KALYN

QUILLPOWER IS TOO awful a driver for anything but straight and narrow, so it’s a good thing we’re on the freeway. This nerd’s pursuing light speed. I think our faces will be melded to the headrests by the time we get where we’re going.

“Can I ask you something, Quillpower?”

“You’ll ask notwithstanding.”

Why do you like me? I mean, really?”

He doesn’t turn down the music. I do it for him.

“Gus says you’ve got me on some goddamn pedestal. That’s as bad as being called white trash. I’m not your heroine. I didn’t show up to save you.”

“Why concern yourself with where I put you within my head? You’re unattainable regardless.”

“Fuck yes I’m unattainable. I’m a human being.”

“Humans are categorical creatures. I’m only trying to adapt, Kalyn.”

You and everybody else. It’s no excuse for objectifyin’ people.”

“Let’s use an analogy. Visualize social categories as stacked boxes. The rows at the bottom of a Tetris heap are locked in from the start. There’s no social mobility there. Gus and I? We occupy the bottom corners.”

“You’re actually comparing society to a game of Tetris.”

Phil’s not offended. “Exactly. I’m hopeless. Unless a block crashes in our vicinity, dismantling the infrastructure around us. Freeing us. A catalyst.”

“How nice of me to be a catalyst, huh?”

Phil flicks his hazy eyes to the road. “You remain in motion. You could land anywhere you wish to. You’re incapable of sympathizing.”

“And you’re—Jesus, you’re incapable of using turn signals!” Phil swoops into the fast lane. “You don’t know jack about my sympathies.”

Bet Phil wishes I had a screen where my face is. “I know that every human being doesn’t treat you despicably on principle.”

Damn if he don’t sound churlish. I think Phil’s missed a pretty valuable point. He’s missed the reason we’re breaking speeding laws right now.

Gus doesn’t treat you despicably.”

“Gus can’t,” Phil reasons, passing three cars in quick succession. “We only have each other for company.”

“That’s grade-A bullshit. Gus has other friends. Sure, some of them are online, or he only sees them at camp. But he’s still got you featured front and center. Don’t you wonder why? Aren’t you grateful, for fuck’s sake?”

Phil’s eyelids flutter.

“You aren’t Gus’s last choice. You’re his first, even though you’re about as socially skilled as a stunted skunk.”

It starts raining. We’re both silent until we peel off down an exit ramp. Phil almost runs the red light at the bottom of the hill. I slap him on the arm.

“Gus thinks you’re bad at understanding girls, but maybe you’re bad at human beings.” Saying more seems like betraying Gus. I don’t need more reasons for Gus Peake to hate me. “Liking people isn’t a game.”

“Everything is a game,” Phil argues, putting his foot on the gas. “Sometimes humanity just clouds that reality for other people.”

“But not for you.”

His answer is quiet. “No. Not for me.”

Maybe Phil’s got disabilities I can’t see, and that’s why he talks like a regurgitating computer. Gus talks about the branches that block his mind pathways, and maybe Phil’s on a different path entirely.

If we could figure out how it feels to think like anybody else, there’d be fewer murders in the world.

Phil’s wrong; I’m pretty sympathetic. Empathetic, even.

And if I’m complicated, so is everyone in Samsboro, seems like.

So much for the simple small town life. By the time we reach the mall, the sky’s pissing down. It’s the kind of rain I haven’t seen since summer, when thunderstorms beat the roofs of all the cars in the salvage yard like the worst percussion ensemble ever. We can barely see the lines in the lot. Soon we’re going the wrong way down a parking aisle.

“Gus doesn’t strike me as the shopping type,” I say.

“You don’t know him well.”

“I know he’s got better taste than this.”

“Once more, with feeling: you don’t know him as I do.”

“Again with the competition.” I hate that it stings.

The windows are fogging. I roll mine down, ignoring the drops. Phil glares, but water never hurt anyone and this vehicle could use a wash.

