

### Slip

### by Leslie J. Portu

### Copyright 2013 Leslie J. Portu

### Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

### This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Jacqueline, my firstborn, I have loved watching you grow.

Special thanks to my family who put up with my mental absenteeism and the occasional horrible dinner. And thank you Yvette, your enduring enthusiasm was greatly appreciated.

### Prologue

He lay prostrate, forehead pressed to the wood floor, relishing the discomfort. His breathing was nearly under control now, yet all sense of time was lost. How long since the girl left? Minutes? Hours? He held his breath and listened. The insistent drone of night insects drifted in through the screens. Hours.

Closing his eyes, he offered up thanks; it seemed they had both managed to escape. By a sliver, a shiver, a hair of the chinny-chin-chin. Ominous...yet hopeful. Time remained. Time to prepare. The itch would come again, of this he was certain. Sticks and straw had proved inadequate. He must set to work and build himself a house of bricks.

The carefree days of summer were drawing to a close. Nights turning crisp. He'd been in this town only three months. By morning he'd be gone. Once again in search of a place to slip in...undetected.

### One

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Teens are all too often quick to pass judgment. Stereotypes abound. One glance and suddenly you know what a person's all about. But do you really? The truth is easy to miss when you can't be bothered to look for it. I say what's the rush? Slow down! Spare a minute and go beyond the designer labels, the letter jacket, or the shocking pink hair. As the saying goes, things aren't always what they seem!

"Vivien Allen. Could you please tell the class what this means?"

It took half a minute before Vivien realized the teacher had called her name. Now she froze, eyes darting around the classroom. A sea of faces turned expectantly and a prickly heat fanned out from the back of her neck to her cheeks.

Caught. It was unlike her to be unprepared. But it wasn't her fault. She'd been distracted by the couple behind her, sucked in by the irony of their conversation. They'd been at it since the period began. Quite simply, the girl was being dumped. In the middle of health class. On the very day when Ms. Hove had written the words _self_ - _esteem_ on the board in capital letters, followed by several exclamation points. Not that these meant anything special, really. Like salt, she sprinkled them generously throughout each and every topic. "Do I have your attention?" they screamed. "This is important!" And Ms. Hove considered nearly everything she said to be important. In the first six weeks of class they'd covered HYGIENE BASICS!!, BODY PIERCINGS & TATOOS!!!, and (Vivien's personal favorite) HELP! IS THIS MY BODY?!!!

Now here Ms. Hove was, towering over her. Which was virtually impossible, as the teacher was scarcely taller than the tables and shaped like a wedge of cheese. Whether or not she was a true midget was a continual source of contention. Yet what she lacked in size she more than made up for in passion. She was a warrior in the heat of battle, fighting for the good of that perpetually at-risk population: the uninformed adolescent. Bright coral lips pursed like a fish, hands rested on shelf-like hips, a hopeful (and vaguely frightening) look penetrated the pink cat-eye glasses. The room was silent.

"Self-image!" Ms. Hove belted, causing Vivien to jump, inadvertently knocking her binder to the floor. Taking advantage of the diversion, she spent an extra second or two under the table, hoping to escape further scrutiny.

"Who can define this term?" Ms. Hove addressed the class, eyes narrowed, roaming the tables for a second victim. "Andrew. Andrew Miller."

Drew, as he'd been known since the first grade—a small detail Ms. Hove seemed to forget on a daily basis—glanced around the room as if he'd just been chosen to walk the plank. He made an admirable attempt of avoiding her by suddenly discovering something extremely compelling in his notebook. When this failed to discourage her, he looked up again and shrugged. "Um, it's like...the image you have...of yourself?"

Ms. Hove nodded, coaxing him to expand upon this profound revelation with a reeling-in motion of her hand. But Drew remained silent, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly, giving him the look of being what one might politely call slow.

Ms. Hove sighed. "Yes, yes, thank you, Andrew. Self-image is a mental snapshot of yourself." She paused and took several nibbles on the end of her pencil. "Now, for you young people, this snapshot is mainly influenced by your peers—the degree to which you feel liked and accepted. When problems arise in your relationships, self-esteem can take a severe nosedive."

_Self_ - _esteem_ , Vivien scribbled, _nosedive_ , adding a few exclamation points as a form of repentance for her earlier inattentiveness. But once again there was commotion from behind. The happy couple was not entirely visible, but the slight angle of her chair allowed a sufficient view. The drama had begun with a series of notes exchanged. Then, as the hour progressed, the pace became more and more frantic until this tedious method of communication was abandoned altogether to be replaced by terse whisper-shouts.

"The good news," Ms. Hove went on, "is that self-esteem is not a fixed value. Your job is to figure out who you are and how you fit in in this crazy world. The steady evolution of the self means self-image changes over time."

Ugh! She couldn't concentrate. Why the couple had chosen to have such an obviously private conversation in public, she had no idea. But she knew the type: PDA-obsessed, groping in the stairwells, exchanging tongues at the lockers. The traffic jams they caused by holding hands at change of classes had made Vivien late on several occasions; evidently, separating for more than a few seconds was physically impossible.

No, scratch that. She couldn't say she was shocked they were having a major fight a mere foot or two away. Just appalled. She would never.

It wasn't as though she was _against_ couples. On the whole, she watched them drift through the hallways with a combination of suspicion and envy. Having never had a serious boyfriend—or, to be honest, any degree of boyfriend whatsoever—it had its appeal. And yet seeking out and finding that someone special seemed a monumental task, one that involved significant risk. Putting yourself out there was dangerous. Chances were you'd end up getting your heart trampled on and handed back to you in a state beyond repair. The safest bet was to avoid relationships altogether.

The sound of metal scraping against tile pierced the air like a bullhorn. A chair crashed to the floor and Vivien heard a single sob escape as the girl rushed past her table and out the door.

Ms. Hove shook her head and gave the room a solemn look, as if each and every student was somehow complicit in the girl's misery. But then it was back to business as usual. "OK, people, listen up! Tomorrow there will be a pop quiz."

Vivien smiled to herself. Unable to grasp the true meaning of "pop," Ms. Hove was constantly giving the students advance warning.

"Please be familiar with the seven steps to improving self-esteem. And be prepared to list concrete examples for each one."

With another sigh, Vivien snapped her textbook closed. Two tests and a creative writing assignment loomed over her head and the day was only half over.

"Sucks."

She jerked her head to look at the boy next to her. He sat slumped in his chair texting, his phone held clandestinely beneath the desk.

"This class _sucks_ ," he repeated, without looking up from the tiny buttons over which his thumbs hovered.

The bell rang for lunch. Instantly the decibel level kicked up several notches as the students pressed out of the room. At the door, Vivien glanced back, a wave of empathy washing over her as she noted the girl's books still stacked neatly on the table. The boy was nowhere to be seen, his day miraculously unaffected.

A solid rain poured down during the lunch hour, forcing all students to forgo the courtyard and cram into the overheated cafeteria. The smell of damp bodies mingled with the food service's version of spicy burritos. Vivien and her friends were forced to share a table with several foreign exchange students whose broken English made it difficult to keep a straight face. It was obvious they were Asian, but beyond that she couldn't be specific. Her lack of knowledge made her ashamed and served to limit their conversational topics ever further.

"What's the deal?" Miranda hissed. "These people actually attend classes at our school?"

"The one in the purple shirt's in my algebra II class" Lauren said, tossing her long, expertly highlighted blonde hair over her shoulder. "She's a freak-of-nature genius. But aren't they all like that in math?"

Vivien shushed them, horrified by such blatant stereotyping. She tried to keep the conversation going through the long pauses and nervous giggles, but her friends eventually tired of this, twisting away.

"Nathan Dorsette's having a party Friday," Miranda announced, removing her glasses and wiping them on her shirt. She replaced them with care and gave her friends a commanding look. "His parents went to Cancun—no, wait! Cozumel." She frowned, then shrugged. "Definitely someplace that begins with a C. Anyway, I think we should go."

"Oh my God, _yesss_!" Charlie said, dreamily.

Charlie reminded Vivien of a puppy dog: cinnamon hair cropped short, brown eyes glassy and expectant. "You guys should go," she told them.

Miranda gave her a suspicious look. "What about you _,_ Vivs?"

"It's just...Friday I—"

"You _never_ come out with us anymore."

Typical Miranda, speaking in extremes. Just because Vivien had backed out the last few times, she was suddenly being accused of never going out _._ She took a deep breath and tried to explain. "Look, if Nathan's parents are out of town, the entire school's going to show up at his house. It sounds like a really bad idea." She looked at each in turn, trying to gauge their reaction. Her face fell. "You're not seriously interested in those guys, are you?" _Those guys_ meant the varsity lacrosse team, the most sought after boys in school. Virtually untouchable unless your name claimed an equally distinguished spot on the "hot" list. "I thought—"

"Nathan's not that bad," Lauren said, casting a look of longing toward the senior table. "The other day he actually smiled at me."

"And this year was going to be different. Remember?" Miranda said, determined to quash Vivien's argument.

Vivien's mouth hung open as she searched for a rebuttal. "I know. I mean...yeah, I remember. It's just...come on, _Nathan_? Really?" She tried to warm them up with a smile. "Hey, we've done plenty of fun stuff so far." She hoped they'd let this slide, as at the moment she was hard pressed to come up with any specifics.

Miranda leaned forward. "No. This year we have to do _more_. Like, be way more adventurous. We're not babies anymore. We're juniors—we're upperclassmen. It's like...our obligation to have fun."

Lauren and Charlie nodded excitedly. Vivien bit her lip. As much as she wanted to agree, the sort of fun they were looking for made her nervous. Things were suddenly moving at an accelerated pace and she seemed to be the only one left standing in the dust. Yes, a sense of urgency had arrived with the start of the school year. Nights hanging out in Charlie's basement, eating popcorn, watching _The Proposal_ and drooling over Ryan Reynolds' scrumptious abs were over. Friday and Saturday nights now meant going out. For real. The allure of the forbidden had come calling.

Why the good old days must be so callously cast aside confused her. Had they not been having a good time? There was a level of comfort and safety she felt staying within their tight circle of friends. Everything was balanced. Each fulfilled a predictable role: Miranda, smart and bossy; Lauren, pretty and boy-crazy; Charlie, honest and devoted. These were friends she respected. Friends who shared her values. Who took school seriously. Who pursued interesting hobbies like orchestra and the school newspaper. She didn't need anything else.

A low-pitched roar suddenly erupted from across the room. The four girls looked up to see the members of the Eastbrook lacrosse team on their feet, chanting something unintelligible as they locked arms and swayed back and forth.

"Must be some kind of inside joke," Miranda said after a moment.

"Or a primal mating ritual," Vivien said with a smirk. It was easy to picture the lot of them gathered round a roaring fire, sporting the appropriate caveman attire. Her friends ignored this remark and continued to stare.

"It's like there's a minimum hotness requirement to even be considered for the team," Lauren said.

"They'll all be at the party for sure," Charlie whimpered.

What was going on here? Had her friends completely lost their minds? She needed to knock some sense into them. "You can't seriously be into them. They just want to hook up, you know. The only people they care about are themselves."

Miranda shot her an irritated look. "What's your deal? When exactly did you swallow the extra-strength bitter pill?"

"Bitter?" She looked down, smoothing her granola bar wrapper with the flat of her hand. Miranda's accusation hit her like a physical blow, and she needed a moment to recover. "I'm not bitter," she replied, "just a realist. That's all. Since when is it a crime to have standards? Those guys"— she flicked her eyes in their direction—"it's like they know they're good looking, so they treat girls like crap. I think Nathan's gone through every pretty girl in the senior class." Which must be why he was suddenly giving Lauren the eye; he needed fresh meat.

Her friends stared back at her, unmoved. She tried again. "Have you guys forgotten last year when what's-his-name broke up with Becca? Two days before prom? And she'd already spent a fortune on her dress. And booked an appointment at Hair 21—with Todd—like a year ahead!" She began to fold the wrapper meticulously into smaller and smaller squares. "He gave her some kind of lame excuse, like she was smothering him, or he was just too young to be tied down. Blah, blah blah. After that, Becca came to school dressed in pajama pants and gained, like, ten pounds!"

"You're totally exaggerating," Miranda said. "It was more like five. And she recovered." She waved her hand as if it was no big deal. "She joined track and got skinny again. Now she's going out with Sam Witherspoon—you know, he's in my AP gov class. He's got that hot geek thing going on."

Vivien abandoned her granola wrapper project, crumpling the foil in her hand. "I think you're missing the point."

The conversation was suddenly interrupted as a comical-looking man waddled over to their table, appearing out of breath from the exertion. Frayed red suspenders stretched to breaking point over an impossibly round belly. Unfortunately, this antiquated contraption failed to keep his polyester slacks from exposing the dark, fuzz-filled crest of his butt crack, a thing no human being should be forced to see—especially while eating.

"Girls. Girls!" he said. The four waited expectantly."You's all gotta do a better job cleanin' up," he said between puffs. "I seen the other day this here table full of trash." He wagged his stubby finger back and forth in admonishment.

"That wasn't us, Mr. B," Charlie said. "It's the _boys_ who never clean up."

"You know we'd never do that to you," Lauren told him, flashing a blindingly white set of teeth.

Mr. B twisted his lips, causing his chin to fold into various shapes. Beads of sweat glistened above his upper lip. Dark stains crept out beneath his arms. It was common knowledge amongst the Eastbrook student body that any girl could sweet talk him. Beautiful blondes especially. Mr. B broke into a sheepish smile. "All right. I ain't fond of writin' people up. Just mind you put your refuse into the proper receptacle."

The girls exchanged smiles upon hearing these new and unexpected vocabulary words. Miranda opened her mouth, a flippant remark at the ready.

Vivien jumped in first. "We will, Mr. B. We promise." She felt sorry for the guy. What a nasty job he had, picking up everybody's half-eaten lunches. All the students mocked him behind his back—not even behind his back. She narrowed her eyes, studying him closely, trying to decipher who he really was. How had life unfolded to lead him to such a dull and thankless position? Had there been one fateful wrong decision? Maybe one day he'd decided to hang out with the wrong crowd, just for kicks. Then he started skipping school. Soon enough, he was eighteen and without a high school diploma. He couldn't find a job, his girlfriend dumped him, he was homeless, his family gone. He had no one. Nobody loved him.

A cold shiver passed through her. It seemed so easy to slip, to lose your place. At sixteen, life had already taught her you never knew what might be coming around the corner. And sometimes it turned out to be the most horrible thing imaginable. But she had learned a few tricks. If you kept your guard up, you could minimize further damage. True, walking around in an emotional suit of armor was exhausting. Yet she'd long ago convinced herself it was worth the price.

" _Hello_? Vivs! Time to go," Miranda said.

Snapping to attention, she saw that Lauren had already left for class and the other two stood waiting impatiently. She stuffed the last two baby carrots in her mouth, quickly stuffed all wrappers and plastic baggies inside her brown paper bag, and rose to join them.

"What'd you get on the algebra II test?" Charlie asked as they headed out of the cafeteria.

"I'm not sure," she mumbled, still chewing. She didn't want to tell Charlie she'd gotten an A. Charlie struggled hopelessly in that class.

"Goldberg gave me a C-minus," Charlie said. "A C-minus! My parents are gonna kill me!"

"The corrections will raise it up," she told her. "And I can help you."

Charlie smiled but shook her head. "Nah. I'm going to the student center seventh hour today. I saw this really hot guy in there. Do you think I can request him? How can I when I have no idea what his name is?"

Vivien tried to think of a way but then stopped short. "Wait. I thought you liked that guy with all the freckles. Kurt, right?"

"That was so last week," Miranda said. "Try to keep up, Vivs."

Charlie frowned, turning her back on Miranda. "Yeah, Kurt. I _kind_ of liked him 'til I found out how into himself he is. He thinks he's some genius reporter and only _his_ articles are good enough to be in the school paper. Every time he talks to me it's like he's doing me this big favor. Ugh!" She shuddered.

Miranda gave both a gentle shove in an effort to move them along. "OK. New topic. I'll call you guys after my cello lesson tonight so we can figure out who's driving to Nathan's."

Clearly Miranda wasn't going to give up. "Fine. Whatever. Catch you guys later," Vivien called over her shoulder as she hurried off to class.

Arriving at French class only seconds before the bell, Vivien hustled to her desk. She unloaded her backpack, speedily arranged her textbook, binder, and pencil in a neat row, and looked up at Madame Osborne, ready to dive into interrogative and relative pronouns.

A brief spell of confusion threw her as she frowned at the stranger. This was not the hook-nosed, shrill-voiced Madame Osborne. Quite the opposite. Before her stood a very attractive man. Straight dark hair—nearly shoulder length—swept loosely to the side, camouflaging an eye now and again until a quick toss of the head sent it back into place. Hollowed cheekbones paired nicely with a square jaw, sporting just a hint of five-o'-clock shadow. Clothing suggested a European origin: snug-fitting dark jeans, gray vest, pinstriped button-down shirt.

She couldn't help but gape and was so completely engrossed in the novelty of a young, hot teacher at Eastbrook that she nearly failed to notice the metal crutch cuffed just above the man's left elbow. Her gaze descended rapidly to examine his lower extremities, but nothing jumped out at her. Perhaps his left foot angled in a bit unnaturally, but she couldn't be sure.

A sudden hush fell over the room as one by one the students took notice. The girls especially seemed to give him their full attention. The man said nothing, just slowly and methodically let his gaze sweep up and down the rows.

