kind of chopping motion with his hands.

“They aren’t being beheaded. They’re just getting divorced,” I said. Wolf was just staring at me though. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just kind of a big deal, don’t you think?”

He was serious. This wasn’t the first time one of us had brought up parents or divorce or how nobody in their right mind should get married. You find people who share your interests. Wolf and I were both interested in complaining about the poor choices our parents had made, primarily in each other. “You think I should be pissed off or something?”

Wolf shrugged. “You’re not? I would be.”

I shrugged back. “Honestly, it’s been so long coming, I just don’t care anymore.”

That wasn’t completely true. I did care, but not as much as I thought I would. Or maybe thought I should. This wasn’t like the day Dad left, or any of the days leading up to it, or even some of the days that came after. Those days were harder. This was just papers. I didn’t need a lawyer to tell me that my parents couldn’t stand each other anymore. I just needed one to tell me how many weeks I’d spend in Florida each year. It was different for Wolf. He was still knee-deep in the middle of it. “But you’re still going to stay with your mom most of the time, right?” Wolf asked.

“I’m not leaving, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Maybe it was something he was worried about, beause he seemed to relax a little.

Wolf sighed. “If my parents ever split, I don’t know who I would want to live with. I think it would be hard, only seeing one of them on weekends or whatever. I’m not sure I could handle it.”

“It gets easier after a while,” I said. “You get used to it.” Mostly you get used to it.

“Maybe. Still sucks though.” He was giving me that look, like he was waiting for me to tell him where I hid the buried treasure or something. “I know that it’s, like, against the rules. But if you ever feel like you’ve just got to get something off of your chest . . .”

His voice trailed off. It was one of those awkward moments where you’re right on the verge of saying something all emotional and cheesy and stuff, something that might cause you to crack and get the waterworks going or at least feel itchy and uncomfortable.

“Thanks for the offer,” I said. “Seriously, though, it’s fine. I’m going to go home and everything’s going to be the exact same as it was yesterday.”

“Not the exact same. Your mother will be legally back on the market.”

“Okay. Now you’re just being creepy.”

“What? She’s kind of pretty . . . for a mom.”

“You can totally just stop talking, like immediately.”

Wolf made a production of zipping his lips. The moment had passed. I stood up and shuffled through the spread of comics on the bed until I found one with Spidey stuck to the side of the Daily Bugle, Mary Jane cradled in a nest of webbing below. He’d saved her yet again. Must be nice, having someone come to your rescue all the time.

“What do you think? Mary Jane or Gwen Stacey?” I asked. Real girls were hard to talk about, almost as hard as divorces. But comic book characters were fair game—and it was certainly better than talking about my mother. Wolf gave me a strange look. “I mean, I know how it ends up. But, like, if you had to choose. If you were Spider-Man and had to just pick one, who would it be?”

He put down his comic and leaned his head against the wall. “As Spider-Man or Peter Parker?” Wolf asked.

“Um . . . you do know how superheroes work, right?”

“Yeah, doofus. I’m just thinking maybe it could be both, you know? Like Peter could date Mary Jane and Spidey could go for Gwen. Why limit yourself?” It was an interesting question.

“Never work,” I said. “Spider-Man spends half his time saving Mary Jane anyway. Gwen would get jealous.” It reminded me of kids at school, fighting about who liked who more. “You have to decide. Dr. Octopus is standing there with both of them covered in dynamite or something—”

“Dynamite? Seriously?” Wolf asked. “What is this, like the 1940s?”

“Fine. They’re strapped to missiles or whatever. And he’s all, ‘Take your pick, Spidey. MJ or Gwen.’”

Wolf shrugged. “I’d save them both.”

“You can’t save them both.”

“Suck a Cheeto. I’m Spider-Man. I’ll find a way.”

“Just choose,” I said.

“No.”

“Redhead or blonde?”

“Forget it.”

“Neighborhood love or classmate crush?”

“God, you’re annoying. Has anyone ever told you just how annoying you are?”

“Just pick one.”

“Maybe I don’t want to pick one.”

“You have to pick one,” I insisted.

“I don’t have to,” he insisted right back. “Maybe they’re not my type.”

“Just do it already.”

“Fine. Then I choose Betty Brant,” Wolf said, clearly exasperated with me.