“Stop the van!” I’ve spotted something familiar—the pine-green truck Tamara picked me and Gus up in. There’s a decal on its side: Peake Landscaping. “He’s here!”

“Of course he is.”

“If you’re looking to get kicked, you’re well on your way.”

But Phil’s staring past me so intently that for two seconds I assume King Lear himself must be standing behind me. “What?”

“Fuck,” Phil spits, dropping any trace of that prudish accent. “Fuck!”

Phil throws himself outside before I can even turn.

About seven cars down, I spot what’s got him riled. Two figures are standing in the downpour. There’s this tall guy I’ve seen around school, one of the so-called Gagglers. Leaning against him is Gus, looking about ready to fall over.

I never thought I’d see Quillpower sprinting toward a fight. I never expected to see him make a lurching, fists-up beeline through two inches of water. Phil is made of sticks, but his arm doesn’t snap when he decks the Gaggler in the cheekbone.

I’m outside now, caught in the chaos, not thinking about whether or not Gus’ll want me there, or maybe only thinking about it. Phil lays another punch on the Gaggler.

The Gaggler’s yelping like a pug by the time I reach them, and the pair of ’em are rolling in the puddles on the tarmac. Gus isn’t watching any of this; his eyes are red and cloudy behind rain-streaked glasses, fixed on something beyond these two tussling idiots.

I steel myself and step into his line of vision. “Gus? You okay?”

He’s staring at some random car. And before I can register why, Gus sees me.

A Spence and a red Ford Taurus. Me, wearing that stupid white dress.

To my horror, Gus starts giggling, way too hard, like something’s scraping the sound out of his lungs, squeezing it like old glue from a blocked bottle. The wrongness of it makes me feel like I’m getting punched. It rises over the sound of splashing and cussing at our feet, over the rain and the rumble of engines.

I step around the idiots—Phil’s in a headlock—and put my arms around Gus, wanting him to stop making that sound. Something burns my elbow, but I don’t let go.

“Gus, hey, Gus. It’s okay.”

“It isn’t.” He won’t stop giggling. I catch a whiff of his breath—skunky, green, way too familiar. Now I clock the burning at my elbow, all right.

“Are you—Jesus, Gus? You’re smoking pot?” I pluck the joint from his fingers and throw it into the mud.

He’s still giggling, eyes unfocused. “You think cripples can’t—can’t get high, too?”

“Don’t call yourself—”

Don’t tell myself what to call myself,” he snaps.

“You’re asthmatic, dumbass!” I’m nearly bowled over when Phil rolls into my calf. “Would you quit it? Christ!” I thrust a ballet flat into the nearest puddle, kicking water at the pair of them. Once, twice, and a third time, until I feel my foot hit flesh.

The Gaggler yelps and the two finally split. Phil’s glaring, wiping his nose on his sleeve. The Gaggler scuttles backward, crablike, trying to get up. For some reason he’s fumbling in his pocket. So help me, if he has a shiv—­

But he pulls out a digital camera, of all things, and snaps a picture of us.

“What a reunion!” The Gaggler looks livid, but he’s grinning. I’ve seen guys grin like that in prison. Dad warns me not to go near them.

“Delete that, Garth.” Phil’s voice is creepy-calm.

But this guy—Garth—tucks the camera away and buggers off, limping as water splashes at his ankles. Phil looks ready to chase him, but I put my arm out. We watch this asshole climb into a small sedan, watch it light up and pull away.

Timbbbbbberr.” Gus is done laughing.

I’m shivering, but not just cold. Gus isn’t looking at me, but he’s not shoving my hand away. He’s not as tense as usual. It’s like the water’s melting him. I don’t know which version of me I am, but she’s scared to speak.

“That motley-minded lout,” Phil mutters. “That pox-marked puttock.”

“Hey,” Gus says, “I left my evil socks in the food court.”

“Okay. Let’s go get dry. At least on the outside.” It’s another one of my confusing jokes. I’m saying we’re all sobbing on the inside. But it doesn’t make any sense.