"Good afternoon," he said at length. Heavy French accent. "My name is Monsieur Laval and I am going to be your French teacher for the remainder of the year."

This announcement caused a bit of a stir and he waited for the commotion to die down before he resumed speaking. "I am certain you are all wondering what happened to Madame Osborne, yes? Well, I have been told by the administration that she has taken an indefinite leave of absence due to personal matters." He held up a hand before the students could respond. "Please, do not ask me the details, as I have not spoken to her directly. I am just following orders." He added a shrug to show that, plainly, it was all out of his hands.

"Now, I will do my best to pick up where Madame left off. However, she left rather unexpectedly, and therefore I am not in possession of her lesson plans. If you could make the effort to be patient with me, I am certain I will have everything firmly under control by the end of the week." M. Laval scanned the students' faces again. "Shall I count on your cooperation, then?"

There was the murmur of consent, the students seeming a bit awed by their new teacher.

"Excellent. I can tell already you are an extremely bright group of students." He dazzled them with a full-on fashion-model smile.

Vivien glanced around her and noted that most of the class was smiling back, pleased to be held in such high esteem by the handsome Frenchman. Then she watched with curiosity as M. Laval propelled himself forward on the crutch, crossing the room to take a seat at Madame Osborne's desk.

She found herself wondering what had happened to him. He seemed young, midtwenties at the most. Was it an accident or some sort of birth defect? Suddenly, one of those painfully long commercials popped into her head, the one where forlorn-looking children crouched in the streets, suffering the curse of poverty: cleft palates, club feet, malaria, starvation. So miserable they didn't bother swatting away the flies that crawled across their faces. Seeing such incredible suffering always made her want to leap from the sofa to dial that one-eight-hundred number right away. But then the show would resume, all misery instantly forgotten.

Back to reality. Obviously, this M. Laval was not wanting for anything. Way more likely, he'd had some kind of freak accident playing polo at the country club. Yes, she was almost positive she'd seen his face smack dab on the pages of a Ralph Lauren fashion spread, majestic horse at a gallop, leaning recklessly off the saddle.

"So..." The deep, faintly musical voice broke into her thoughts. She glanced up to see a look of consternation on his face as he leafed through the class textbook. "I believe you are working on chapter...two? Is that correct?" The class mumbled an incoherent reply. "Very well. Read through examples one and two, then complete exercises A, B, and C. We will review your responses as a group once you have finished. Oh, and from this point forward," he added, "we will speak in French only. Naturally, as this is French IV, you are all quite competent French speakers." Again the smile.

Dutifully the students opened their books and began working on the exercises. There was some whispering in the corner of the room between two senior girls who kept stealing glances at M. Laval and giggling.

Vivien too found herself looking up every few minutes. But their new teacher's head remained bowed as he skimmed through a large stack of papers.

Toward the end of the hour they reviewed the exercises. Nervous about speaking French in front of a native speaker, there was an overall reluctance to volunteer any answers. M. Laval put them at ease by constantly praising their efforts. When someone made an error, he glossed over it and quickly got them back on track.

When it came time to turn in the assignment, he instructed the class to approach his desk individually. They were to tell him one thing they enjoyed about French class. He explained that this would help him connect names and faces, admitting that recalling names was his Achilles heel.

As it turned out, Vivien's row was the last to go. She fidgeted in her seat as she watched the procession of students stand awkwardly and mutter some grammatically incorrect lie about how awesome French class was. The boys did their best to appear disinterested, while the girls played with their hair, punctuating phrases with nervous giggles.

Anxious to appear competent, she rehearsed her lines over and over again in her head. At her turn she walked purposefully to the front of the room with full intention of maintaining direct eye contact in a businesslike manner. But as she neared the desk she faltered, fleeing his steady gaze to study the various scuff marks on the floor instead. To make matters worse, she felt the telltale signs of betrayal as a rush of heat spread across her cheeks.

"Bonjour," he greeted her. "Tu t'appelles Vivien?"

"Oui," she responded, plunging recklessly into her now-forgotten phrase. "French is...one of my favorite classes because...it is never...boring. And one day I...would like to travel...to France...especially Paris." She paused and held her breath. Had she said that correctly? Conquering an atrocious American accent had always been her goal. She dared to search his face for approval.

"Never boring?" he replied. "Well, now you have made me nervous. I hope I will not disappoint you." He smiled. "I am certain that if you set your mind to it, you shall see Paris one day soon. It is a beautiful city."

She sighed with relief. At least he'd understood her. She smiled back and extended her hand with the day's assignment. M. Laval glanced down to accept. As he did so, his body tensed and his gaze appeared to rest an extra beat on her outstretched hand. But perhaps this was only her imagination, for in an instant his eyes were locked on hers and he said her name: "Mademoiselle Allen."

She waited for him to continue. The room was uncharacteristically silent, emptied of all students except for the two of them. She was acutely aware of her breathing, which seemed to make an embarrassing amount of noise.

"It was a pleasure to have made your acquaintance today," he said at last.

Foolish as it was, she felt uniquely touched, somehow certain that he had not said these words to anyone else.

There was standing room only on the city bus after school. Normally she walked the short distance to her apartment building, but today she was heading across town to Lakewood Elementary. It was her first day volunteering for the Kids' Klub Afterschool Program.

Oversized windshield wipers swept back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm as she clung to the overhead bar. It was taking all her strength not to tumble onto an anonymous passenger's lap each time the bus made a turn. The air inside was warm and moist, fogging the windows to such an extent that she nearly missed her stop. Catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror as she exited, she winced. Her long chestnut hair had gone flat, plastered to her neck save several rebellious wisps of frizz that framed her face. Any trace of blush she'd so carefully applied that morning had been washed away with the humidity, leaving her skin slick and colorless. At least she'd had the good sense to choose waterproof mascara.

Lakewood Elementary School was nestled deep within a maze of dubious-looking low-income housing units. Most parents (if there were two) worked full-time, leaving Kids' Klub overflowing with kids. Eastbrook High provided a continuous supply of volunteers as college-bound students sought out various volunteer activities to enrich their applications.

Her first stop was the front office. Trudy Speckleburger, as read the nameplate prominently displayed on her desk, informed her she must sign in, then take a left down the hallway to the double doors. Due to the weather, the kids would be staying in the gym today.

Vivien nodded, spinning full circle in search of the sign-up sheet.

"Over there, hon." Trudy pointed to a kid-sized table in the corner. "I'm so impressed with the neat group of kids we have this year! If I'm not mistaken, three exceptionally handsome boys from Eastbrook just signed in not five minutes ago." Vivien arched a brow at this piece of news. Grabbing a pen, complete with tacky plastic flower, she signed her name, taking an extra second to scan those ahead of hers. Her heart sank as she mouthed the names Nathan Dorsett, Thomas Crane, and Declan Mieres. Was this a cruel joke? Every Wednesday afternoon she was going to have to work alongside those immature jerks? What were they doing here, anyway? Weren't their schedules already overloaded with important things like lifting weights, running laps, or discussing their latest conquests as they high-fived each other in the locker room? Immediately she was in a foul mood.

As she made her way to the gym, she thought some more about the conversation she'd had with her friends at lunch. Why did they suddenly think the lacrosse team was so cool? What had happened to them? Couldn't they see the obvious? Was she the only one who could? And that remark about her being bitter was totally out of line. Vivien certainly didn't see it that way. Common sense, that's what it was.

Bitter, ha! Now that was the perfect word for Ramona. Her mother. Over the seven years since the divorce, Vivien had watched her mother withdraw and become more and more self-absorbed until at last she'd ceased to assume any sort of mothering role whatsoever.

Of course, it wasn't completely her fault. Divorce was ugly. It left scars. And if you happened to catch your spouse cheating—repeatedly—the cut was deeper.

Alan Allen (yes, this was the actual name printed on his birth certificate) was a snake. You'd never have known it from looking at the photos of the striking couple on their wedding day. Her father had been prince-like: tall, dark, and handsome. But behind the winning smile lurked a sneer. A proud untruthfulness. He'd pledged his love to the lovely Ramona Patton, knowing full well he'd never remain faithful.

The sad thing was her mother would have overlooked the cheating if only he'd made the least effort to be subtle about it. Ramona was desperate to hold on to her life: lucrative attorney husband, palatial house, bright son, and a blooming concert pianist for a daughter. Everything she'd ever dreamed of.

Around the age of seven, Vivien overheard a nasty fight concerning her father's "roaming eye." At the time she'd had no idea what this was and worried that her father had contracted a rare medical condition for which there was no cure. (In retrospect, she'd been dead on; his disease _was_ incurable.) Despite the fact that things were obviously falling apart, Ramona managed to guilt him into staying. But the energy required to keep up appearances took its toll. No longer did she enjoy being a wife or mother, but played these roles in a cold and calculating manner.

The good times were over. That's what her older brother, Ashton, had told her. Ashton was the sullen, brooding type whose main goal was to appear as disinterested as possible in anything involving adults. In reality, however, he was a keen observer.

One day he'd pulled Vivien aside and said, "Watch Mom."

"Watch Mom what?"

"She's different now."

And she was. An imperceptible short-circuiting had occurred in the deep recesses of her brain and she now flitted about the house silently, eyes glazed over like a plastic doll's. And not the friendly kind of doll, but the kind from horror movies: unblinking, expressionless save the phony smile it wore right before it snuck up and sank a kitchen knife in your back. Her mother took housekeeping duties to a new and disturbing level, ironing sheets, Windexing fingerprints, beating rugs on the front steps with a shocking display of vehemence. Elaborate dinners were crafted, boasting new bold flavors like fennel and mustard seed. Ashton joked that soon they'd find miniature squares of European chocolate resting on their pillows each night.

Upon completion of each supermom chore, her mother would search her father's face for approval. As if her new, supremely anal Martha Stewart personality would be enough to keep him firmly planted as head of household. Looking back now, Vivien suspected Ramona's insane wifely zeal had only sped up the departure. It wasn't long before he'd made his escape to a bachelor's pad on the trendy side of town with a fresh young secretary from his firm as a roommate.

The day he packed his bags, Vivien had sought her brother out, hoping to ease the hollow feeling that had settled in the center of her heart. She could hear his music blasting long before she came to stand hesitantly outside his door. Ashton's way of dealing with their dysfunctional family was to spend hours on end locked away in his room, writing biting, sarcastic lyrics and wailing on his electric guitar.

" _What_?" he said, opening the door scarcely a crack, a deep scowl set on his face.

"I just...Dad left." She waited. Waited for the words to sink in. "He left and...he's not coming back. I just know it."

She could see Ashton's thoughts whirling, his hands shaking slightly, but still he said nothing.

"What's Mom gonna do? What will happen to us now?"

"It doesn't matter," he said finally. "Didn't I tell you? It doesn't matter."

She stood frozen in the doorway, her mouth hanging open. Ashton sighed and rolled his eyes. "Listen...shit, Vivs! What do you want me to say?" Yet even as his words pushed her away, he stepped forward, taking her gently in his arms. She buried her face in his chest, tiny squeaks escaping the back of her throat.

At length he pushed her away and gave her a solemn look. "We don't need him, understand? We're way better off without him. You'll see."

She nodded, wanting to believe but plagued by the feeling that while this was certainly bad, the hard times were only beginning.

Vivien heaved open the gym door to be greeted by the thunder of bouncing balls. Kids were running in all directions, shrieking and shouting at each other. She stood uncertainly, her eyes sifting through the chaos for any sign of an adult in charge. By sheer luck she managed to dodge an errant basketball just before it collided with her face. At last, near the center of the gym, she spotted a bald man wearing an ID badge and she made her way toward him.

"Excuse me!" she shouted, extending her hand. "I'm one of the volunteers. Vivien Allen."

His hand gripped hers in a firm shake. "Another one. Fantastic! Wonderful! We've got a nice-sized group this fall. Excellent!" He spoke every word without ever losing his broad grin. "I'm Mr. Peterson. Bob, you can call me. Where would you like to start?" He gestured toward the basketball nets. "We're about to get a game going in a minute here."

She hesitated, eyeing the net with suspicion. She knew nothing of the rules of basketball. In fact, she avoided all sports whenever possible. To say she was unathletic was putting it kindly. As her gaze dropped, the sight of a small boy crying caught her eye. One of the volunteers was crouching before him, his back to Vivien. He appeared to be listening thoughtfully as the child sobbed and pointed his finger at the accused (another small boy who, upon being singled out, promptly split the scene). Slowly the volunteer rose to his feet: faded jeans, cardinal-red Eastbrook Lacrosse sweatshirt, perfectly tousled dark hair. _Oh_ _no_. She sucked in a breath. He remained still, hands on hips. Then at last, Declan Mieres turned and looked straight at her.

She swallowed, eyes darting away, but not before he'd caught her staring. Great. "Um...are there any other choices?" she asked.

Bob managed to reveal an even more spectacular view of his back molars as he nodded and signaled for her to follow. She trailed along behind, flinching every now and then as a basketball whizzed past her ears. At the opposite end of the gym were another set of doors through which they passed, ending up in a small cafeteria. Here she saw three rows of long tables set up for various arts and crafts. Much better, she thought.

"Jules is in charge of this room," Bob explained, indicating a frazzled-looking woman cradling a large tub of crayons. "She'll get you situated."

Before she knew it, her two hours had gone by and she was letting Jules know it was time for her to leave. Most of the afternoon had been spent showing a second-grade girl how to make cootie catchers. She'd been drawn to this particular girl when she saw her sitting glumly, methodically kicking her foot against the table leg. None of the other children sat by her or paid her any attention whatsoever. She seemed in dire need of a friend.

"See you next week, Dashayla," Vivien promised as she headed for the door. But Dashayla protested her departure by wrapping her chubby arms around Vivien's thigh and clinging to her the entire length of the cafeteria. Gently she peeled the fingers off one by one. "You better go back before you get in trouble." Dashayla put on a pout. "Don't worry. I'll be here every Wednesday." Vivien bent down and gave her a big hug.

Smiling to herself as she headed toward the front office, she couldn't help but marvel at the easy affection of her newfound friend. Everything seemed so simple in elementary school. If you liked someone, you showed it. Had she really been that way once? She couldn't remember at what point she'd begun to tuck away her true feelings...just in case.

Her head in the clouds, she failed to notice the three Eastbrook seniors as they crossed paths exiting the office.

"Oh!" she gasped, stumbling backward. "Sorry!"

Directly in front of her, Declan stood gaping, as if he'd just come upon a perplexing riddle.

"Dude!" Nathan shouted over his shoulder. "Watch where you're going. You almost ran right over this fine girl."

Vivien returned Declan's stare. Never before had she been this close to him; he traveled in packs made up of lacrosse players and the most attractive senior girls. Now at last she had a golden opportunity to see for herself what all the fuss was about. He was nice-looking, she gave him that. Yet his striking presence failed to induce rapid heart palpitations, as all the other silly girls claimed was the case. Maybe he did have soft brown eyes, the kind that looked like pools of melted chocolate. And maybe they did go flawlessly with his olive skin and his wavy dark hair. And he wasn't exactly hurting physically, either; his muscular body towered over hers by a good twelve inches (she'd inherited the "short genes" from her mother's side of the family and was finally coming to grips with the fact that she was never going to be much over five-foot-two). But none of these things could make up for the fact that he was nothing but a player.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm fine."

"Don't you go to Eastbook?" Declan asked, still gawking. "You look...familiar."

She nodded, trying with difficulty to pull her gaze away. And then, strangely, absolutely nothing happened. The four of them stood trapped in an uncomfortably prolonged moment. A moment of complete and utter silence. The spell was broken at last by Thomas as he cleared his throat, and time was permitted to resume its natural progression.

A self-conscious dance variation followed—a simultaneous shuffle in one direction, then the other as the four bodies attempted to navigate the narrow confines of the doorway. She managed at last to slide past the three leering Neanderthals, stomach sucked to her spine as if it was essential to create as much space as possible between their species and hers. Despite this superhuman effort, she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rise and stand at attention as she and Declan shared the intimate space of the doorframe.

"Nice set of DSLs," she heard Nathan mutter once she was several feet away. She had no idea what this meant, but coming from Nathan, the king of crass, she was certain the comment was hardly complimentary. She made a beeline for the sign-out sheet, fighting the urge to look back. The sound of laughter drifted in as the three boys headed out to the parking lot.

It took a minute before she'd regained the mental capacity to sign her name. She didn't know how they'd managed to fluster her so badly. Why should she care about them? She had nothing but contempt for the entire lacrosse team and their social circle. They breezed through the halls like they were some kind of royalty. And she was only a minor character—the lowly chambermaid—in their star-studded cast.

One thing was for sure: hell would freeze over before Miranda could talk her into going to Nathan's Friday night.

She was not going. Period.

### Two

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Sexual feelings are part and parcel of growing up. You may be experiencing the awakening of new and different sexual feelings as the hormonal and physical changes of puberty take place. This can be a time of intense confusion!! Take heart and remember: such thoughts and desires are completely normal!

Later that night, she sat at her desk, staring out the window at the empty street below. The wind had picked up with the setting sun and now it was doing an excellent job of stripping the brightly colored leaves from the trees. She watched as they whirled in frantic circles beneath the streetlights, disappearing into the black of night.

She was stuck. Her clock read 11:23. _Ugh!_ All she wanted was to crawl into bed and go to sleep. Running through the few paragraphs she had written so far, she resisted the temptation to press Delete. The assignment was for her creative writing class, a short story about a life-changing event. Her teacher had told the class their work could be fiction or nonfiction, according to preference. Choosing to write about Ashton had seemed like a good idea two hours ago, but now...