I blinked at him.

“Who the heck is Betty Brant?” She sounded like something out of an old Bugs Bunny cartoon.

“She was a secretary at the Daily Bugle. She was Peter’s first love. Just nobody knows about it because it’s not in the movies. So there.” Wolf made a nyah face at me.

“Holy crap. I think you have officialy outnerded Deedee.”

Wolf’s face went serious. He pointed a finger at me. “You take that back.”

I weighed Wolf’s roomful of plastic models against Deedee’s replica of Bilbo’s sword. “Fine. I take it back,” I said. “But you can’t pick Betty freaking Brant. It’s against the rules.”

“You don’t make the rules,” Wolf said. “And I’ll choose who I want.” Then he threw his copy of X-Men at me. Magneto hit me in the face. Who in their right mind doesn’t pick MJ?

Wolf looked forlornly at the empty bag of cheese turds. “You still hungry?” he asked.

“Yeah.” My stomach gurgled. Power of suggestion.

“I could ask my mom to make us something,” Wolf said. “Or if you want, we can just heat up a can of SpaghettiOs.”

“Sounds good to me.”

I assumed he knew what he was doing.

That’s how it was between us. I just assumed everything was all right. That he had it under control. Until I saw the microwave catch on fire. Then I knew I’d have to keep an eye on him.

Because he’d do the same for me.

Ms. Sheers wasn’t the only one with her hawk eyes peeled. That Monday afternoon the entire teaching staff of Branton Middle School had gone on high alert, stripping notes off doors, off windows, fishing them out of recycling bins. Gathering evidence. The Big Ham probably had a file full of the nastiest ones gathering in his office, ready to be dusted for fingerprints in order to discover who the culprits were. And to think that Deedee had started it by welcoming me to the Dark Ages. It kind of felt like the Dark Ages, assassins sneaking down the halls in between periods to plant little poisonous notes on lockers.

It wasn’t a surprise, then, when the ax came down. On Tuesday morning in homeroom, right after the Pledge of Allegiance. The new commandment was delivered over the morning announcements in Mr. Wittingham’s signature grunt.

“It has been brought to my attention by members of the faculty and several students that many of you have been using sticky notes to leave inappropriate and even insulting messages around the school. While I understand that, for most of you, this was intended to be fun, several faculty members have expressed concerns about messages they consider offensive. This kind of behavior undermines our mission here at Branton Middle School, which is to educate in a safe, nurturing, and inclusive environment. Therefore, until further notice, students are banned from posting such notes anywhere on school property. If any member of the faculty or staff sees a student doing so, the notes will be confiscated and a message will be sent home for that student’s parents.” He paused to let the weight of his pronouncement settle in. “Now here’s Mrs. Kelly’s sixth-grade English class with a message about our upcoming canned food drive.”

I stopped listening and watched as more than one student tucked the sticky note they had been writing under their textbook or back into their backpack. This was probably the first time in Branton Middle School history that a principal had officially banned a school supply.

In English, Mr. Sword took some responsibility.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen. Lend me your ears,” he began, one hand leaning on his desk. “You heard Principal Wittingham this morning. I’ve seen some of the messages you all have been writing to each other. Most of them are innocuous”—Mr. Sword liked to toss around words that most of us didn’t even know how to spell, probably to help us expand our vocabulary, but also maybe to show that he was still the smartest one in the room—“but I’ve seen some that were very . . . disappointing.”

Mr. Sword looked at me. At least he seemed to be looking at me. He was actually scanning the room, taking in everybody, but whenever a teacher gets to you, you sense a pause, whether there is one or not. I’m not sure why he’d fixate on me. The last note I’d even bothered to write was the one he told me to.

He was obviously thinking the same thing. “When I gave you guys that assignment last Friday I was trying to teach you something,” Mr. Sword continued. “I thought if I forced you to share your words with the rest of the school you’d discover a greater appreciation for them. I guess I was wrong.”

A snicker from behind me.

“Something funny, Mr. Kyle?” Mr. Sword focused his attention on Noah, sitting behind me, making it almost feel like he was staring at me again.

“No, Mr. Sword. It’s just—I think some people are overreacting. We’re just playing around. I don’t think anybody meant anything by what they wrote.”

