KALYN

I’M IN THE library with Sarah, watching classmates meander between the shelves when a sudden nettle-y pang in my neck tells me Boots and his damn eyes are at it again.

“Something wrong?” Sarah’s color-coding her schedule. It looks like a goddamn bowl of Froot Loops. Sarah’s involved in every possible student organization, from the paper to student council to the blood drive to, who knows, the candy-for-orphans club.

“Just thinking.” I roll a pen across the table. I look at the shelves on our right. And there, right in the V section, I spot them. Peering at me from between Candide and Breakfast of Champions: wiry goddamn eyes.

I meet them in a dead stare.

“Rose, careful! You’re going to—”

But it’s too late. The Pilot snaps in half, splattering our table with ink. Now Sarah’s white blouse is anything but.

“Twice-blessed shit-sticks on ice!” I holler. “Sorry!”

“ ‘Twice-blessed shit-sticks’?” Sarah’s shock dissolves into good-natured laughter. Her blouse is speckled blue like a robin’s egg. Honestly, it still looks nice on her.

“Actually, you’re kind of pulling it off.”

“Oh, I’m not going to pull it off, Rose.” Suddenly I feel her minty breath on my ear. “We’re in public.” She backs away, giggling like it’s nothing, but I’m pretty sure she just made one hell of a suggestive joke, and now I’m all flustered.

How many people get into some kind of character every day? Maybe Sarah’s putting on a show just like I am. Maybe it’s a matter of time before we see how deep our characters go. I’m a puddle, but maybe she is, too.

I could be wrong. There are people who aren’t pretending to be anything but themselves. Guys who aren’t afraid to ogle.

When I look back at the V shelf, Boots is gone. I spy his wonky gait near the library exit. The guy moves faster than you’d think.

Sarah’s digging in her bag, so I spare a second to flip him the bird.

“What a mess!” Sarah offers me a tissue. “Your dress!”

“Oh, this old thing.”

“Don’t say that.”

I drop the simper, for just a sentence or three. “No, it’s literally very old. It’s a hand-me-down from my grandma’s closet. Can’t you smell the mothballs?”

Sarah leans in and takes a deep breath. “Not at all.”

She’ll be the girly death of me, I swear.

“Sarah. You know that thorny-eyed boy with the curls and glasses?”

“Sorry?”

“The kid with curly hair? Kind of small. Possibly a freshman?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

I go one step further, but it leaves a sour taste in my mouth: “The special needs kid? With the, um, I don’t know. The sort of collapsed arm?”

“Oh!” Sarah bites her lip. “That’s Gus Peake. He’s an upperclassman, actually. Everyone knows him, because . . .” She hesitates. “Anyhow. He used to ride my bus. First time I saw him, he was in a wheelchair. I looked at him and started bawling.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I think he scared me.”

“He scared you?” I’ve got no right to scoff, but a little Kalyn escapes. “What did he do, roll at you too quickly?”

Sarah winces. “When I think back, I guess I’d never seen a sick kid before. Maybe I thought he was dying. Or maybe seeing him made me realize I’d die one day, or something.” Her cheeks flush. “Rose. I was five. Do you want me to apologize?”

I don’t know what I want. But if strangers cried at the sight of me, maybe I’d stalk people before talking to them, too.

And just like that, I want to talk to Boots after all, damned or not.

“Two more minutes!” Ms. Coillard calls. “Guys, pick out your books already!”

Boots used to be in a wheelchair, like Grandma. I look down at my dress. She’ll never wear it again, but leaving it blue-bloody suddenly feels a little wretched.

“I’m gonna go clean myself up.” Sarah nods, buried in her schedule. Maybe mad.

Seconds later I step into the hallway and feel the temperature drop. There’s a lot of shade in Jefferson Prison this time of day, despite the handful of skylights that screw up the ceiling. Those dusty-glassed holes leave asymmetrical diamonds of light on the tiled floor, and you can make out the shadows of cobwebs and dirt in them.

At first I think he’s waiting for me, but his eyes are closed and his face is tilted toward the light. It’s like he’s solar powered or something.

I fold my arms and cough. I don’t see him jump, but he must, ’cause I hear some part of him rattle. Those eyes mince me again. I don’t totally hate it.

“Oh. Hey.” His voice drags, but not as badly as I remember.

“Oh, hey.” I lift my hands. “So.”

He doesn’t blink.

I groan. “So, why have you been following me, Gus Peake?”

“I’m sorry.”

“If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it, would you?”

He’s all stammers. “I mean—meant—I think—ah. I didn’t mean to. Following you. Sorry. I mean. Sorry. Follow you.”

I size him up. “I ain’t giving you a pass just because you’re twitchy.” Suddenly he blurts, “I want to talk to you?”

“Why does that sound like a question?” I sigh. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Rose. Or . . . Kalyn?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Do you have a—a minute?” Gus Peake asks. “I need to talk about you, serially.”

Serially, huh? Probably as in serial killer-ly, right?

Shots fired. Boots really does recognize me. I’m pretty fucked, seems like.

So why the hell aren’t I fleeing the scene?