It was impossible to put into words the emotions of that day. Even after all the hours of grief counseling, she found it an exceptionally difficult thing to discuss. She'd always wondered why the clearest detail in her memory was the incessant high-pitched screaming of the tea kettle, as if this one particular sound symbolized the horror that had begun when her mother answered the phone.

" _What_? I don't understand. No, no, no," her mother had moaned, eyes squeezed shut.

Mrs. Collins was on the other end, trying to relay in a semicoherent manner the tragic news concerning her son, Max, and Ashton. En route to meet the other members of their band, The Putrid Days, at an outdoor concert venue north of town, the boys had been delayed by construction. The Days was to be the featured band at the annual heavy-metal marathon. But they were late. And Max had been speeding to make up for lost time. Somehow he lost control on a notoriously dangerous section of the interstate, careening sideways into a double tractor-trailer. The van veered, plowing through the guardrail and rolling repeatedly until halted by a thick line of trees.

No survivors.

Vivien had watched from the hallway as her mother's face drained of color. She was unwilling to enter the kitchen completely, as if perhaps she could keep it from being real by remaining a nonparticipant.

Two police officers arrived while the phone was still cradled to her mother's ear, despite the fact that the conversation had ended long ago. The officers took hold of Ramona by both arms, sat her down, and formally explained the tragic sequence of events that had ended the life of her only son. It was the female officer who finally extinguished the flame, but the screaming inside Vivien's head refused to be silenced.

Vivien began to type again, changing the story to a fictional account of a child losing his grandparent. Sad, mildly life-changing, but much easier to handle. Old people were supposed to die. Twenty-year-olds were not.

She was finally ready for bed at a quarter to one. But the writing had brought up painful memories and now she was having trouble falling asleep. She rolled onto one side, flipped to the other, and finally settled on her stomach, legs spread-eagled across the double bed. Nevertheless, sleep eluded her. She returned to her back and stared up at the ceiling.

"Hey," she murmured. "So, if you're listening, I'd like to send a shout-out to my brother. Tell him I'm thinking of him and I know he's probably jamming on his guitar at a really cool club up there. Say hi to Max, too." She could picture the lead singer next to her brother, screaming into the microphone as his long, blue-streaked hair flew wildly in all directions. Yeah. That was their heaven. She let the emotions flow out and over her body, something she did only in the privacy of her own room. "Tell him I miss him, please," she whispered.

The following morning she was dragging herself to the kitchen when she heard her mother calling from the master bedroom. A smattering of words reached her: "Office...late...milk...tonight?"

She collapsed into a kitchen chair, peeled back the foil on her raspberry yogurt, and licked it. "What?"

Ramona emerged from the hallway, looking irritated. She was wearing a silk kimono and had large foam rollers secured to the crown of her head. "I _said_ I'm going to be at the office late this week. Maybe the next few weeks—the firm's just beginning a really big case. I'd appreciate it if you could go to the market tonight." She put her hands on her hips and stared at her daughter.

Vivien glared back, leaving the thinly disguised order unanswered.

"Is that what you're wearing to school?"

"Can we please not have this conversation again?" she said, rolling her eyes.

"All I'm saying is that you don't work your assets. Blue jeans and baggy t-shirts are never a girl's best friend. Why don't you change it up? Wear a nice blouse—something more fitted, at least."

Vivien suppressed a groan.

"Capitalize on that gorgeous hair I gave you," her mother continued as she reached out and fingered Vivien's long ponytail. "What about some eye makeup? I'll bet you didn't know you can make your eyes stand out by using an opposite color on the color wheel. A burgundy-sable shade would look spectacular! And a touch of red lip gloss would do wonders for those nice pouty lips of yours."

" _Mom_ ," she said, unable to hold it in any longer. "High school is not the office. No one dresses up. There's no point. And I have personal fitness this semester anyway. Every day we have to run a mile or something equally masochistic. The rest of the day I'm all sweaty and gross."

"That's ridiculous. Don't you shower?"

"We don't have time to shower."

"Ridiculous," Ramona repeated, unrolling a curl. "Well...so, I'm in a hurry. What time is it?"

"Almost seven."

"Oh!" Ramona spun around, dropping the roller on the carpet. "At least pick up a gallon of skim milk," she called behind her, dashing to the bedroom. "And salad ingredients. No bread. No pasta. I'm starting this low-carb thing as of today. I tell you, Gwen—from the office?—lost ten pounds. She won't eat anything white: bread, pasta, rice, sugar. She looks amazing!"

Vivien sighed. "Fine. But I've got that Future Leaders group tonight, remember? I have to start going so I can put it on my applications."

No answer. Figured. Her mother never wanted to discuss college. _She_ never went. That's why she was stuck being some six-figure lawyer's secretary—wait, _executive_ _assistant_. Was that what she had in mind for her daughter?

Ramona was a closet sexist. Case in point: she'd thrown a huge hissy fit when Ashton had told her he wasn't going to college; he was starting a band instead.

"A _band_? Don't you pull that crap with me," Ramona had said. "I'll never allow any son of mine to jump on the fast track to becoming a nobody. Listen, Ashton, you'll never get anywhere in this world without a four-year degree. Minimum."

But Ashton hadn't listened.

So why was it that her brother should be college-bound, but not her? No, her future involved sitting in a cubicle, typing office memos and making coffee. But wait! Another equally exciting option was to become some rich man's wife—no degree required. Sorry, but that wasn't going to happen. She thought it extremely unlikely she'd ever get married at all. Didn't at least half the marriages in this country end in divorce? And divorce was ugly. Oh yes, she'd seen firsthand that divorce was a guaranteed way to bring out the most despicable qualities in humankind.

According to a reference book she'd found at the library, she was doing all the right stuff: maintaining a high GPA, logging consistent community-service hours, participating in extracurricular clubs, etc. Now all she had to do was score well on the ACT. She'd taken the prep class a whole year early so she could maximize her practice time.

She was going to be nothing like her mother. Nothing.

At lunch hour, she and her friends were lucky enough to snag an outside table. The conversation had meandered to the sudden arrival of the hot new French teacher, Monsieur Laval.

"You are sooooo lucky, Vivs," Charlie moaned. "My Spanish teacher is a major snooze. He's, like, _ancient_ and he always loses his train of thought right in the middle of a sentence. That geezer seriously needs to retire."

"Yeah," Lauren agreed. "I totally got ripped off. How come my French teacher couldn't have a personal emergency? I have a serious weakness for cute foreign men."

"Or _any_ man," Miranda corrected.

"He's OK," Vivien said, trying to play it down. "His accent's kind of sexy, but..." She shrugged. "I wonder what kind of disability he has."

"Yeah," her friends agreed, shaking their heads. Clearly they found this one flaw to be a great travesty.

The bell rang for fourth period. After saying their farewells, the girls split up and headed off to class.

If possible, M. Laval looked even more handsome than the day before. He was wearing a teal V-neck sweater that brought out the smokiness of his eyes, and a pair of nice-fitting black jeans.

The hour flew by and she found herself actually disappointed that class was over. As the other students rushed off, she purposely lingered at her desk, packing up her belongings in slow motion in hopes that she'd be the last student remaining in the classroom.

Her plan worked. As she passed his desk, he looked up and called out her name. She stopped, feigning surprise and did her best to meet his eyes this time.

"Tell me, do I get a passing grade for the day?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Did today's lesson meet your impossibly high expectations?"

"Oh!" she laughed. "Yes. Definitely. Congratulations."

He grinned, pretending to wipe his brow. "What a relief. Only one hundred and fifty-four days to go. That's manageable."

She laughed again. "I'm pretty sure you can do it. And to be fair, I'll give you a couple of freebies in there."

"You're fairness is much appreciated," he said. "Everyone has a bad day now and then."

They appraised each other silently for a moment.

"I'm glad to have you on my side," he told her. "Substitute teachers suffer a lot of abuse."

"Have you subbed before?"

"Not here. I'm new to the area."

"You just moved?" she replied. "That must be hard. Not knowing anybody and...stuff."

"Oh, I'm excited to be here. East Lake Pines has a lot to offer."

She gave him a dubious look. In her opinion, her town barely deserved a second glance. Almost anywhere else in the state seemed a vast improvement.

"Unfortunately, I've made little headway unpacking," he continued. "The movers did all the heavy furnishings, naturally. It's the small things that need arranging now. I happen to be at a slight disadvantage." He glanced down at the crutch.

"Oh, um...right. That must be hard," she said for the second time, and grimaced. Without a doubt, she was coming across like an idiot. "Maybe you could call one of those handyman services?"

"Yes, well, I'm more in need of someone with some good organizational skills. Someone with an eye for maximizing space." He paused, seemingly searching for the right words. "To be frank, I'm not comfortable with the idea of complete strangers going through my personal effects."

"Oh," she mumbled, disappointed that she'd failed to be any help whatsoever.

M. Laval glanced at the clock. "You should get a move on. I fear I may have made you late."

She took note of the time and gave a start. "Right. Yes, I'd better hurry." Still she stood, wracking her brain for something smart or funny or interesting she could say to close their conversation. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow" was all she could manage.

"Tomorrow," he agreed, an intriguing twinkle in his eye.

At 7:45 p.m. that evening she stood on the sidewalk before the old Victorian house where the Future Leaders meeting was to be held. Inside, an agenda board that had seen better days stood next to a narrow staircase. _Future_ _Leaders_ _2nd_ _floor_ , it read. The first floor consisted of a copy shop and a people's co-op with a handmade sign advertising medicinal marijuana. "What a weird place," she muttered under her breath.

She'd arrived a good fifteen minutes early, as was her habit. Nothing stressed her out more than being late. In situations like this it was imperative to get a good seat (she preferred front left) and to have a few minutes to get organized before any lecturing began.

The leader of the Future Leaders was perched on the corner of his desk. He nodded curtly as she entered the room. She couldn't help but notice he was one of the most unattractive men she'd ever seen, his pasty complexion riddled with acne scars, his clothes outdated, and his body excessively thin—the very opposite of a leader. She wondered if this was going to be a complete waste of time.

Smiling politely, she selected a seat in her favorite section. Apparently the front was not a big draw, as she noted the seats in the back were filling up first. Pen, pencil, and notebook lined up neatly on her desk, she waited as the remaining students filed through the door. She found herself looking for familiar faces and recognized a good number from Eastbrook. Her attention wandered to the front of the room for a moment as Mr. Fashion-Challenged wrote his name and email address on the whiteboard with a squeaky red marker: Chad Stossel. She copied this down and glanced at the door again just in time to see Declan Mieres breeze in.

_You_ ' _ve_ _got_ _to_ _be_ _kidding_ _me!_

His eyes roamed the room, searching for the last few empty desks. Pretending to hunt for something in her backpack, Vivien quickly checked the seat behind her to see if it was occupied. Empty. Gaze flicking to the door once more, she gasped softly as her eyes met his for a split second before she had to look away, suddenly embarrassed. Now that he'd seen her, she had the sickening suspicion that he was going to sit right behind her. As if he hadn't gotten enough satisfaction from laughing at her expense yesterday, now he was going to try his hand at round two.

Still unable to look, she waited for the sound of him. Sure enough, seconds later she heard a backpack thump to the floor, followed by the sound of rustling papers.

Mr. Stossel began his introduction and then moved on to an outline of the year's projects. She did her best to listen, but she was annoyingly distracted by the knowledge that Declan was so close. Was he staring at the back of her head? What did the back of her head look like, anyway? Not much, probably. Her mother was right; she should spend some extra time on her appearance, maybe use the straightener instead of the perennial ponytail. But then she'd have to wake up even earlier. And for what? For a second glance from some brain-dead nobody whom she had no desire to impress whatsoever?

The morbidly dull monologue over, Chad was now giving each student in the front row a stack of papers to pass back. Now was her chance to show Declan just how much she didn't care. A swift look of indifference should do the trick. She lifted her pile and twisted in her seat, but midrotation, her thigh caught, rubbing against the chair in such a way as to make the most mortifying burst of noise. She froze, certain she heard muffled laughter. Oh my God, she thought in horror, the whole room was now thinking she'd just let one fly. Not just the whole room— _Declan_ _Mieres_! Someone please kill her now. Swiftly she squirmed in her seat in a crazed attempt to duplicate the sound, but succeeded only in looking as if she belonged in a hemorrhoid commercial. Still gripping the stack of papers, she was left with no alternative but to suck it up and pass them on. Steeling herself for a giant slice of humble pie, she turned. But the hand reaching out was small-boned and delicate, with long, sky-blue fingernails.

"Thanks," the girl mumbled.

Her jaw dropped. Her eyes darted around the room. Where was he, then? And why hadn't he chosen the seat directly behind her? There was no doubt he'd seen her sitting here.

Evidently he wasn't interested in her type, that's why. He preferred the bubbly, giggly sort whose shirt never made it past her pierced navel. A girl who inexplicably had a tan yearlong despite the fact that this was not L.A., and who wore lace thongs that peeked out of her ultra-low-waist skinnies. A girl who knew how to flirt, to tease, to laugh at everything he said. A girl who modified every other word with _awesome_ and _amazing_.

She felt sick to her stomach.

Oh yes, there he was. She found him sitting two rows over toward the back. What a jerk!

Now, instead of imagining him staring at her, she imagined him choosing _not_ to, and she continued to have difficulty listening to anything Chad said. The entire hour passed in this fashion and she became increasingly disgusted with herself. It was with an enormous sense of relief that she was able to pack up at last and head out the door.

Later that night she lay sprawled on her bed, knee-deep in homework, when Miranda called.

"So...Friday night, right?" Miranda said, straight off the bat.

"Miranda..."

"Charlie and I will be by to pick you up around eight."

"Pick me up for what?" she said, deciding to play dumb.

"Very funny. Nathan's party."

She sighed. "I already told you, I don't want to go."

"Yeah, but we need you."

"For what, exactly?"

"For...fun? You're an indispensable piece of the puzzle, Vivs. The piece that makes us— _us_! How can we go without you? It wouldn't be the same."

Miranda was an expert at laying on the guilt. But Vivien would be strong. She said nothing.

"Can't you just try it? What's the big deal?"

"There is no big deal." She wasn't in the mood to elaborate, to reenact the humiliating chain of events that had taken place earlier. Everything had gone wrong—running into the boys, hearing them laugh at her, being completely ignored at the meeting. "It's just...I couldn't be less interested, if you want the honest truth. Staying home and cleaning my toilet sounds way more fun."

Miranda sighed. "The sad thing is you are not even kidding."

The line was silent.

"How 'bout we go for an hour, tops?" Miranda bargained. "I promise. We'll see what it's like and then leave. OK?"

Vivien let out a groan. Miranda would never give up. Maybe she could just wait in the car while her friends prowled for hot guys. "Fine," she said at last.

"Yes! Someone has to force you out of your shell, you know."

"Where oh where would I be without you?"

"All alone. That's where."

"Hmmph." But deep down she suspected Miranda might be right.

"So how was French today?" Miranda inquired, switching topics.

"What?"

"How was the gorgeous Frenchman?"

"Would you stop? He's like thirty-something," she exaggerated, pushing him into the next decade to diminish his appeal. "And he's a teacher. It's not like I'm going to flirt with him in class or anything."

"But that's exactly what you _should_ do. It'd make the class way more interesting. And maybe you'd get yourself a guaranteed A. I'd be all over that."

She'd reached her limit of Miranda-isms for the evening. "Look, I've got a ton of work to do."

"Yeah. See you tomorrow, sweetie pie." Miranda hung up.

But her homework sat idle. The conversation had left her in an agitated state. It was more than just being pressured into going out Friday night, she realized. It was the way Miranda had referred to M. Laval; the running commentary on his hotness gave her a weird feeling. He was _her_ teacher after all, not theirs.

Not to mention the fact that she knew him now. At least, more than they did. And she felt bad for him, a stranger to East Lake Pines, living all alone. He couldn't even get his things unpacked properly. If she was any kind of Good Samaritan, she should offer him a hand herself.

The idea jolted her upright.

Should she? It excited and frightened her at the same time. Most definitely something out of her comfort zone. But she felt an odd, urgent need to do it nonetheless, before some other girl caught his eye and she was cast off once again into the sea of the unremarkable. Really, what did she have to lose? If he turned her down, then at least she'd demonstrated a willingness to help. It could only go in her favor. Yes. She would do it—tomorrow, even. Closing her eyes, she conjured up an image of his face as she offered up the solution to his dilemma. He would be surprised, of course, but pleasantly so. Most likely he would bestow one of his killer smiles upon her and express his deepest gratitude.

She smiled in return, relishing the image. And just like that, she couldn't wait to go to school.

The first half of the day Friday seemed to creep by at a snail's pace. On a whim, she decided to spend the lunch hour in the library, telling herself that she wanted to get some work done. But deep down she sensed ulterior motives for avoiding her friends. Thoughts of M. Laval filled her head as she stared at her textbooks. How long had he been living in the United States? What part of France was he from? What did his house look like? And just what exactly were the "personal effects" he wanted to keep out of the hands of strangers? He seemed incredibly mysterious and sophisticated. She couldn't help but be intrigued by his unforeseen arrival in this snooze of a town.

When the bell suddenly rang, snapping her out of her daydreams, she realized she had wasted the entire period. But what did it matter? French was her next class. Quickly she packed her things and hurried out.