Several students murmured their agreement. Then Wolf spoke up again without raising his hand, though his voice barely notched above a whisper.

“What was that, Morgan?” Mr. Sword prodded.

“I said, it means something whether they mean it or not.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Mr. Sword said. “You can’t know for certain what someone else is going to think or feel about what you’ve written. Some people are sensitive to things you might not be.”

“You said it. Not me,” Jason Baker responded under his breath.

“Maybe some people are just completely insensitive jerks,” Wolf murmured again.

This time Jason leaned in and kicked the back of Wolf’s chair. “What did you say?”

Wolf turned around this time, face red, mouth working into a snarl. “I said maybe you should just shut your big fat mouth for once.”

“All right, gentlemen,” Mr. Sword said, one hand raised in a call for peace. Jason ignored it.

“You got a problem, Morgan? Because you know how I feel when you look at me like that.” Both Noah and Cameron snorted. Wolf’s face only got redder.

I put a hand on his arm. “Let it go,” I whispered, but he jerked his arm away. He turned back to the front and stared straight ahead, slinking down in his seat. The class took a breath. Mr. Sword watched for two seconds, three. He looked like he was about to say something, but then he just turned to write on the board.

Behind us Jason mouthed something to Noah Kyle, who whispered, “Totally.” I had a pretty good guess at what Jason had said.

Maybe Wolf did too. He reached into his backpack for a thin stack of notes—the same ones Principal Wittingham had just banned—and hurriedly scrawled something on the top one. Then he stood up, pushing the desk away from him with a nerve-grating screech. Mr. Sword turned, but he couldn’t get to Wolf before Wolf slammed the note down on Jason’s desk. We all arched up out of our seats.

It was a more colorful version of the word “butthole.” And there was an arrow pointing directly to Jason.

Wolf stood beside Jason’s desk, shaking. I knew I should do something, say something. I’d never seen Wolf like this. Those fingers that danced over his piano keys, that painstakingly held tiny plastic pieces of miniature ships in place, were balled into white-knuckled fists. Jason started to stand, to get in a nudge, maybe, or just to get in Wolf’s face, but Mr. Sword was there finally, one hand on each boy’s shoulder, holding Jason down in his seat and pushing Wolf back a step. He snatched the note from Jason’s desk and balled it up, then turned to Wolf.

“Wait for me in the hallway.”

Wolf didn’t move. He stood his ground, jaw clenched tight, refusing to speak. Mr. Sword spoke in an even voice, bending down to put his face right in front of Wolf’s, eclipsing Jason’s smug grin.

“Hallway, Morgan. Please.”

Wolf shook his head. Then he turned and grabbed his pack and bolted for the door. I tried to get his attention, but he wouldn’t look at me. He didn’t look at anybody, not even Rose.

Mr. Sword stood over Jason. “You and I will talk after class,” he said sternly. “The rest of you, start reading act three, scene two of Julius Caesar silently to yourselves. I don’t want to hear a sound when I come back in this room. Understood?”

Mr. Sword had never talked to us that way before, so we all just nodded. He raised a warning finger and then followed Wolf out into the hall.

We all followed directions. At least half of them, anyways. There was no sound to be heard, even after he closed the door.

We were all too busy trying to eavesdrop through the cinder-block walls.

I didn’t see Wolf for the rest of the day. After the blowup in English, he went home, maybe because he had to, maybe because he wanted to, maybe both. Deedee told me that he saw Wolf’s mom in the Big Ham’s office before third period, hands flying, clearly upset. Principal Wittingham probably didn’t know what he was getting into; Mrs. Thompson knew how to fight. In the end, she took Wolf home, and I made a mental note to call him as soon as I could and make sure everything was all right. I had never seen him go off like that.

As the day dragged on, I didn’t see near as many notes either. But I still saw enough to know that the war wasn’t over. At lunch, it was just the three of us. We talked over what had happened and agreed that Jason Baker was, indeed, exactly what Wolf had called him. Then Rose told us stories about some of the jerks at her old school who made Jason look like Mahatma Gandhi. She made Branton Middle School sound like an oasis of brotherly love.

“Wolf will be all right,” she said as the lunch bell rang. But for the first time since I’d met her, Rose Holland didn’t sound too sure.

That afternoon, I rode the bus by myself again, passing the empty seat next to Sean Forsett. During the ride home I watched two seventh graders make tiny spit wads the size of BBs and then drop them from behind in Sean’s thick, curly hair, seeing how many they could get to stick before he noticed. I almost said something. They were up to eleven when the bus hit my stop.

My mother met me at the door wearing an apron and a smile. “They gave me the afternoon off because I had too much overtime,” she explained, her voice unnaturally bouncy. The house smelled like cinnamon and burning. “I’ve been baking.”

“That’s great,” I said. Then I grabbed the phone and went in my room to call Wolf. I sat for a minute, trying to figure out what I’d say, but before I could dial, the doorbell rang.

“Can you get that?” Mom yelled from the kitchen. “I’m elbow-deep in bananas.”

I put down the phone and shuffled down the hall, thinking it might be Wolf. Maybe he’d biked over to see what he’d missed at school. Or maybe he’d come just to talk. I opened the door halfway and peeked.

“Surprise?”

Rose stood in front of my house in her olive green army jacket, her hair in her face, hands tucked in her pockets. With her standing a step below, we were almost on even footing.

“Who is it?” Mom yelled over the radio.

I almost said, a girl, which would have been a huge mistake. So instead I said the same thing Wolf said to his mother. “Just a friend from school.”

“Is it Bench?” Mom called back. Mom used our nicknames. She was the only parent who did. Except for mine; she never called me Frost. Probably because Dad was the one who introduced us in the first place.

Rose stepped up and leaned her head in the door. “It’s Rose Holland, Mrs. Voss,” she shouted carelessly. “I came to get your son’s help with an assignment. We have English together.”

I heard the radio snap off and felt my stomach shrivel into a hard little knot. No doubt the sound of a girl’s voice—even one as husky as Rose’s—would come as a surprise to my mother. I considered dragging Rose with me outside, shutting the door behind us, but it was too late. Mom appeared in the hallway holding a towel.

“Oh. Rose. Hi,” she said. You could see her processors firing. She looked at Rose, at me, then back at Rose. She was ready to jump to all kinds of conclusions. I decided to stop her.

“We’re writing an essay on Shakespeare,” I said. “Rose asked if I’d look over hers.” It seemed plausible enough.

“Your son’s an excellent writer,” Rose said, playing along. “Probably the best in the class.”

The only thing Rose had ever read of my mine was the aphorism I stuck above the water fountain that day. And the one email I’d sent with its nonwinking smiley face.

My mother beamed, her forehead wrinkles smoothing. “Oh. Well. That’s not a surprise. Did he tell you about the time he won the fifth-grade poetry contest?”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? It’s all he ever talks about.” I flashed her a what-Sharpie-have-you-been-sniffing look. She ignored it. “Your house is lovely, by the way.”

“Well. Thank you, Rose. Maybe my son will be polite enough to show you around before you two get busy.”

Everything stopped. Heartbeats. Pumping lungs. The earth’s orbit around the sun. I let out an involuntary squeak, but Rose kept up her polite smile. My mother closed her eyes, face turning strawberry. “Sorry. Not that you’re going to get busy. I meant before you have to get started on your work. . . .” She folded the dish towel in her hands over and over. “Right. Okay. Back to my banana bread.” She looked at me apologetically, then hurried back into the kitchen.

I cleared my throat, scratched the back of my head. “Well okay, then . . .”

“Forget it. She seems cool,” Rose said, no doubt seeing the crimson in my own cheeks. “How could you not like someone who knows how to make banana bread? Best food combo since chocolate met milk.”

“Not necessarily when she makes it,” I warned.

Rose tugged on her jacket, wrapping it tight around her. It was cold enough outside that the grass crunched underfoot in the mornings when I walked to the bus. I looked over her shoulder, down the street. Deserted. No one to see Rose Holland inexplicably standing at my door. “Can we talk?” she asked.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Like inside the house?”

Oh. Right.

I nodded, then stepped out of her way. I pointed down the hall. “We can work in here,” I shouted loud enough for my mother to hear. I followed a few steps behind and shut my bedroom door, pressing my back up against it.

Rose Holland stood in the center of the room, my room, taking it in. She was the first girl ever to do so. And I was sure she was regretting it almost as much as I was.