She tried to appear casual as she walked into the classroom, casting a quick sideways glance at the teacher's desk. M. Laval was seated, staring absently into space, elbows planted, fingertips touching to form a perfect triangle. She caught a whiff of his cologne as she passed. It smelled exotic. Foreign.

She took her seat and was just about to copy down the assignment from the board when a loud buzz pierced the air, startling her and all the other students in the room.

"All right!" someone yelled. "Fire drill!"

She heaved a sigh. She was probably the only one who wasn't thrilled with the idea of missing class.

The students bolted out the door. She rose slowly to her feet, glancing toward the front of the room. M. Laval still hovered over his desk, a bewildered expression on his face. It soon became obvious he had no idea what to do.

Hurrying to his side, she did her best to shout over the deafening noise. "Follow me. I know where we're supposed to go."

He nodded thankfully and pushed himself forward on the crutch. His speed surprised her. He moved fluidly, saving her the need to slow down and possibly embarrass him. And she was feeling quite pleased with herself until she realized that she'd led him directly to the top of the stairwell.

"Oh! Oh no!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry—I'm...this is the way we go. Do you...? Can you...?"

"Not a problem," he said quickly, extracting a large ring of keys from his pocket. "I have access to the elevator." He began to move along in the opposite direction. "This way," he called to her.

She followed and soon they were inside, descending slowly to the first floor. She avoided looking at him and they rode in an uncomfortable silence.

In a matter of minutes they were outside with the rest of the student body. She pointed out the members of the French class and they made their way over, stopping just short of the group.

"Thank you for coming to my rescue," he said, leaning so close his smell enveloped her like a cloud. "I was seconds away from looking like a complete idiot."

She shook her head. "No. No you weren't. It was totally the school's fault, anyway. Aren't they supposed to go over that kind of thing before you start?"

He merely shrugged.

She snuck a peek around her, on the lookout for her friends. Wouldn't they be green with envy to see her standing alone with him? Instead, Nathan, Declan, and that whole crew caught her eye, clumped around one of the picnic tables directly across from her. As usual, they were behaving like a bunch of children. She returned her attention to M. Laval. "It sure is nice out today," she declared, filling space as she searched for something clever to say.

M. Laval glanced up at the clear blue sky. "That it is. Autumn is my favorite time of year."

"Mine too!" she cried, as if having this in common was a rare coincidence. "I love the cool temperatures. The colors. And pumpkin—I love the taste of pumpkin! Pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, pumpkin coffee..." She laughed self-consciously.

"Pumpkin coffee?" He screwed up his face. "I have never heard of this."

"It's super-delicious," she told him. "Especially with whipped cream."

M. Laval looked doubtful. He turned his head, surveying the clumps of teenagers milling about. The students were laughing and shouting. A small group had broken off to play catch with a stray tennis ball. A few teachers were making half-hearted attempts to maintain order. "So this is it?" he asked. "This is the correct procedure for a fire drill?"

She followed his gaze. It did look rather chaotic. "Yep."

He tilted his head in the direction of the courtyard. "Friends of yours?"

To her dismay, Declan and his sidekicks were staring straight at her, candidly checking her out. She shook her head firmly. "Not even a little."

He gave her a crooked smile. "It seems to me they find you quite interesting."

She frowned, then glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see one of the popular girls standing behind her. Yet nothing but empty space came between her and the red brick building.

M. Laval chuckled and she felt her cheeks burning. Abruptly she changed the subject, blurting out, "M. Laval, this is just an idea, but I was thinking...if you're still looking for someone to help you get settled at your new place... maybe I could help?"

For a second he appeared speechless. Then he began to shake his head, categorically dismissing her offer.

"Oh, I know." She looked at the ground, blushing a deeper shade of red. "It was a dumb idea."

He chuckled good-naturedly. "Vivien, you misunderstand me. I'm sure you're busy enough as it is. I wouldn't dare ask for your time like that."

Her head popped up. "No. Really. I'm busy after school on Wednesdays—I volunteer then—and Thursday evenings, but any other day..."

M. Laval regarded her carefully, his fingers caressing the faint stubble on his chin.

"I'm super-good at organizing things," she went on, unable to stop plugging herself. "I've actually developed my own system. And I work quickly."

He stood quietly, his face eventually breaking into a wide grin. "All right. You've won me over."

"Really? Great! Oh my gosh. I promise I'll be whatever you need." Then a small hitch caught in her mind. "But, um, where do you live? Because...I don't have a car." The truth was she didn't even have her driver's license, but she didn't want mention this for fear of looking immature.

"No car required," he assured her. "My house is only a few blocks from here. I walk to and from the school."

"You _walk_?" she replied. Immediately, her hand flew up to her mouth.

"Please," he murmured, pulling her close, his lips only inches from her ear. "There's no need to tiptoe around my disability when you're in my presence. Believe me, I am fully aware of my limitations and have learned to accept them." Then he stepped back, creating a more appropriate distance between the two of them and watched her.

"I didn't mean—"

An all-clear bell sounded and an audible groan echoed throughout the courtyard. The students began funneling back inside.

"That means we can go back," she told him.

He nodded and they began to head toward the building. "Thanks for the company. Shall we set a date for this Monday? Unless you've something already planned."

The word _date_ threw her for a split second. "No," she said. "I mean, yes! Monday's good. I don't having anything going on." Her pulse fluttered.

Dutifully they fell in line, and soon the other students from French class were surrounding them, effectively putting an end to any further conversation.

At eight o'clock on the dot, she waited for Charlie and Miranda in the front entrance of her apartment building. Despite the evening's destination, her mood was surprisingly good. Yes, she'd been badgered into going to Nathan's. And yes, she was positive she was going to hate it. But Monday...Monday was only three days away. Three days and she would see M. Laval—not once but twice! Her friends would freak if they knew. But she wasn't going to tell them. They would turn it into something other than it was. And what it was, she couldn't quite say herself. She didn't know why she'd made such an uncharacteristically bold move. But for the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of purpose. She felt alive.

The girls made it to Nathan's house in less than fifteen minutes, parking on an already crowded street.

"Is that it?" Charlie asked, craning her neck for a better look.

"I'm guessing yes," Miranda replied. "Look at all those people going in and out."

Vivien ducked for a look as well. The house in question was an enormous beige rectangle that sat equidistant from the curb as all the other beige rectangles on the street. Professionally manicured lawns spanned each identical space between house and sidewalk, complete with matching shrubs and lava rocks. No doubt about it—they had entered the land of the McMansion.

"All right, let's go," Miranda said.

There was a moment of hesitation before getting out, as if the evening ahead called for a mental pumping up. Various game faces were tried on: coy smiles, flirtatious glances, sultry pouts.

And then they were out, Miranda and Charlie pressing ahead, intently focused on their mission to talk to as many hot lacrosse players as possible.

Vivien trailed behind, still tempted by the thought of waiting the night out in the car. What did she know about parties? Absolutely nothing. Except the fact that people would be drinking. She'd never had a drink in her life. She didn't smoke. Wasn't the least bit curious about drugs. Why would she want to act all stupid and embarrass herself in front of other people?

She'd seen it all before. At the Eastbrook football games. Notorious gatherings of drunk teenagers. One time in particular, she'd watched a totally wasted girl trip down the bleacher steps and break her arm. Vivien had stood, dumbstruck, as the girl lay sprawled on the filthy ground. "Don't move!" she shouted, not so much worried about the girl's arm as the fact that the flailing Barbie doll was about to roll right over a giant glob of yellowish green spit, brought up from the nether regions of someone's lung. Adding to the shock factor was the awkward detail of the girl's tank top which, as a result of her fall, had twisted a bit too far to the left, placing one perky round breast in plain view. By the time the ambulance arrived, the entire stadium had gathered around to gawk. The horror!

As the three girls climbed the front steps, Miranda and Charlie greeted with giddy smiles people they knew. Inside, directly to their left, a group of boys stood in a semicircle around a bulky kid she recognized from the football team. He was in the midst of chugging an impossibly large amount of beer down a long glass tube. His buddies egged him on, shouting and hopping up and down as they chanted, "Drink, drink, drink!" This he did, swallowing the entire contents in a matter of seconds, finishing it off with a giant belch. She felt a small gag reflex lurch up from the back of her throat. Turning to her friends she said, "What on earth _is_ that?" But no one replied; they'd already moved farther on into the room.

"Oh no," she moaned as she noticed Leonard Butler from her creative writing class making a beeline straight for her. The guy was a borderline stalker, trailing her from class to class, invading her personal space with his greasy face as he asked her totally obvious questions like, "Did you do the homework for today?" Before he could reach her, she spun around and went back out the door into the fresh night air.

A small group of students stood smoking cigarettes on the veranda. She headed to the opposite end and plunked down on a porch swing. With no plans to venture back inside, she prepared herself for a long wait. Nobody seemed to notice her. It was as if she was completely invisible and could watch the scene play on before her, unaltered by her presence.

At times she felt so different from her classmates. Even her close friends. Not that they didn't have plenty of good times together. They did. She recalled weekends of sleepovers, the four of them loud and hyper, keyed up on Hawaiian Punch. They'd talk until the wee hours of the morning, listening to music, squealing about cute boys, sneaking upstairs every so often to raid the refrigerator. One time they'd made chocolate-chip banana pancakes in the middle of the night, documenting the experience with a video camera. They were exceptionally goofy, pretending to be mentally challenged hosts of a cooking show, misreading ingredients, cracking eggs outside the bowl, patting their faces clown-white with flour. Lauren had spent five solid minutes figuring out how to turn on the burner. Charlie had slipped on spilled milk, laughing so hard she had to borrow a clean pair of underwear.

But here she was definitely an outsider. The only one sitting alone. There was a part of her that relished the solitude. Having been left to fend for herself for quite some time now, she felt a sort of peace and comfort being on her own. At the same time there was a part of her that dreaded coming home to an empty apartment, cooking and eating meals for one, and turning to share a laugh with a vacant space on the sofa when her favorite sit-com was on.

Loud hip-hop music pulsated through the walls of the house as the line of parked cars grew steadily. A particularly boisterous cluster of students was stationed around the back of their SUV, drinking beers from a cooler. Their boldness grew until one of them lost all inhibitions, jumping on the hood of a nearby car to perform a fast, gyrating dance. He finished with a bow, winning himself an enthusiastic round of applause from the onlookers.

Maybe she wouldn't have to sit here long after all. There was no way this party was going to last.

As if on cue, from across the street she observed an elderly man step out of his house, looking left then right as he spoke on a cell phone. After a minute or so he hung up and walked to the edge of his property, shouting and gesturing angrily at a group of boys whose car tires had come up onto his lawn. His warning was answered by a string of obscenities. Vivien could hardly believe her eyes when next, one of the boys dropped his pants, giving the man a full view of his ass, which seemed to shine as it basked in the glow of the streetlights. The old man turned in disgust and shuffled back inside.

Jumping to her feet, she headed back toward the front door. The place was definitely getting out of hand. The thought of being trapped here when the police showed up, sirens blasting, sent a wave of panic through her. Anxious and distracted, she collided directly into a pair of boys leaving the house.

"Wha...you again?" Thomas slurred as he stomped clumsily on her foot.

She winced and glared at the careless duo. "Excuse me. I need to find my friends. Some guy across the street just called the police," she added, gesturing behind her.

The boys swiftly followed her sign. "Aw, dude!" Thomas exclaimed.

"I'd better give Nathan the heads-up," Declan said. He turned to Thomas. "You stay here. And hand over your keys. You're not driving." Catching Vivien by complete surprise, he seized her wrist, pulling her through the door and into the house.

"Who're your friends?" he said, leaning toward her, his breath hot in her ear.

Tongue-tied, she had to scramble to come up with their names. "Miranda Lange and Charlie Sullivan," she managed to say. She looked around helplessly. "Have you seen them?"

He stopped moving and thought for a minute. "I think. Over by the kitchen." His fingers still gripped her wrist and now he yanked her along again, across the living room, down the hallway, weaving through bodies, nudging people aside and advising them to clear out.

"There!" she cried at last, pointing to the far end of the packed kitchen.

Declan nodded, leading her as far as the island in the center of the room. He paused, giving her one last lingering stare before he broke the connection and released her. He wore the same look as before, like she was someone he knew but couldn't quite place. After a minute he shrugged and said, "You'd better get out of here."

She stood there, unconsciously rubbing the spot where he'd touched her. "We will," she said finally, but he'd already turned away. She watched him go, his dark hair bobbing this way and that as he disappeared into the crowd.

### Three

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Relationships are mostly fun. But sometimes it's all about trying to fit in. Be wary of pressure to date the most popular boy or girl. Dating for the sake of being in a relationship is never a good idea!! Begin with friendship. If more develops, then you'll know you're headed in the right direction!

Vivien awoke early Saturday morning with a slight headache. The time spent waiting around outside last night had her allergies acting up again.

Rolling out of bed, she stumbled into her bathroom and began rummaging through drawers for an antihistamine. After turning on the shower, she paused, scrutinizing her face in the mirror. As usual, she was pleased, but not, with her general appearance. She did have good hair—her friends were always telling her so—long, thick, and shiny with just the right amount of wave. Her eyes, too, were a positive feature; complete strangers often remarked on the cat-like swirl of moss and gold. On the other hand, she was sure everyone noticed her weirdly asymmetrical nose. She'd always wanted one of those cute little button ones.

Did Declan Mieres think she was pretty? Not that she cared, of course. Let him have his dim-witted blondes, his dumb parties. Whatever. What about M. Laval? Granted he was older, but still, he could appreciate an attractive girl, right? Was she totally off when she sensed he was flirting with her?

Showered and dressed, she packed up her books and headed for the kitchen. She was meeting her friends at the library at ten o'clock, but first she planned to have a good hour there to herself. That way she'd be sure to accomplish something other than listening to the latest round of gossip.

As she passed through the living room, her mother called out, startling her. "You're heading out early." She sat tucked in a corner of the sofa sewing a loose button onto a flowered silk blouse.

"Library," she said in explanation.

The crease between Ramona's eyes deepened slightly but she said nothing. Vivien could see her mother was in one of her moods and she hoped to make a quick exit. Ramona knotted the thread and clipped it with a tiny pair of scissors, then held up the blouse and inspected it with care. "Tonight I have a date," she announced, meeting her daughter's eye at last.

Over the past several years, Ramona's purpose in life had been driven by a singular goal: to find another husband with deep pockets, a man who was so enamored with her he wouldn't dream of demanding a pre-nup. Alan Allen's abrupt departure had left her dazed and confused, and soon after, she plunged into a deep and profound depression, lasting for the better part of a year. Then, seemingly out of the blue, she emerged from her bedroom one evening dressed in her best _Real_ _Housewives_ _of_ _New_ _Jersey_ skintight animal-print dress, complete with four-inch black stilettos, and announced that she was going on a blind date. To no one's surprise, the evening bombed, but it got Ramona thinking, at least, about finding a man to fill the void in her life.

She'd sat her children down at the kitchen table and given them The Speech. "Your father—may he rot in hell—is no longer a part of our lives," she began. "Now I have come to the realization that I need a man in my life, and I would like to establish some ground rules." She looked at each in turn, attempting to impart the gravity of the situation. "A man and a woman need...a physical kind of love...from time to time. I hope you've learned something about this in school."

Vivien hadn't really yet, but Ashton just groaned and asked could he please leave now?

"Cool your jets," Ramona snapped. "My point here is that if I do happen to bring a gentleman friend home to our cozy little apartment, I want you two to give us some privacy. A lot of privacy. And for Pete's sake, don't go anywhere near my bedroom if the door is closed."

Thus began Ramona's quest, and complete dedication to said quest. Starting out on a purely amateur level, she was set up by friends, neighbors, co-workers, and even more distant acquaintances like the old guy who worked the fish counter at Finnegan's Market. He set her up with his nephew, Sean, who as it turned out, was a bodybuilder/FedEx delivery man with a psychotic and extremely jealous ex-wife who slashed Ramona's tires when she found out about their intimate dinner for two at Denny's.

That ended that and Ramona moved on to more serious adventures, like weekly speed-dating rounds followed by an online singles network called Casual Connexions—a big disappointment, according to Ramona, who claimed the whole thing was a scam, nothing more than a swingers club full of horny men in the midst of their midlife crises.

"The name alone should have been a clue, Mom," Ashton said with a shudder.

A brief hiatus occurred after The Accident _._ To anyone who asked, Ramona explained she needed "adequate time to mourn." This was a phase marked by yoga poses and deep meditation amid the flicker of patchouli-scented candles.

Finally, as healed as she'd ever be, Ramona reentered the dating scene. With a take-no-prisoners attitude, she hired a professional matchmaker named Tatiana Lovedale who claimed to be on a first-name basis with the most eligible bachelors in town. Whether or not this was true, her numbers were good; in the last twelve months, Ramona had been on at least twenty dates with men in the upper tax bracket. In addition to providing access to those one would call a "catch," Ms. Lovedale had given Ramona free tips on how to look alluring yet professional. They'd spent several hours in her office circling pictures from high-end clothing catalogs in an attempt to put together attractive ensembles that wouldn't scream "I'm easy" on the first date.

Vivien had to admit, her mother looked good for a woman in her late forties. She was slender and toned, thanks to her three-times-a-week spinning class. Whenever they went out, she got the occasional whistle and plenty of second glances from men.