The room was a landfill. My mother let me keep it that way because she had a hard enough time keeping up with the rest of the house. Now I regretted not at least stuffing the dirty laundry into the always-empty hamper. Only members of the tribe ever came in here, and I never cared what it looked like to them—but with Rose, I felt exposed. The World of Warcraft posters. The empty Coke cans. The bedspread with the Tardis on it. Hadn’t she said she liked Dr. Who? She sat and watched two episodes with us. Except people say things sometimes just to fit in.

I spotted a pair of dirty underwear on the floor and tried to stealthily kick them underneath the bed, hoping she hadn’t seen them when she walked in. They ended up getting caught around my big toe and I had to do a little dance to shake them off. Luckily Rose’s back was turned. I took a deep breath and realized that the whole room exuded a mustiness, sort of mildew meets armpit. I wondered if I should open a window. Or go get some Febreze.

Rose didn’t seem to notice though. “It’s almost exactly as I pictured it,” she said, nodding.

I’m not sure what gave me more pause: that Rose Holland could accurately guess what my room looked like after only knowing me for a week, or that she spent time even trying. She explored for a second longer, then sat on my bed. I must have had an odd look on my face, though, because she smiled.

“Let me guess. You’ve never had a girl sit on your bed before.”

“My mom used to read me stories as I fell asleep,” I said. “Does that count?”

“Not really. But it’s kind of awesome. My parents didn’t read to me much. Though they never said anything about me ducking under my sheets with a book and a flashlight and staying up for hours.”

She stood back up and walked over to my desk, spotting the sticky note hanging from my computer monitor, the thank-you with the snowman sketch. I was afraid she might ask me why I kept it. I wasn’t sure what I would tell her. Or maybe she would notice the half-formed origami lizard sitting in my trash can. But she didn’t say anything about it either, just moved over to my window, which looked out over the algae-crusted pond that sat between two rows of nearly identical houses. “It’s pretty.”

“I wouldn’t swim in it,” I said. “I know some boys who’ve peed in that pond.”

“Some boys,” Rose repeated slyly, then shrugged. “It’s still pretty. Your house is nice, too.”

I realized just then I had no idea where Rose lived. She always just seemed to materialize everywhere, apparating like Harry Potter. “How did you find it?” I asked.

“It doesn’t take an FBI investigation, Frost.” She put her lips close to the window and exhaled, then drew a thick round smiley face in the breathy smudge filling the pane. “Actually, Wolf told me.”

I didn’t move from my spot by the door. I figured if things got too awkward between us I could make a break for it. Run away from my own house, leaving my mom to deal with the girl I left in my room.

Girl. In. My. Room. I glanced nervously at my bed, thinking of the spiral-bound notebook tucked underneath.

“He said you wouldn’t really mind.”

“I don’t,” I said quickly, scratching the back of my neck. It felt like I was breaking out in hives. I tucked my hands under my armpits to keep from fidgeting. “So you guys must talk a lot.” I meant to phrase it as a question, but it came out more like an accusation. She didn’t seem to notice, though. She pulled out my desk chair and plopped down in it backward, chin settling on the top.

“We’ve known each other for a week,” she said. “I guess I’ve only known all of you for a week, but with Wolf it feels like longer.” A lot had happened since Rose Holland showed up, it seemed. The phones. The notes. The catch. It felt like longer to me too. “I guess we do talk a lot,” she continued. “He’s easy to talk to, don’t you think?”

I nodded. He was. So long as you followed the rules.

“We don’t talk about you, though, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Who said I was worried?” I untucked my hands from underneath my armpits and ended up shoving them in my pockets. From down the hall my mother started belting out some old song to the radio.

“And she sings?”

“Better than she cooks,” I said. I moved toward the now empty bed, away from the door. “So what do you two talk about?”

“Me and Wolf? You know. Stuff,” Rose said. “Life. Anything. Everything. We talk about his parents a lot. And my parents. And school. Books. Movies. You guys.”

“Us guys?” I prodded.

“Yeah. You. Deedee . . . Bench.” She left his name just sort of hanging there. Like some kind of bait. I didn’t take it, though. I was still stuck at the “you.”

“You just said you didn’t talk about me.”

Rose tugged on a strand of tawny hair hanging in front of her face, twisting it around and around. “Okay. We don’t talk about you that much. But we do sometimes. He worries about you.”

Why was Wolf worried about me? The last I checked I wasn’t the one who got sent home for scribbling an inappropriate note. I wasn’t the one leaping out of my seat trying to start a fight. I wasn’t the one anyone should be worrying about.

“He worries about what you think,” Rose continued. “He worries about your guys’ friendship.” She kicked off with her feet and took a spin in the swivel chair, as if gathering momentum for what came next. When she stopped she was looking at the floor, and in that moment I remembered the Rose from that first day, coming down the hall, afraid to look up. Ignoring the gawking of all the kids around her. Feeling nervous and awkward, no doubt. Like a boy with a girl in his room for the first time and a pair of underwear wrapped around his toe.

“That’s why I came, actually. I know what’s going on. I know I’m the reason Bench doesn’t sit with you anymore.”

I sat down on my bed and made some pathetic sound, like pfft. Rose saw right through it.

“Pfft me all you want,” she said. “I’m not an idiot. I could tell he didn’t like me from the beginning. I probably should have just left you guys alone after that first day. I would have, except I ran into Wolf after school and we started talking. The next day he asked me if I wanted to keep sitting with you guys.”

Of course he did. Wolf asked. I didn’t ask. Bench certainly didn’t ask. Rose Holland’s going to do what Rose Holland wants to do. I made a production out of straightening a corner of my bedspread, the closest I’d come to making it in several months, trying to think of something to say.

“I almost said no,” Rose continued. “But that first day most of the kids at the other tables just gave me these dagger looks when I walked by, like don’t you dare. You guys were different. I honestly didn’t know Bench was going to eat somewhere else.”

I thought about the note I found folded in the bottom of my locker. IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU. “That’s all because of the game.” I said. “He’s kind of a big deal now. Sitting with his football friends.”

Rose shook her head. She knew right away I was lying. Bench had stopped sitting with us before the catch. He just hadn’t started sitting somewhere else yet. “It’s okay, Frost. I’m tough. I can take it. You can’t be friends with everybody. It was worse at my old school. Kids there didn’t even bother with notes, they just told you right to your face. I had a nickname there, too, you know.”

I knew enough of Rose’s names already. I didn’t need another one, but she told me anyways.

“Dozer.”

“Dozer?”

“As in bulldozer, minus the bull. Though maybe that was implied.” Rose laughed. I figured that gave me permission to at least smile, but I didn’t.

Instead I said, “That sucks.”

Rose shrugged. Then she reached into the wastebasket under the desk and rescued my misshapen komodo dragon, turning it over and over in her hands. She started to unfold it, carefully, wrinkle by wrinkle, crease by crease, flattening and smoothing. She didn’t even bother to read the riddle Bench had left me.

“I had a really hard time at my old school. It wasn’t just the names. Girls would play pranks. Put stuff in my backpack. Drop things in my lunch. Boys would make these . . . jokes. I told my dad that moving schools wouldn’t help. I wasn’t going to suddenly look different. Kids weren’t suddenly going to change. But he said it didn’t matter. What mattered was my attitude. I could start over, be myself, and I’d make new friends.”

“You find your people,” I whispered.

Rose looked up from her folding. “What?”

“Nothing. Just something my mom says all the time. You find your people and you protect each other from the wolves.” Except, I guess, Wolf was her people. Funny. I’d never put those two together before.

From the kitchen Mom started to really croon. I covered my face with my hands. “Wow,” I said through an embarrassed half smile. “I really am sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s awesome. She has a great voice. And she sings like there’s nobody listening.”

“Except we’re listening,” I protested.

“And yet, I don’t think she cares,” Rose said, and I remembered her laugh, loud and unafraid and unapologetic. She took another spin in my chair. “A mom who sings old pop songs and makes banana bread and says completely inappropriate things to total strangers. You’re lucky.”

She didn’t say anything about a dad. I wondered if Wolf had told her about my parents. Maybe she noticed the pictures in the hallway—all of them of just me or of just me and Mom. Mom didn’t cut out my father’s face or anything—she just got rid of anything with him in it. There were no pictures of her on the walls of his apartment down in Florida either. “Your mom doesn’t say completely inappropriate things to total strangers?” I asked.