Nevertheless, Ramona had yet to find "the one." And after being introduced to several of Ramona's dates, it became clear to Vivien that her mother was only attracted to men who looked and acted exactly like her father. True, he was a good-looking man, intelligent and successful. He was also selfish, dishonest, and narcissistic, with those undesirable qualities completely cancelling out the good. Inexplicably, Ramona appeared determined to seek out the Donald Trumps of the singles scene, to repeat the same mistakes with the same egotistical jerks over and over again. Just put her in the same room with a tall, bronzed man in a pinstriped suit sporting a gold Rolex and she was as good as gone.

Now, as Vivien stood poised to leave, she was tempted to point this pattern out. She resisted. "Great. Have fun." She and her mother did not take advice from one another, did not see eye to eye on most issues. At times she found herself seriously doubting they were related at all. No, she would stay out of her business, and she expected the same in return.

The East Lake Pines downtown library was fairly crowded for a Saturday morning. A cold, sputtering drizzle had driven everyone indoors. Luckily, Vivien's early arrival had allowed her to secure one of the best tables and she'd worked diligently for over an hour. But now that was over. Since Charlie and Miranda had arrived, she'd read the same sentence at least five times and still hadn't the foggiest idea what it meant.

She glanced up from the page just in time to see Lauren rushing toward their table. "Hey," Lauren greeted them breathlessly, an enormous smile spanning her lips. She made a show of turning to face Vivien directly. "Oh my God!" Her hands flapped in the air like a baby bird. "Do I have something to tell _you_!"

The three girls waited expectantly as Lauren took a seat and began to unpack her things at an exasperatingly slow pace. Miranda lost patience. "Well, tell us already!"

Lauren grinned, basking in the glow of attention. "So, OK," she began. "After the party got busted last night? Well, a bunch of us went to Taco Grande, just to hang out—I think it was Kara who was having a serious Fajita Supreme craving. Anyway, who shows up there but Nathan and Thomas and practically the whole lacrosse team! They sat at the table right next to us and we all started talking about the party. I guess it was pretty much cleared out by the time the cops arrived, so Nathan didn't even get in trouble. Just, like, a warning or something. Nathan was all cool about it, like it was no big deal and he would do it again the next night, you know? He's so amazing!"

Vivien rolled her eyes and muttered a few choice words under her breath.

"As we were leaving," Lauren continued, "Declan pulled me aside and asked me if I was friends with _you_." Her arm shot out and she pointed straight at Vivien. "I said I was. And then he asked me a bunch of stuff about you, like _personal_ questions. He wanted to know if you were going out with anyone right now." This last piece of news sent her into a spontaneous fit of bouncing, interspersed with several oh-my-Gods. The librarian at the front desk sent them a stark look of disapproval.

Miranda and Charlie turned to Vivien, their mouths gaping open.

"So what?" Vivien said, a prickly heat threatening to erupt. "That doesn't mean anything. It's only because this past week he happened to be at both Kids' Klub and the Future Leaders thing. I literally walked right into him, like, twice, so he's probably wondering what kind of moron I am."

Miranda just stared at her. "Yeah. Right. That's why he wanted to know if you're _available_."

"So?" Lauren said.

"Yeah. Would you go out with him?" Charlie squeaked.

"No way. He's not..." She paused and began to shake her head vehemently. "My type. And I'm _so_ not his."

Her friends looked on in disbelief. "What's _with_ her?" Miranda complained to the other two. She gave Vivien a steely look. "Listen, if you don't take advantage of this, I'm...I'm never going to invite you to our lake house again. Or steal Skittles for you from Charlie's locker."

"Hey!" Charlie said.

With a sigh of exasperation, Vivien slammed her book closed. "I don't get how this is any of your business. What do you suggest I do, exactly?"

"You just said you know you're going to see him this week, after school," Lauren told her. "So talk to him. Flirt a little."

Vivien gave them a blank look. "Ask him a bunch of questions," Lauren went on. "Guys love to talk about themselves. And sports."

"I don't know," Charlie said. "All the magazines say guys love a girl with a good sense of humor. And I just read an interview where this super-hot guy said nothing is sexier than a girl with confidence."

"Confidence!" Miranda rolled her eyes. "Guys look at a girl and think of one thing: how she'd look naked. That's really all they're capable of. Twenty-four-seven, it's sex and more sex." With this last revelation, several people looked up from their reading and frowned at the girls. Miranda shrugged and lowered her voice. "Hey, Vivs, remember when we found all those _Playboy_ magazines in your brother's closet? We were only like eleven or something and we were so freaked out, but we couldn't stop looking. We were so sure we were never gonna look like that." She laughed. "What do you suppose Ashton was doing? Dirty magazines and a tub of Vaseline and who needs a girlfriend, right?"

Vivien's stomach lurched in objection. She didn't want to think about her brother in that way.

"I don't think guys _only_ think about sex," Charlie offered. "Look at married people. Once they're sick of doing it, they still have a ton of crap to do. Keep up the house, raise the kids, you know. Sex is the last thing on their minds; they're like too old for it anyway." This observation seemed to temporarily depress her and she was forced to give herself a moment of silence. "I think when a guy's into a girl, he has to think of her as a friend, too. So just be yourself, Vivs. Be approachable and try not to be such a worrywart. Obviously he's into you if he's asking about you."

"Don't you think it's about time you had a real boyfriend?" Miranda said. "This could be so exciting! You need this. Bad."

Looking around the table at all their eager faces, she knew they were only trying to help. But she couldn't help begrudging them for treating her like an object that needed fixing. Where was it written that she was required to think and act like everybody else? Her resentment only made her want to guard her new secret more closely. She had no intention of telling them that she was already woozy with desire—a feeling she was wholly unaccustomed to—and that the person she couldn't stop thinking about was not Declan Mieres but M. Laval. It was her French teacher who embodied the ideal man: experienced, mature, intelligent. And though she knew it to be slightly ridiculous, she was in the process of developping a serious crush on him. Instead she said, "It's not like I need a boyfriend to feel good about myself. I'm perfectly fine on my own."

"Wrong," Miranda contradicted. "You overanalyze everything and end up doing nothing. We can help you. That's what friends are for."

_Help?_ Like the time in seventh grade when Miranda dragged Vivien along to her first boy/girl party at Rachel Stone's house? Painful memories still lingered from the experience. Straight away she'd known the evening was going to be a disaster when she showed up in thick brown corduroys and every other girl was wearing a jean miniskirt and shoes with _heels_. The party had taken place in the basement, and although Mr. and Mrs. Stone greeted the guests at the front door, they were nowhere to be seen for the remainder of the night. Rachael paired off immediately with her supremely-cool boyfriend, Zach Goldman. She monopolized the music selections, playing a constant string of slow songs so the couple could press together as they danced. Vivien recalled being quite disturbed by this at the time because the girl was blessed with freak-of-nature-ginormous breasts, two mounds of creamy white pizza dough that made her want to reach out and give them a good knead. Her boobs managed to keep Zach in a zombie-like trance for the duration of the party. Of course, no one had asked _her_ to dance. She'd spent the majority of her time stationed next to the snack table, where she somehow managed to polish off the entire bowl of cheese popcorn. Needless to say, she was not invited to any more of the "in crowd" parties after that.

"Hmm," she murmured as she checked the clock. "What do you say we get out of here? I'm starving."

Lauren agreed as she nodded toward the front desk. "That's an excellent idea, 'cause that evil witch librarian is about to march her bony legs over here and kick us out."

### Four

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Do you have someone you feel comfortable with, no matter what? Talking about your emerging sexuality and fast-changing emotions can be difficult, not to mention embarrassing!! The key is finding a good listener, someone who is open-minded and nonjudgmental. Someone you know you can trust who will keep your exchanges confidential.

Monday morning Vivien set her alarm a half hour early so she could straighten her hair. Not for any particular reason, she told herself. Just for something different. She also made sure to put on an extra coat of mascara and slicked her natural pout with gloss for a finishing touch.

In French class that day, she hung on M. Laval's every word and tried more than once to catch his eye. But if she was expecting something special, she was sorely disappointed. Throughout the class period he appeared preoccupied and made no effort to connect with her.

Waiting until the room had cleared, she paused by his desk on her way out. Maybe he was being extra careful not to pay her too much attention. He wouldn't want the other students to pick up on any sort of special treatment. She stood there, watching him thumb through lesson plans. When nearly a full minute had passed, she cleared her throat as delicately as she could.

He looked up. "What is it?"

"I...I don't mean to bother you. I was just wondering...about this afternoon? You know..."

He waited, offering no help, a strange expression on his face, almost as if he was enjoying watching her struggle.

"Should I meet you here?" she asked.

At last he scribbled something in the back of his planner, tore it out, and handed it to her. "Don't come here. This is the address. Four o'clock?" he said, brows arched.

"Yes. Four is...perfect."

The eyebrows fell and a brief impersonal smile flashed across his lips before he bowed his head, consumed in his work once again. She hesitated a moment longer, just in case he might change his mind, might offer her something a little less cold. But it soon became painfully obvious she'd been dismissed. Spinning on her heels, she headed off to her next class, bringing the fresh sting of rejection along with her.

By the time the bell rang at the end of the day, she was feeling a little better. She'd rationalized her disappointment away. He was busy, that was all. Childishly, inexcusably, she'd worked herself up over nothing. Expected more than was actually there. It wasn't as if they should be exchanging intimate glances in school, anyway. She'd offered him a favor and their relationship was one of teacher-student. Nothing more.

As she exited the east side of the building, she double-checked the address: 627 Mound Street. A short three blocks from school, toward the lake. She hummed good-naturedly and looked around as she walked, taking pleasure in the crisp fall weather. The maple trees were in full splendor: deep reds, burnt oranges, and brilliant yellows wove around her like a tapestry bringing with it the sudden urge to go on a picnic. On a blanket, she'd have her head nestled in some drop-dead gorgeous guy's lap as he fed her grapes—no—chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne in miniature flutes. He would drink in her beauty in the dappled sunlight. And she, his. She sighed dreamily.

Pausing to verify the street, she was momentarily distracted by a missing cat sign posted on a streetlight. "Midnight black with three white paws," it read, "answers to the name of Mister Mews. Please call 222-7454 if found." Aw, poor kitty. But the sighting of M. Laval's house situated only a few paces away on the corner immediately eclipsed this thought.

The house was an old bungalow. It had potential but in its current state appeared ramshackle, in desperate need of a new paint job. New windows, too, she noted; the two sagging frames peered back at her like a weary jack-o'-lantern. Hedges bordered the sidewalk, wildly overgrown, towering overhead as she turned onto the short walkway. On the front porch sat a large potted geranium, dead. The doorbell looked questionable, drooping from the brown siding with several wires exposed. She tried it anyway and waited.

No answer.

She rang again, straining her ears for any sound from within. Presuming the thing was broken, she rapped loudly. A moment or two later she could hear fumbling at the door.

"Vivien," he said, his accent as attractive as ever. He smiled. And with his smile, all earlier traces of doubt vanished. Suddenly shy, her cheeks colored as she mumbled a greeting.

Holding the door open, he motioned her inside. "I trust you had no difficulties finding the house?"

She stepped past him, devouring the scent of his cologne like a meal. "No. You were right, it is conveniently close."

He closed the door and paused, looking at her intently. "I'm glad you're here." This he said with a touch of disbelief, as if all along her coming had been a long shot.

She could manage nothing other than additional mumbles.

"Please. Allow me to give you the grand tour." He moved off ahead of her. "Not much to see," he apologized as they picked their way around moving boxes. "Careful you don't trip."

They passed through the living area, a small but cozy space with a good-sized fireplace centered on the far brick wall. The room was sparsely furnished. A recliner, deep brown leather sofa, coffee table, and solitary floor lamp made up the only pieces.

The dining room was similar in size, the walls covered with dated wallpaper, a small rose print that over the years had faded from red to pale pink. An antique pedestal table, four unmatched chairs, and an empty china cabinet completed the room. Books lined the walls, towering in precarious columns that all but grazed the ceiling.

"Guess you don't do much entertaining in here," she said.

He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. "As you can see, I'm in desperate need of your help."

Teacher and student continued on into the kitchen. "May I offer you something to drink? I'm afraid I don't have much. No Diet Coke," he added.

"Oh, that's OK," she said quickly. "I try not to drink too much diet soda anyway. It's so artificial. Who knows what those chemicals actually do to your body?"

He looked a bit surprised at this. "Are you a coffee drinker?"

"I love coffee," she replied. "And not just pumpkin coffee," she added, giggling sheepishly.

He nodded. "Milk and sugar?"

"Yes, please."

He nodded again and began opening a succession of cupboards in search of filters. "I can never seem to remember where I've put things."

"May I help?" she offered.

He shook his head. "You are my guest. Have a seat." He waved his hand, indicating a small kitchen table accompanied by two folding metal chairs. "I'll have things underway shortly."

She watched him surreptitiously as he went about his task, admiring the way he moved: a forceful jerking, the very opposite of graceful, but suggestive of strength and determination. Masculine. With his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, she could see the sinewy muscles of his forearms working as he propelled himself from counter to sink on the crutch.

Finished, he held her cup in one hand as he loped over to the table, remarkably spilling not a single drop.

She jumped up to meet him. "Let me get that," she said, reaching out and grasping the cup. He let her take it and returned to the counter to retrieve his own. She took a cautious sip of the steaming beverage. "Mmm," she murmured. "This is so good. So rich." She admired the cup as she replaced it on the saucer. It was large and round, almost bowl-like. "Is this French?" she asked.

He nodded. "Café crème is served in larger cups such as these. The smaller ones are for _un café_ — straightforward black coffee, but much stronger than your typical American stuff."

She let out a small sigh, wishing she was in a real French café right now. She was positive it would be so much more chic and sophisticated than anything found here. East Lake Pines was small, but quaint it was not. Sprawling subdivisions and strip malls formed the gist of it. The only feature making it worth a second glance was the university. The downtown was tolerable, she allowed, as it bordered the lake and had a few good shops. But overall, the landscape was flat as a pancake. Just plain ugly.

As if reading her mind he said, "The French love passing a leisurely afternoon in the cafés. Meals are never rushed. It's important to savor the food, to take pleasure in the flavors."

"Oh, I know," she said, in complete agreement. "Americans are way too caught up in convenience. Everything has to be fast, big, and cheap." She rolled her eyes, as if she abhorred these qualities. "I can't wait to go to Europe."

"You will love it," he assured her. "You have a very refined air about you, much like the French woman. I think you would fit in beautifully."

"Really?" She beamed.

"Without a doubt."

She couldn't help but feel pleased. She'd always thought French women beautiful. Her mind wandered, exploring the possibilities of a better, future life abroad. She could see herself living in a charming one-bedroom apartment. A walk-up located on one of those old-world cobblestone streets. She'd have her very own tiny balcony where she'd sip her morning café and read. The elderly widow next door would pop in on regular basis with freshly baked bread and neighborly advice...

She returned to the present to find M. Laval staring at her. She smiled shyly and brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes. His eyes tracked her movement. "You have lovely hands," he told her. "Long fingers. Do you play the piano, by chance?"

She gave a start, quickly placing her hands in her lap. His question had caught her off guard. "No. I mean, I used to. But...that was a long time ago."

He waited, clearly expecting further clarification.

"I lost interest," she said, hoping to be done with the matter.

"A shame," he said with a tilt of his head. "You were quite good." He reached across the table to the windowsill and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and lighter. "I know. It's a dirty habit," he told her, the cigarette dangling loosely between his lips. After a deep inhale he leaned back in his chair and regarded her with care.

She did not approve of smoking. She detested the smell. However, she felt it was not her place to say anything. This was his house, after all. Clearing her throat, she said, "How do _you_ know I was good?"

"I can't explain. I simply know." Another exhale. "You disagree?"

"It doesn't matter."

This produced a twisted smile. "Everything matters," he replied.

She looked away. "I don't want to bore you to death. And anyway, what's done is done."

"Never to be undone?"

"No," she said. Readjusting herself in the hard, metal chair, she changed the subject. "We should get started soon, don't you think?"

"Ah, she is eager to get to get her hands dirty. I like that." He glanced in the direction of the dining room. "I propose we begin with the mass chaos in there."

She followed his gaze. "I hope you have a place in mind for all those books. So many..."

"Too many," he agreed. "I began collecting things after I could no longer..." He paused and looked away, a wistful expression in his eyes.

She could sense what he'd failed to say and she couldn't help herself. "What happened? Was it an accident?"

His eyes returned to her with a shrug. "An automobile collision—no." He shook his head and corrected himself. "A crash you say, yes?"

Her breath caught in her throat. "Oh! I didn't mean to pry. It's just..." She stopped. "I can't believe this...because my brother..." Again, she stopped and broke free of his gaze. "My brother," she said finally, "he was in an accident, too. But he didn't make it. He was killed. They both were." She kept her eyes averted, focusing on the last few drops of caramel-colored liquid in her cup.

"Both?"

She forced herself to look at him. "Max," she explained. "Ashton's best friend. He was the one driving."

"I'm sorry. How difficult for you."

"Yes," she agreed. "It was awful. He was all I had." And he was; her only sibling, the loss so profound she never spoke of it. Now she didn't understand what had come over her.

"You miss him terribly," he said.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I think about Ashton all the time. The worst part is all the things I want to say to him. That I never did. Not realizing, you know, that I'd never see him again. It all happened so fast. One minute he was there, in my room; the next, he was gone. Never coming back. It didn't seem real."

M. Laval leaned forward, stubbing out his cigarette in the saucer. "Perfectly understandable, but you can't let these things consume you—last words and such." His hand grazed hers. He left it resting on the table, the heat of his skin bridging the gap between their fingertips. "You were family. You grew up together. You shared a bond. Despite the ups and downs of your relationship, he knew you loved him."

Her eyes stung. All at once she was gripped by a perverse urge to tell him her darkest secrets, all the things that kept her tossing and turning nights. What good was her love for Ashton, she wanted to ask, when she was the real reason he died? She blinked several times, willing herself not to cry, to fall apart. Here. In front of her new French teacher. A truly mortifying experience.

But apparently it was too late for that. He'd seen right through her, was already on his feet, a box of tissues in hand. "My sincere apologies," he said. "I see I've upset you."

"No," she insisted, mumbling her thanks as she took a tissue and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. "I'm fine." She stood as well and attempted a smile.

Reaching out, he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze of encouragement. "Any time you want to talk..."

The way he just laid it out there, plain and simple, made her feel strangely at home despite the fact that she'd barely spent an hour in this house. There was something about him that invited confidence. He offered comfort, advice, yet these things were given without judgment—such a rarity when dealing with adults. She could imagine herself coming here often, moving about the rooms with an easy familiarity. She'd know where the coffee filters were kept, the cups and saucers, the sugar. "Grab me a pair of scissors, will you?" he'd say, and she'd dash off to that special junk drawer found in every house. They'd make slow progress, chatting, joking. But she'd look forward to each visit from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning.

"Here in my home," he said, his tone all business as they moved into to the dining room, "you must call me Christophe. I feel silly being addressed as M. Laval. It makes me feel old."

"Christophe," she repeated, the name sounding dangerously intimate on her lips. "I'll try."

The next hour and a half was spent sorting through boxes and hunting around for the proper place— _any_ place—for the wide array of items he had collected over the years. During this time, he never ceased asking questions: How long had she lived in East Lake Pines? How would she describe the general student body at Eastbrook? Did she like high school? Which extracurricular activities did she participate in? What sorts of things did the community offer for recreation? What was the best Japanese restaurant (sushi was a once-a-week staple)? Did she know of a good bookstore? How familiar was she with the campus downtown?

By the time they were finished, she was exhausted both mentally and physically. She looked around in dismay at the boxes still untouched in the surrounding rooms.

"Enough," he announced, wiping his brow and collapsing into a chair. He too surveyed the scene and seemed to reach the same conclusion. "God Almighty! Where did all this stuff come from?" This sent him into a long chuckle. "Maybe I need—what do you call it?—a garden sale."

"A yard sale," she said. "That'd be a good idea. But you should wait until spring. That's when people do it."

He nodded, his expression changing from light to serious. "I cannot thank you enough, Vivien. On top of being a tremendous help, you proved to be a most talented conversationalist. However, as you can see, we've barely cracked the surface."

She looked around once more. This was true. "Well...I could come back," she offered, the vision of her visiting regularly still fresh in her mind. It seemed crazy, yet she suddenly wanted it badly. In her perfect world, the job would never end. Her gaze returned to find him studying her, an undecipherable look on his face.

"I would be forever in your debt," he said at last. "But next time, I insist you stay for dinner, as a reward for all your hard work. Do you like sushi?"

His offer caught her off guard. Dinner? The two of them? Alone? But her desire to see him again redirected these concerns into a safer, more acceptable direction. It was just food. When people got hungry, they ate. A totally normal activity. "Um, sushi?" she replied, her voice cracking in the middle.

"We can always order something else."

"No, no. Sushi's fine. Sushi's good. I love sushi."

With that, he rose wearily to his feet. "I'll see you to the door."

It was early evening now, and dark. Christophe surveyed the street with concern. "How careless of me. You shouldn't be walking home alone."

"I walk everywhere," she told him. "It's totally safe. There's, like, barely any crime in this boring town. Don't worry."

Christophe looked doubtful.

"Seriously," she said. "I'll be home in ten minutes."

Weighing her words, Christophe finally relented, saying teasingly, "I'll let you go. This time."

Vivien stepped off the crowded city bus in a mad dash for the front doors of Lakewood Elementary. For some unexplained reason, it seemed to rain cats and dogs every Wednesday like clockwork. She arrived in the office out of breath, her hair once again a slick chocolate mass plastered to her head and neck.

"Goodness gracious! Have you ever seen such rain?" Trudy exclaimed. "And you are soaked to the bone! Why don't you kids carry umbrellas? Are they out of style or something?"

Vivien unloaded her dripping backpack onto the floor with thud. She could picture Mrs. Speckleburger decked out in plastic rain cap, rubber boots, and jumbo-size umbrella, a walking fortress against the rain. "No, they're not out of style," she answered. "I just didn't think to bring one today." She made her way over to the sign-in sheet, wet socks sliding back and forth in her Converse, releasing fairly convincing mouse squeals with every step.

"Here, dear," Trudy called out as she waved a laminated nametag in the air. "We had these made for all the volunteers. Be sure to wear it every time so the building staff can identify you. You can return it to the office at the end of the day when you sign out."

She took the nametag and clipped it onto her t-shirt. "Thanks."

"I just love that name. Vivien," Trudy said. "One rarely hears it these days."

She smiled politely. "My mother was a huge _Gone_ _with_ _the_ _Wind_ fan, so..." She shrugged. "It's OK, I guess."

Trudy shook her head in amusement at her obvious displeasure. "The name suits you perfectly. Vivien Leigh was a knockout and you—look at you! That delicate doll face. I'll bet you break all the boys' hearts over at Eastbrook."

She blushed and looked away. "Not exactly."

"Go on, dear." The secretary waved her off good-naturedly. "It's the gym or the cafeteria again today."

Making her way to the gym, she suddenly recalled the conversation with her friends at the library and her stomach did a quick mini-flip. Declan Mieres. He would be here. _Possibly_ he was interested in her, although this seemed incredibly unlikely. Everybody knew Lauren was a renowned source of misinformation. If anything, he'd probably made the whole thing up that night as a pretense to talk to her. She was the gorgeous one.

The scene that greeted Vivien was identical to the previous week: kids running helter-skelter, screaming, pushing, chasing. How there was not a head-on collision every sixty seconds was nothing short of a miracle. Sidestepping basketballs, she threaded her way through the gym with her escape—the double doors at the far end—in constant sight.

She was nearly there when she caught sight of him. She recognized his athletic build and wavy dark hair immediately. Declan Mieres was being pulled in several directions by a group of sweaty boys, looks of urgency plain on their faces. They pulled at his arms, his legs, the barrage an open plea for his attention. But Declan was otherwise occupied. He stood hunched over a girl, his hand upon her shoulder. The girl teetered on her tiptoes, mouthing something directly into his ear. In the next instant, she began to hop back and forth quickly from one foot to the other. As Vivien drew closer, she could see the girl wore a panicked expression. Abruptly she stopped hopping, wrapping her arm between her legs. Years of babysitting had taught her this girl was about to empty her bladder in a matter of minutes. Seconds, maybe.

"Can I help?" she called out, hurrying toward the pair. She squatted down to the girl's level. "Do you need to use the bathroom, sweetie?"

Declan looked visibly relieved at her arrival. "I can't understand a word she's saying," he shouted as the boys finally won him over, dragging their prize across the floor to the nearest net.

"I got this," she shouted back, guiding the girl by the arm. She remembered seeing a girls' room down the hall by the cafeteria. As they rushed along, she did her best to comfort her. "Sometimes it just happens so fast. It can be hard to get there on time. What's your name?"

"Waura," the girl answered softly. All at once she stopped and looked at Vivien with wide eyes. Vivien glanced down in time to see two dark stains running simultaneously the length of her red tights and into her glittery pink Mary Janes. Laura's big blue eyes filled with tears.

"Oh! It's OK, Laura. Don't cry!" she said hurriedly, kneeling to meet a face already moist and blotchy. "It's no big deal. Really! We'll go right to the office, and guess what? Mrs. Speckleburger is going to know exactly what to do. I'll bet she has a whole bunch of extra clothing for situations just like this. Everybody has bad days, you know."

Laura nodded unhappily and wiped her nose with her sleeve. They turned around and headed back into the gym, staying close to the wall. She tried to shield Laura with her body so the other children wouldn't tease her. As they passed, she found herself searching faces, driven by a perverse desire to catch one last glimpse of him.

There he was, still playing. More had joined. Apparently he was extremely popular today. He was hamming it up good, letting the kids sneak past him to score, and had the lot in a fit of giggles. Before she had a chance to look away, he caught her eye, his open grin fading to a look of concern. Quickly he excused himself and hustled in their direction.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered, pausing midstride to give him a stern "don't make me explain this" look. "We're just going on a quick errand to the office. _For_ _supplies_." She held his gaze.

Declan looked confused, but then seemed to catch on. "Ohhh...right. You want me to come with?"

His offer surprised her. She'd assumed he wouldn't want to get involved. Bathroom accidents weren't exactly your average guy's cup of tea. "Oh...um, thanks...but that's not necessary. Just we girls are going to go."

He rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "You're sure?" He looked a bit sheepish, as if he thought the whole thing might have been his fault.

"We're good," she said, giving him a quick smile as she turned away and moved Laura along.

Once in the office, Trudy took charge, and in no time Laura was back in the gym, all traces of sorrow lost as she joined a game of Hot Potato with friends.

Vivien left to find Dashayla, and the two of them spent the rest of the afternoon coloring Halloween pictures. The second grader was more animated than ever, entertaining Vivien with a continuous narrative of facts. She learned that Dashayla's older brother loved video games, LeBron James, and corndogs. And that Dashayla used to have a pet hamster named Fuzz, but he got cancer and one day he just wouldn't wake up. And that she loved to dance. She was taking ballet and tap, and when she was a grownup she was going to be a professional dancer.

With this last revelation Vivien had to bite her tongue. The mental image of the chunky girl pirouetting across the stage was almost too much.

At five o'clock she gave Dashayla a hug goodbye and signed out. The steady rain persisted as she stepped out into the parking lot of the school. Using her backpack as a makeshift umbrella, she trudged toward the bus stop and looked upward with a scowl. The early evening sky was dark. Onerous gray clouds hung so low she felt as though she could reach up and grab a handful.

A car sure would be nice, she reflected. Maybe she should get her butt in gear and sign up for driver's ed. Soon enough she'd be the only one in her grade without a license, and that would be just plain humiliating.

The sound of a car whizzing past on the wet pavement interrupted her train of thought. Brake lights lit up the darkness as it screeched to a halt. She frowned suspiciously. The white Volvo station wagon backed up, stopping directly in front of her. Its tail end was badly dented on one side, the whole of it plastered with stickers. "If you want to play lacrosse, you're gonna need some balls," she read. Another one said, "My lacrosse player beat up your honor student." A sinking feeling came over her as she watched the front passenger window slowly descend and Thomas's head emerge. "Hey!" he shouted, his eyes taking her in slowly, head to foot.

She was fully aware of what she must look like. A drowned rat. A total loser standing there squinting into the rain, waiting for the stupid bus.

"Like, do you want a ride?" he said, the smirk never leaving his lips.

It took her a moment to respond. "With you?" She lowered her backpack from overhead. The rain pecked at her eyes and dripped off the tip of her nose.

Thomas nodded, still smirking. "You look kinda wet."

Indecision glued her to the spot. As much as she loathed the bus, she didn't really want to get in _that_ car. She would be outnumbered three-to-one, and without a doubt it would be painfully awkward. At least on her part. What would she say to them? What could they possibly talk about, having so little in common?

At the same time, she was wet, cold, and tired. She wanted to get home as soon as possible. Swallowing hard, she made a decision. "Yeah, OK, thanks," she replied all in one breath, quickly ducking inside. Fleeting eye contact was made with all three faces before she sought refuge out the window, concentrating with all her power on sending her telltale blush back where it came from.

"No problem," Declan offered from behind the wheel. "Sorry, my car's a mess."

Feeling as though she had to acknowledge him in some way, she grunted and her gaze darted about the car. A mud-encrusted pair of cleats, various pieces of sweat-stained gym clothing, and empty, grease-stained bags of fast food littered the floor. These elements combined together to create a wholly unique scent.

"Yeah, _dude_! Your car's nasty," Nathan laughed beside her, smacking Declan playfully on the back of the head.

Declan grinned and pulled away. "So..." His eyes locked on hers from the rearview mirror. "Vivien, right?"

She gave him a curt nod before breaking away. His look made her insides squirm.

"Where do you live?"

"East Hollow, between Elm and Ridge," she replied, looking straight ahead at the back of Thomas's seat.

A spell of silence fell upon the car. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. Why was she on edge? It was only a ride. Offered because it was raining. And he'd decided to do a good deed. Declan Mieres didn't like her. The idea was so absurd she nearly laughed out loud.

Before long, Thomas and Nathan began a detailed discussion on the stupidity of the physics assignment, physics class, and physics teacher, eventually expanding upon these grievances to include the glaring incompetence of nearly every teacher at Eastbrook. This topic exhausted, they moved on to debate the latest college football rankings. Having nothing of value to add, she just sat there feeling small and insignificant, wishing she was home already.

Eventually the Volvo pulled into a long, winding driveway, stopping before an imposing architectural achievement consisting mainly of floor-to-ceiling windows and nestled in dense greenery. Individual spotlights highlighted a series of abstract sculptures on either side of the walkway leading up to the front door. Thomas guzzled the end of his Red Bull, belched, and was about to toss the can over his shoulder when he remembered Vivien was sitting there. He and Declan exchanged a look, the corners of Thomas's mouth curling up ever so slightly before he hopped out, saying, "Later," and slammed the door.

Declan maneuvered the car back down the curves of the driveway with expertise and flicked on the radio. Nathan was quiet, staring out the window. But soon enough he resumed his mindless chatter as he leaned forward near Declan's ear and said, "Hey, you wanna work out later?"

"I'll have to double-check," Declan replied. "Patrick's coming home this weekend and my mom's been nagging me to move a bunch of crap out of his room. I'm pretty sure I somehow got roped into doing it after dinner tonight." He let out a long sigh. "She ordered some kind of bed that's like a sofa _and_ a bed, so we can use the room while he's gone. I don't know why. We already have the study and a guest room. No one ever goes in there."

"Your mom's crazy, just like mine. Last month she paid this interior decorator to do our laundry room. Our laundry room! She got all excited about these shelves and shit. And she spent like three weeks picking out the paint color." He shook his head like he just couldn't understand this. Then he stretched out in the seat, saying, "That's cool. Patrick's coming home, huh? Let's go out Saturday night or something. The big college boy can show us a good time."

Declan laughed. "I don't know about that. He's got this girlfriend now."

" _What?_ So fucking lame, dude." Suddenly he spun around to face her. "Why are chicks always trying to change us?"

Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, you're always trying to get us to stay in, snuggle down with a bowl of popcorn, and watch chick flicks. Or worse, we have to spend the entire weekend shopping. Who gives a fuck what kind of shoes go best with..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Your new dark-wash skinny jeans?"

Despite her annoyance, she found herself impressed with his inside knowledge of girls' clothing.

"Nooooo!" he continued. "It doesn't seem to matter we'd rather have our eyes gouged out by a pack of rabid dogs than spend an afternoon trailing behind you, holding your purse while you spend forever in the dressing room obsessing over the size of your ass. Would you prefer we just hand you our balls at the beginning of the relationship?" He waited, apparently expecting some kind of answer, staring at her with mild hostility.

"Relax, bro." Declan laughed, turning his head quickly to smile at her. "It's not polite to vent on innocent people. You're just sore 'cause you're not gettin' any at the moment," he teased.

"What do you know?" Nathan scoffed. "My chang-a-lang's seeing plenty of action thanks to my loyal friends with benefits."

Declan laughed again. "All right. Let's not go there."

A few minutes later she recognized Nathan's neighborhood, and before she knew it they'd swerved into the base of his driveway and come to a stop.

Nathan patted the back of Declan's seat. "Nice, dude. I see how this is working out." He turned to Vivien. "Move on up to the front, sweetheart," he said, his tone self-satisfied and exceptionally irritating. And with an impish smile, he exited the car.

Declan looked back at her, shaking his head. "Just ignore him. But you _are_ gonna have to move. I feel like your dad or something with you way back there."

She hesitated briefly, then grabbed her backpack and switched to the front seat. Watching Nathan as he strutted up his driveway, she said, "So...he's a good friend of yours?"

"Aw, he's harmless, really," Declan told her. "He's all talk. Underneath that, he's a decent guy."

"Hmm," was all she could say.

Declan made a swift U-turn and lowered the volume on the radio. "Listen, I owe you one. That girl today? It was like..." He whistled and gestured over his head.

She smiled. "She did kind of talk like Elmer Fudd. Watch the woad, you wascally wabbit!" she said with a giggle. "You don't have to apologize, though. That stuff just happens when you're dealing with little kids."

He nodded. "You seem like a pro. You probably have a little sister, huh?"

"No." She wasn't going to elaborate on the topic of siblings. "I've just done my fair share of babysitting."

"I see." There was silence. Then he said, "We seem to be running into each other a lot lately."

The way he said it made her suddenly alert, and she straightened in her seat.

"What'd you think of the Future Leaders meeting?" he went on. "That guy, Stossel, he's kind of a tool. But last year we did some cool stuff."

"Yeah. I looked into it and it seemed like a good thing to join—kind of a win-win situation where you help yourself by helping others."

"Exactly," he agreed.

"I don't know if I'll have time for all the projects, but I'm excited about the Habitat for Humanity one. I've never pictured myself being capable of building a house, so it would be really awesome if I actually did it."