“My mother has difficulty coping with reality. I mean, she actually gets medicated for it. Except the pills she’s on make her tired all the time, so she has to rest a lot. And Dad . . .” Rose took a deep breath. “My dad’s great, but he works all the time. It gets lonely after a while. It helps to have someone to talk to.”

The chorus came floating in again from the kitchen. “Wolf’s a good guy,” I said. “He really likes you.”

Rose laughed. “I’m pretty sure I’m not his type,” she said.

She looked at me knowingly, as if waiting for me to say something, to take it back, but I had no idea what to say. A poet at a loss for words. She shook her head and added, “You’re right. He is a good guy. And I know he’s a good friend.” She paused, her eyes cast up at the ceiling, hands pressed together in her lap. “Which is why if you want me to leave you alone, not sit with you anymore or crash your games, just let everything go back the way it was . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

Before she came along. Just me and Bench and Deedee and Wolf. The perfect square. I glanced at the window, where her smiley face had disappeared, out over the backyard and the porch where my father once handed me a book and told me to read out loud, and a line from that same poem struck me. Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

Rose looked at me uncertainly. The offer was on the table and she was waiting for my answer. The thing was, I knew no matter what I said, things would never go back to the way they were before. Not exactly. Even if I wanted them to.

“No,” I said.

Rose flinched. “No?”

I shook my head, backpedaling. “Oh . . . no . . . Not no, like, no, don’t sit with us. No, like it’s all right. I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” she asked, confused.

“No, not like, I don’t care care. Obviously I care. I just don’t care. I mean . . . you know . . . it’s cool. Whatever you want to do.” Then before my brain could step in and edit, I blurted out, “You’re cool.”

I swallowed hard and stared at my carpet—one of the few spots not covered in dirty laundry. Five seconds passed, then Rose stood up and crossed the room so that she was standing next to me and I felt so small all of a sudden. She opened up her right hand and handed me back my folded scrap of paper, the one she’d rescued from my wastebasket. Somehow, while I wasn’t looking, she had transformed it.

“What is it?” I asked, staring at the fish in her hand.

“It’s a phoenix, derr,” she said.

“Phoenix?” I whispered.

“You know? Mystical bird? Bursts into flames, then rises from its own ashes? What kind of nerd are you?”

I took it from her and made a production out of turning it this way and that till I held it at an odd angle toward the light. “Oh. Yeah. I see it now. Totally.” I set it on the one straightened corner of my bed. “Thanks.”

Mom’s jam was over. A commercial for air freshener came on. Rose walked to the door. “I really do like your room,” she said again. Then she left.

Or at least she tried to. But my mother caught her trying to sneak out the front door. “Oh no you don’t. You’re taking a loaf of this home with you.” Mom held out a brick of banana bread, wrapped in foil.

“Oh, no, really, Mrs. Voss. I shouldn’t,” Rose said, declining the offer, but I came up beside her and told her that it was nonnegotiable. Some things you can’t say no to.

“Saves me from eating it,” I whispered. “And besides, I’m almost positive it will stick to the roof of your mouth.”

She took the loaf of bread with a thank-you. “Maybe I’ll bring it to lunch tomorrow,” she threatened.

Then Rose Holland winked at me. Right in front of my mother.

That night I wrote my one hundred and fourteenth poem. I number them, like Rose’s favorite American poet, Emily Dickinson. Not because I particularly like Emily Dickinson. It’s just easier than coming up with titles all the time.

Poem 114 was about a girl made of paper. She flies on the currents of the wind, going wherever they take her, aimless and free, not caring at all what the people down below even think of her, if they can see her or if they even believe she exists. Until, one day, she gets lonely and looks at the bright orange circle in the sky and imagines it’s the eye of a giant. And she imagines that the giant is just as lonely as she is, so she flies toward him.

But it’s a mistake. The heat of the sun’s rays scorch her, like Icarus and his wax wings, and she catches fire. The paper girl turns to ash, a thousand tiny pieces scattered. And all of her is suddenly blown in different directions, sent to all ends of the earth, so that she can never be whole again.

Because she’s not a phoenix. She’s just a girl who got too close.

When I finished I tucked it away with the rest of my poems. Shoved underneath my bed with one pair of dirty underwear.