Declan nodded. "My youth group at St. Mary's built houses. Last summer. We joined up with this other organization in this totally poor town in Mexico. A few shacks made up the downtown and the rest were a bunch of huts made out of sheet metal and cardboard—like something you might build in your backyard." He turned to face her, his look suddenly somber. "I'm serious. That's where entire families actually _lived_. It blew my mind! I mean, we take so much for granted living here. These people had, like, _nothing_. We worked five days solid and built, I don't know, six or seven houses—just these pre-fab tiny things—but it was a real rush to see how grateful they were. Little kids kept hugging us with these gigantic smiles. I'll never forget it."

She eyed him with suspicion. Certainly, she'd never pictured Declan Mieres as someone who cared much about people less fortunate than him. "So you went with your church? Was that, like, a mandatory part of your youth group?" She remained set on disliking him.

"No. Not at all. My church's not like that. You only went if you wanted to."

"And you did?"

"Yeah." He nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to her sarcasm. "It was awesome. I mean, not awesome as in a great time and all that. We worked our asses off. But it was an unforgettable experience, that's for sure."

"Well, what do you know," she muttered.

"Huh?"

"Nothing." This little known detail brought up feelings other than sheer wonder. She couldn't help feeling envious of those who held a firm religious belief. Her experience with organized religion could be labeled as nothing but an unqualified disaster.

She had clear memories of attending some nondescript Christian sect when her family was still together. The church itself was an unattractive modern affair, nothing like the beautiful old churches she so admired. Every Sunday morning, she and Ashton marched down to the basement with the other Sunday-school children dressed in their satin dresses and somber suits. The smell remained with her to this day, a combination of burnt coffee and casseroles made with Velveeta cheese. Mrs. Mary and Mrs. Joy were her teachers, frumpy, unreasonably eager church mothers who wore polyester stretch pants and Scandinavian sweaters. It was their responsibility to teach the children watered-down lessons about Jesus. Every session ended with some kind of purposeless craft: Popsicle-stick crosses, lopsided candles, plastic-bead necklaces. The worst thing had been the end of class when all the children were forced to sit on the shag rug and sing Bible songs while Mrs. Joy massacred the piece on the piano and sang in a gratingly nasal voice. Vivien never joined in, just mouthed the words and kept her eye on the big round clock above the bulletin board.

After the divorce, Ramona shucked religion like last season's designer heels. She simply had no need for it anymore. Her favorite part had been showcasing her flawless family to the congregation, and that fable was now clearly out the window. Her pillar of the community husband had turned out to be nothing but a philanderer, and her two children had no interest in keeping up any sort of religious pretense.

Vivien had been relieved, of course, but felt that she should seek out an alternative. True, that church had not been a good fit, but weren't there plenty of other options?

She'd decided ask Ashton for help. But as it turned out, her brother was a devout believer that all religion was complete bullshit; he was an atheist and proud of it.

"Come on," she said. "You don't believe in _any_ kind of God?"

"Nope. I believe in the randomness of the universe." Ashton was pacing the room, his long, angular body taking giant strides as he absently tossed a baseball back and forth between his hands. This was what he often did when he was composing his music. "Constant movement creates songs that have the proper flow," he had told her once.

"So...you don't think there's an all-knowing being guiding us? Looking out for us?"

"Sure there is." He stopped and gave her a smug look. "It's called me, myself, and I."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm serious. I need to know."

"I'm serious, too." Ashton assumed a solemn pose, holding up his hand as if he was taking an oath. His fingertips were black with ink. "I consciously reject the idea of deities."

"You don't believe in _anything_?" How was this even possible? Who was looking after him, then?

"Don't look so miserable, Vivs. You don't have to follow my beliefs. In fact, I think you should definitely stay away from me. I've become a twisted, cynical dude," he said. But then he softened. "Come here. Sit down." He patted the spot next to him on the futon, exposing the intricate flow of tattoos that covered the underside of his pale arms.

She dragged her feet in an exaggerated fashion as she acquiesced and plopped down beside him. "What?"

"I think," he said slowly, "that our family has been through some pretty heavy shit, and if you feel the need to believe in...I don't know—something—then do it. If you want, I have some great books I can loan you." He pointed to the bookshelf in the corner of his room where a few lonely tomes sat between balled-up t-shirts and a stack of food-encrusted dishes.

She scanned the possible choices: _God Is Not Great_ , _The End of Faith_ , and _The Demon-Haunted World_. Looking back at her brother, she frowned. "Aren't those all written from the same viewpoint? And anyway, I can't decide what to believe in just by reading a book. It's more like what I _feel_ ," she tried to explain. "At night, when I'm lying in bed, I can talk to...my God...and I know he's listening. I really do, Ash."

He smiled and ruffled her hair like a child's. "That's fine. That's _you_. Just go with it. You don't have to belong to any one specific church to be a spiritual person. You don't need them telling you when to worship. What to eat and when to eat it. What prayers to say and how to say them..." He was sounding increasingly bitter by the minute. "They all believe their way is the right way. The _only_ way. And they have no problem shoving that down your throat." He flopped onto his back, cradling his head in his arms. "What a fucking load of crap."

Glancing out the window, she realized Declan was nearing her street. She pretended to stare straight ahead while sneaking sideways glances at this mysterious new persona who was sitting next to her. Who was this guy, anyway? Certainly not who she'd thought he was.

"Turn left up here," she instructed. "My apartment building will be about halfway down the block on the left."

He turned and drove slowly, looking for an empty parking spot on the street.

"There's one," she said, pointing. "That's my place, right there." She indicated a square five-story building across the street.

"The Sans...?" he said, attempting to read the sign above the front entrance. He glanced at her and shrugged.

"The Sans Souci," she finished for him. "It's French."

"I don't speak French. What does it mean?"

"It means _no_ _worries_ ," she told him, staring up at the place Ramona had brightly called their fresh new start. She'd never noticed until now how truly ugly it was, and she was suddenly embarrassed. The sand-colored brick looked dingy and plain. She hated that color brick; brick should be red, lively. The wrought-iron balconies facing the street were unadorned, appearing colorful only in the summertime when some of the residents placed their houseplants and hanging flower baskets outside. A massive wooden block made up the front double doors, with disproportionately tiny square windows near the top. These in turn were divided into smaller squares, bearing resemblance to a medieval castle door. The whole building was a true architectural disaster.

"No worries," he repeated, "I like that." After a brief pause he added, "So, you going tomorrow night?"

"What's tomorrow night?"

"The Future Leaders."

"Oh, right. I was planning to...if every single one of my teachers doesn't pile on the homework."

"Maybe I'll see you there?"

The way he said it, unfinished, hopeful, made her give him a second look. A good long look. And a tiny quiver traveled out from her chest and down all four limbs. There was something about him. Something that made her uneasy, but in a good sort of way, if that made any sense. "Maybe you will," she replied, unable to suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. She placed her hand on the door but made no effort to open it. She suddenly wanted the moment to last. "So...thanks...for the ride, I mean. The bus totally sucks."

He laughed. "True. The bus totally sucks." His smile stayed as he looked into her eyes.

"Yeah, well..." She looked away, finishing her thoughts far from his killer gaze. "You saved me from getting completely soaked."

"No problem..." The words hung in the air like he, too, wanted something more. But nothing further transpired, just the hint of a twinkle in his rich brown eyes.

### Five

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

High school can be a particularly stressful time for teens. Demanding classes, extracurricular activities, and social pressures all challenge your ability to achieve a sense of balance. Sometimes all it takes is adjusting your mindset. Watch what you're thinking! Replace negative thoughts with positive ones!! A healthy dose of optimism can aid you in making the best of any difficult situation.

As if Vivien had somehow jinxed herself, her teachers did, in fact, pile on the homework the following day. She swore quietly under her breath as she read through her planner, slumped against the lockers after seventh hour. There was a ton of reading, an ominously thick packet from her chemistry teacher (with no directions whatsoever) and about fifty problems to work out in algebra II. Clearly she was not going anywhere tonight.

"Hey! Vivs! You heading home now?"

She turned to see Miranda bouncing down the hallway. "Yeah. I have _so_ much homework," she grumbled. "And I'd planned on going to that meeting tonight."

"What meeting?" Miranda said. Then she smiled conspiratorially. "Oh yeah. The one where someone _else_ will be too...am I right?"

Vivien left this unanswered, dumping her books into her backpack and slamming the locker door. Miranda grabbed her by the shoulder as she tried to walk away. "I totally can't believe Declan gave you a ride home yesterday. That's so awesome! You have to tell me everything."

She removed Miranda's hand and took a step back. "Calm yourself, please. Nothing happened. He just said he might see me tonight." She began walking toward the doors.

Miranda hustled after her. "Cut me some slack! I need something _interesting_ to think about. You and Declan. I just can't help myself, it's so exciting!"

She moaned and rubbed her temples, sensing the onslaught of a massive headache. "Miranda, listen to me. We are not _together_. And saying such a thing only guarantees that nothing ever _will_ happen."

"What? You think I'm going to put a hex on you or something? You're crazy superstitious, Vivs." Miranda began to snicker. "Hey, remember when you were afraid to go to sleep when you moved into your new apartment? Every night you had this...this ritual where you, like, took all your dolls and made them face the wall. All I remember is they had to have their eyes closed—they couldn't be looking at you. You did that for a whole year."

"Listen," she sighed. "That was completely normal behavior. I was in a phase of _adjustment_." But she knew Miranda was right. She had a habit of connecting things she did with things that happened later. As it was, she'd caught some kind of nasty virus when the three of them left the old house and moved into the apartment on East Hollow, resulting in a high fever that made her semidelirious for three days. She was convinced that the sickness had come to her one night through the eyes of her dolls. She'd seen them, she was certain, glowing with an eerie brightness. From then on she couldn't bear to have the dolls watching her in the darkness of her room.

For a long time—maybe even still—she was sure her parents' divorce was the result of her bad behavior. Like all the times she refused to eat her Brussels sprouts or her spinach at the dinner table. It had irritated Ramona to no end. She'd jump up, shouting, "Why do I bother cooking for you people? You think I enjoy spending hours fixing food that ends up in the garbage?" Then, inevitably, Vivien's father would get involved, saying, " _Christ_ , Ramona, is it that time of the month again?" If only Vivien had eaten the mushy green vegetables. Then they wouldn't have gotten into those arguments in the first place.

The one that still haunted her nights as she lay in bed was the day Ashton died. He'd come into her room that very morning, accusing her of messing with one of his CDs.

"I had it sitting on my dresser with a bunch of other ones," he snarled. "You're sure you didn't touch it?" He was in the process of ransacking her bedroom, throwing open drawers and spilling their contents onto the floor. "Where the fuck is it? We gotta bring that demo to the concert tonight. This producer dude we met wants to hear us."

"Well, I didn't touch it," she told him, swooping along after him in an attempt to minimize the damage. "Stop messing up my stuff!" However, she _had_ gone into his room a few days earlier, taking with her a bunch of his music to play at Charlie's house for a sleepover. Then she'd forgotten all about it. As far as she knew, the CDs were still sitting under the aftermath of the tornado that was Charlie's room.

"You lie, you little witch!" he'd shouted, his rage shocking her. "Stay the hell out of my room from now on!" Lunging toward her, he pointed a finger directly between her eyes and coldly leveled these words: " _Stay._ _The_ _Hell._ _Out!_ "

So Ashton and Max had been forced to make an extra stop at Max's house in order to pick up another recording of the band. And then they were running late, speeding recklessly through the orange cones to get there on time...

"Anyway," she said to Miranda as they walked through the parking lot, "I'm not being weird. I just think it's a waste of time to discuss something that's not actually real in the first place. Why don't you work on Lauren or Charlie instead? I'm sure they've got way better prospects than me."

"Fine. _Fine_!" Miranda grumbled. "You have so many frickin' rules." A car honked and she looked up. "There's my ride."

"I'll talk to you later?" Vivien tried to smile, aware that her refusal to discuss Declan had hurt her friend's feelings.

Miranda scowled. "Doubt it. Orchestra's got rehearsal tonight for the fall concert. We won't be out of there 'til late." She began backing away toward her mom's car. "Not to be conceited or anything, but I'm far and away the best cellist at Eastbrook, and it's _so_ annoying to have to wait for the rest of those amateurs to get it right. I'm like, 'Ever heard of practicing once and a while?'"

"Oh no. You're not conceited at all." Vivien grinned.

Miranda shrugged. "Don't forget: any developments _whatsoever..._ and you'll tell me."

She shook her head and turned away.

Stop looking at the clock, she kept telling herself. But it did no good. She'd been sitting at her desk for hours and now she was getting squirrelly. For some reason her mind kept drifting off to imagine Declan sitting attentively at the Future Leaders meeting. But he'd be distracted, his eyes sneaking across the room to the seat she'd occupied the previous week. A sigh would escape as he noted her absence. But then...the pretty blonde one seat behind would catch his eye, and he'd start to think how attractive she was. No—wait! Scratch that. In fact, he'd be sitting right next to her during the meeting. She'd come up with something clever to say about Chad's ugly pants, and they'd whisper back and forth until the entire hour was one long private joke between the two of them.

She dropped her head in her hands. "What's wrong with me?" she said aloud. She was having jealous delusions over a guy she didn't even like.

Eight thirty-five p.m. And suddenly, a ridiculous plan formed in her mind. She _could_ walk over to the meeting and just be casually strolling by as the students were leaving. He might walk out and see her and then...? Yes... _and_ _then_? What exactly was the point? She didn't know. All she knew was that she wanted another chance to see him, crazy as that sounded.

Because?

Because. He'd said maybe he'd see her there. Had he not? Didn't that imply that he might actually look for her? Could he possibly be interested in her? For real? It was a totally alien concept. No boy (of that kind) had ever been interested in her.

As if the plan required further justification, she told herself that she needed to get up and move, anyway. Get some fresh air. Take a study break.

Abruptly she stood, grabbed her jacket and phone, and hurried out of the apartment before she had the chance to change her mind.

Walking along in the crisp night air felt good. She quickened her pace, enjoying the feeling of movement. In her head she ran through things she might say when she "accidentally" ran into him: she was going for a stroll; she needed to pick up some Spicy Hot Doritos and a blue razzberry Slurpee; she was on her way to return some books to the library. Yes, good. These were all plausible explanations. Except the library just so happened to be in the opposite direction. And she wasn't carrying any books.

As she reached the old Victorian house, she slowed down and looked for a good place to wait where she'd have a clear view of the door. Not many choices popped out and she ended up hovering behind a skinny maple tree, hoping with all her heart that he wouldn't see her lurking there like a stalker.

Students began to filter out and she held her breath in anticipation. Unexpectedly, she was enjoying the tingling feeling of taking a risk; this spy mission was certainly more exhilarating that studying. After a few more minutes passed, she saw Declan emerge, walking closely with two others. She couldn't tell who they were, but they were definitely female. They stopped near the curb, apparently engaged in a terribly interesting conversation. Flirtatious giggles rang through the air and she felt a sharp pain hit the center of her gut, as if she'd been punched. "Move along," she hissed irritably, grinding the toe of her Converse into the dirt.

One hour passed. She checked her phone; it was actually six minutes. Letting out a long and trying breath, she began to have second thoughts. Declan was the kind of guy who drew attention from just about every girl on the planet. What was she thinking, possibly getting involved with someone like that? Wouldn't she be trapped in a constant state of insecurity? Jealousy? The more she thought about it, the more reservations she had.

The trio was moving. They appeared to be wrapping it up as the girls walked backward in tandem, calling out their farewells in loud, obnoxious voices. Her relief turned to panic as she noticed Declan's car was parked directly in front of the building and he was already sliding into the driver's seat. He was going to drive right past her and she would be in full view.

Time to abort the plan. Quickly she spun around and began hustling down the sidewalk, head down, cursing the fact that the street was so well lit. Unfortunately, she was the only pedestrian walking on this side of the street and she stuck out like her mother browsing at the local thrift shop. So much for her clandestine mission. Now she just looked like an idiot.

She'd made it nearly to the end of the block before she heard a voice call out, "Vivien?" Glancing over her shoulder, her heart sank as she saw the white Volvo crawling along beside her. "What are you doing?" Then, "Were you just at the meeting? I didn't see you there."

"I...I'm going home," she said, as if this was completely logical. Then she dismissed him with a curt wave and resumed walking at a brisk pace.

Undeterred, he crept along beside her. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he leaned toward the passenger side window and called out, "You really shouldn't be walking alone at night. Didn't anyone ever teach you that?"

She stopped again and glared at him, suddenly annoyed. Who did he think he was, giving her pointers on safety like she was still in elementary school? "Excuse me, but I do it all the time. It's no big deal." She turned away and sped up.

The car kept up its pursuit. "Hey!" he shouted finally. "Let me drive you home."

She ignored him, looking straight ahead.

"Vivien!"

Startled by his tone, she spun to face him.

"Please," he added.

With a sigh of exasperation, she approached the car, leaning into the open window. "I'm touched by your concern, but I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don't need your help."

"I'm not saying you do. Just—come on." His eyes pleaded, _give me a break here._

Still she wavered, enjoying the foreign feeling of having the upper hand. At last she capitulated, rolling her eyes as she opened the car door. As he pulled away from the curb, she turned to face him. "I'll bet you always get what you want."

He shrugged and smiled. "So...where were you coming from—if you don't mind me asking?"

She wanted to tell him she very much did mind. "Nowhere. I was doing homework and then...I needed some fresh air."

He shot her a quick glance, suggesting this explanation was highly suspect. She changed the subject. "What did the Future Leaders discuss tonight?"

"We voted on projects. We're going to rake leaves this weekend. You know, help seniors who can't do it anymore."

She nodded and there followed several minutes of silence.

"Why didn't you want to get in my car?" he asked suddenly.

"Because..." She stalled. "I was...going for a walk. Like I said."

"Right. And you 'do that all the time'?" he mimicked. "Alone. At night."

She looked at him with annoyance. "It's only nine o'clock."

"Right." More silence. He flicked on the radio and began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he mouthed the words to some popular song. Now and then he cast probing glances in her direction.

She could sense his eyes on her, but she refused to look at him. She was angry with herself. Why was she in his car when moments before she'd made the oh-so-wise decision not to have anything to do with him? She replayed the little scene she'd just witnessed in her mind—the pretty girls doing everything in their power to be noticed, giggling, flirting shamelessly—just to remind herself why she was _not_ interested in this guy.

"I'm hungry," he said suddenly. "You hungry?"

"What?"

"Let's go to The Second Shift," he suggested. "One of their pepper steak subs is calling my name."

"Now?"

He looked at her intently. "That's right. I'm hungry. Now."

What was she supposed to say to that? "I don't know. I still have a lot of homework to finish."

"It won't take long. It can be part of your 'break,'" he replied, making air quotes.

Obviously she'd been correct: Declan was not in the habit of being refused. "Well...since you're driving...I guess I'm going where you're going."

"You have a nice way of showing you enjoy my company," he chuckled.

She frowned. "I'm not saying...this is just...this is unexpected, that's all."

"Sometimes," he reasoned, "the unexpected is just the thing you need."

She gave him a look. _How would you know what I need?_ she wanted to say. But she remained silent. She had the unasked-for inkling that he just might.

Outside the window, they were passing her street. He wasn't taking her home. He was taking her out. It would be him. And her. The two of them. She felt the flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach.

They drove on without a word until he swung a right into the sub shop parking lot. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he twirled them around his finger and leveled his smoldering gaze directly at her. "Don't make me eat alone."

The Second Shift was a cult favorite among the after-hours college crowd, not the sort of place she ever frequented. Peeling blue paint and a tattered red-and-white-striped awning greeted them as they approached the front entrance. The _f_ had mysteriously disappeared from the flickering neon sign, creating, in effect, a more fitting name for the place. If one didn't know any better—which she certainly didn't—one would think such an unsavory establishment was on the verge of being shut down by the health department.

She strode ahead him haughtily, thrusting the weight of her body against the door. "Ow!" she yelped, her knee smashing against the glass.

A soft chuckle could be heard as an arm reached around her to tap pointedly at the small, four-letter-word above the handle. "P-U-L-L," he read slowly.

She mumbled an incoherent reply, rubbing her knee and wishing she wasn't the biggest dork _ever_. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him suppressing a grin. Great. Just great.

Inside, cold metal tables and red chairs covered in graffiti were crowded together in an unappetizing manner. But the smell of freshly baked bread made her mouth water, and she very much wanted to eat something despite her designs to remain aloof. Declan placed his order and then went on to order "the special" for her without even bothering to consult her.

Speechless, she trailed him to a table offering a commanding view of the bleak parking lot. Sliding her sandwich basket across the table, he fell into his chair and immediately began devouring the foot-long sub. After a few mouthfuls, he stopped and eyed her questioningly. "Eat it," he mumbled, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. "The special's always awesome."

"What exactly _is_ the special?"

He swallowed. "I don't know. It changes. Let's see." Reaching across the table, he lifted the top half of the roll. "Looks like...turkey, veggies, provolone cheese, and their top-secret special sauce."

Her mouth dropped open, appalled that he had the nerve to put his hands all over her food. She yanked the basket away. "And what if I happened to be a vegetarian?"

"Then I'd pick the turkey off for you." This he countered with a mouth full of ketchup and fries.

"Yes, but then the meat would have _touched_ the vegetables."

"Is that not allowed?"

"I don't think it is."

"Obviously, you're no vegetarian or you'd know." He grinned.

She took a deep breath. "All I'm saying is that you _presumed_ I would eat what you ordered."

"You won't?"

She was so hungry now her tongue was producing an extra gallon of saliva by the second. "I might." Taking a sip of her drink, she watched him continue to swallow enormous bites of sandwich followed by fistfuls of fries, and her stomach let out a growl that ended in a high-pitched squeak. Mortified, she clapped her hand down and decided to give in, but not before taking the hand sanitizer from her purse and squirting a giant glob in her palm.

Declan watcher her with interest. "Germaphobe?"

She scowled, rubbing her hands together vigorously. "You seem pissed," he said, but his observation seemed to amuse him. "Am I really that offensive?"

"No," she replied. "That's not the word I'd use."

He frowned but let this go. She opened her sandwich and began removing all the onions. She was not about to have a conversation blowing onion breath into his face. As she took her first bite, she tried to ignore the likelihood of a brightly colored vegetable lodging itself in between her two front teeth.

Of course he was right; the special was delicious. Declan had polished his off in a matter of minutes. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair, tilting the front legs off the floor, watching her eat.

"Stop," she said after a minute. "It's impossible to enjoy this sandwich—which you were kind enough to select for me—when you're sitting there scrutinizing my every bite."

He raised an eyebrow. "Where _should_ I look?"

She glanced around the restaurant and pointed to the only other customers, three middle-aged guys with guts that hung loosely over their belts. They had the unkempt look of truckers who'd been on the road way too long. "Look at them."

"But they don't look as good as you," he said, smooth as glass.

This comment caused her cheeks to color instantly and she was forced to look down at her lap.

"Tell me something about you I don't know," he said abruptly.

"That would be just about everything."

"Then it should be easy."

She thought about this. What could she share that would make her seem interesting? Everything she thought of, she immediately dismissed. Parents? A disaster. Brother? Too personal. School? Boring. Friends? Irrelevant. Nothing was worthwhile.

"I used to play the piano," she said, surprising herself. Ever since she'd had the conversation with M. Laval—Christophe—she'd been thinking about why she quit. He'd somehow managed to make her have doubts about that whole episode in her life.

"That's good." He sounded pleased. "Why 'used to'?"

"I don't know. There just came a point when I didn't want to do it anymore. It was kind of a big deal because I was good—compared to other kids my age, you know?—and I had dedicated practically my whole life to playing and performing."

"And then you just quit. For no reason."

She didn't answer.

"That's cool. Being able to do something really well like that."

She studied him closely, trying to determine if he was teasing her or not. Deciding he wasn't she smiled and then looked away. Yes. It had been special. And now it was gone. She shook her head, shaking the memories away. "Your turn," she said.

"I've got three brothers," he told her. "All older. One married, one in grad school, and the other's a freshman at Notre Dame."

"Patrick? He's the one who's coming home this weekend."

"That's right. How'd you know?"

"You and Nathan were talking about it in the car."

"Oh. Yeah," he said. His chair landed back down on the floor with a thud. "It'll be fun to see him. My mom's already planned an extensive menu."

"She likes to cook?"

"Likes?" he said, smiling. "She is hands down the best cook I've ever known. Cuban dishes are her specialty. Lots of garlic, olive oil, and cumin."

"Cumin, what's that? A tropical vegetable or something?"

A slow smile crept across his face. "It's a _spice_ , you poor sheltered girl. You'll have to come over and eat with us sometime. My mom's actually Irish—did you catch that from my name?—but my dad came over to the States from Cuba when he was just a kid. She learned how to cook Cuban-style after they were married. Her only Irish recipe is her Irish soda bread. And tea, of course."

But she'd stopped listening after she heard him casually invite her over to his house for dinner. What exactly did he mean by that? Was it something he said to just anyone he happened to be talking to? Perhaps he was so proud of his mom's cooking he would invite any creature with a pulse over to sample her talents. Or perhaps he was interested in her in particular? She returned to the present to find him staring at her. "What?" she said.

"You were zoning out a little there. I just asked you if your mom likes to cook."

"Ha! That's funny. She used to, but then my parents got divorced and now she works all the time and is hardly ever home. She never cooks. I end up doing the shopping half the time. I just buy simple stuff that I can make myself, like omelets and sautéed chicken breasts. I can make any flavor smoothie you want. And awesome brownies."

"Wow." He looked slightly stunned by all this information. "Sorry to hear about your parents. So it's just you and your mom in that apartment?"

She nodded. "My dad got remarried to someone half his age and I don't really see him. Like, ever."

"That sucks."

"It's all right. I'm used to life without him now. But I don't think my mom will ever get over it. She hates him but still loves him, all at the same time, even after all the crap he put her through. I don't know how many years he was unfaithful to her." A small shudder passed through her. "He makes me sick."

Declan was staring at her in a curious way and she instantly regretted sharing. "Sorry," she said, embarrassed.

"No. Don't apologize. I like that you told me that."

She tried to shrug it off. "Your family's probably completely normal. I mean, compared to mine."

This made him laugh. "We have our fair share of nut jobs, believe me. My grandfather—my dad's dad—took off right after my mom and dad's wedding ceremony. Just disappeared. Everyone else went to the reception and finally someone noticed he wasn't there. No one's heard from him since." He shrugged. "Also, my grandma—my dad's mom—locks up the salt shaker every night to keep the evil spirits from sneaking out. That's normal, right?"

She frowned. Being of a superstitious nature herself, she didn't know if this was such a crazy thing. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more concerned she became, having never heard of evil spirits living in the salt shaker. Maybe she should have been doing this herself. Maybe years had passed with evil spirits running rampant throughout the house. That would explain a lot.

She noticed him studying her again and tried to shrug off her fears. "Sounds like the Cuban side is a bit eccentric."

"They are a colorful people, as my dad always says." He stood up, grabbed her sandwich basket along with his own, and tossed the remains in the trash. "I suppose I should drive you home now. Wouldn't want to overdo the 'break.' Do you usually have a strict time limit on that?"

"Shut up," she shot back, rising to her feet.

But he continued. "Are you gonna bust my balls on the way home or did the sandwich soften you up?"

She just smiled and held her tongue, but his teasing secretly pleased her.

Pulling up to her place, Declan rubbed his fists over his thighs and announced, "Here you are: home sweet home at the Sand Saucy. Oh, and thanks for being a sport and venturing into the 'unexpected' with me."

Ignoring this jibe, she said, "The Sand Saucy? Geez, your French is awful."

"Yep," he agreed with pride. Then, taking a deep breath, he appeared to reach some sort of resolution. "What would you say if we were to meet, on purpose, and do something?"

"Oh, I don't know about that." She shook her head doubtfully. "On purpose? Are you sure?"

"You're a wicked girl," he replied. "How 'bout we meet after school? I'll take you to the lake and we'll hang out."

All of a sudden the reality of what he was saying dawned on her and she panicked. "When? Like, tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Um..." She blinked several times.

"Where's your locker? I'll meet you there."

"My locker?"

"Your locker," he prompted. "What floor is it on?"

A voice inside her head strongly urged her to get out of the car. Now. "Second. Near the library. C-wing," she heard herself say.

"Wait for me there after seventh hour."

How could this be happening? She felt as though she was having an out-of-body experience, watching herself agree to "hang out" with this surprisingly _not_ unlikable person. Before she'd had a chance to think it over, the deal was done. And the ramifications were not appealing: if Miranda somehow discovered their "date," she would freak out and, without a doubt, have all of their friends assembled in the hallway to gawk at the new couple.

No. _So_ not happening. She shook her head. "Um...what if I met you outside somewhere?"

"Where?"

"I'll meet you at the south entrance. You park over there anyway, right?"

"Yeah, that's good. We can meet there."

She exhaled a little shakily. It was final, then. She tried to console herself with the promise that it was just going to be the one time.

Because...?

She didn't really like his type. Nothing was going to come of this.

Was it?

### Six

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Attraction is the "chemistry" part of love. Scientific studies have shown that symmetrical features function as an advertisement for robust sexual health. We are therefore attracted to such features when choosing a potential mate. However, not to be overlooked are the other pieces to the reproductive puzzle! Human beings are separated from the animal kingdom by their superior intellect. Consequently, despite the young adult's irresistible hormonal urges to procreate, they must take advantage of this mental power by exercising restraint and acting responsibly—as daunting a task as this may seem!

It was difficult to concentrate the following day in school. Vivien moved through her classes in a cloudy haze, as if the things going on around her—assignments, quizzes, and the everyday social dramas of high school—had no bearing on her whatsoever. To make matters worse, she found herself drifting off irritatingly every few minutes to wonder about Declan Mieres. What did his house look like? His parents? His brothers? His room? Thinking about him in his room—sleeping, dressing, _un_ dressing—gave her a foreign sensation in her, er, pelvic region, and she quickly moved on to something else. Did someone like him ever suffer embarrassing moments? Did he trip in front of the class? Forget to zip his fly? Raise his hand with the wrong answer? Did he ever get those mountainous zits that maliciously chose to erupt right between the eyes or the center of the chin? What about bad breath? Dandruff? Smelly feet? These things seemed unlikely to her.

She decided to keep her meeting with Declan a secret from her friends. For now. She just couldn't bear going over every detail of last night with a fine-toothed comb. They would want to know _everything_.

Unfortunately, Miranda was on to her immediately. She had a sixth sense for snooping out any kind of interesting news. "Why are _you_ so quiet?" she challenged Vivien from across the lunch table. Vivien had been peeling her mozzarella stick into the tiniest of slivers, nibbling them in mouse-like fashion as she stared into space.

"Huh?" She shrugged. "I'm not. Guess I'm just tired. I was up doing homework until one fifteen last night. Again." She then yawned to make her point.

"Well, wake up!" Miranda said. "We're trying to have an important conversation here." They all looked at her as if she was disappointing them terribly.

Vivien straightened. "What? What's going on?"

"Lauren's parents are going out of town for the weekend later this month and she's thinking about inviting Nathan over. To hang out," Charlie said, emphasizing the last three words with a knowing look.

It took Vivien a moment to process this information. "Since when do you like Nathan?"

"Since, like, _forever_ , duh!" Lauren answered. "He and I have been texting a lot lately and I think maybe he might like me."

"So," Miranda said, her eyes on Vivien. "Should she do it?"

"Um...don't you kind of want to know if he likes you for sure? Before you put yourself out there like that?"

"Great advice," Miranda shot back. "So she should be like you, sitting around, waiting for something—make that _nothing_ —to happen."

She bit her tongue. Wouldn't Miranda like to know who she was going out with later today? "OK, OK. Assuming he likes you," she said to Charlie, shooting a scalding look in Miranda's direction, "what exactly are your expectations for this night of 'hanging out'?" She paused to let the question hang in the air. "Because we all know what _his_ will be."

"I haven't thought that far ahead," Lauren admitted. "My imagination just stops at the point when I open the front door and he is standing there in all his gorgeousness."

"Girl, you need to come up with a plan for when he whips out his peacock," Miranda advised.

Lauren began to giggle but stopped short. "Oh my God..."

Vivien turned around to see what she was looking at and held her breath as she saw Nathan and Declan heading their way.

"Ladies," Nathan said, stopping at their table with a broad smile and flick of his chin. Then he looked directly at Lauren. "Hey."

"Hey," she answered, instantly mesmerized.

"Let's go. I'll walk you to your next class."

Lauren looked dumbstruck but managed to nod in agreement, quickly gathering her things.

Declan took a step closer to Vivien and said, "So, see you later? South entrance?"

She swallowed her last nibble of cheese and gave him a faint smile. "Uh-huh."

"Cool," he said, then turned and sauntered out of the cafeteria.

Miranda waited a full minute before she said, "You. Little. Bitch. You said nothing was going on! Now we all see you're a big fat liar. How could you do this to us?"

Charlie just sat there with her mouth hanging open.

"Oh, please," Vivien said, rolling her eyes. "This, right here, is exactly why I never said anything. I knew you guys would blow everything out of proportion. There's nothing to tell. He's taking me to the lake." She stood abruptly and grabbed her books. "Listen. When something happens, I'll let you know." And with that, she left the two of them sitting there to watch her walk away.

The recent state of affairs had her so agitated she momentarily forgot all about Christophe, and his physical presence startled her as she hurried into French class.

"Bonjour," she murmured as she scurried past the teacher's desk, feeling strangely unprepared.

He smiled politely. Since their meeting at his house on Monday afternoon, she'd been unsure of what to expect in class. Would he have a more familiar attitude toward her as compared to the other students? Or would he pretend their relationship was nothing out of the ordinary?

The latter option turned out to be correct. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way _not_ to notice her. This had been upsetting at first, but as the week progressed, she realized that it was better this way. More than likely, the school would frown upon inviting a student over to a teacher's private residence. Especially an invitation from male to female. She wasn't _that_ naïve. She didn't want him to get into trouble. She also didn't want the visits to end.

So she too went along with the charade. This was what Christophe wanted, she guessed. And she found that she wanted very much to please him.

The end of seventh hour came careening toward her like a Kids' Klub basketball, and as the final bell rang, she felt dizzy with both anticipation and dread.

Outside the south entrance doors, she spied him. Unmistakable. Killing time in typical nonchalant, Y-chromosome style as he leaned against the side of the building. His eyes followed her approach steadily until they were face to face.

"Thanks a lot," she said in greeting.

"What?"

"I was trying to keep this quiet. You know, this... _thing_ we're doing today?" She gestured vaguely into the air. "And now Miranda is all righteous and annoyed with me for not giving her advance notice."

He touched her elbow lightly and began to steer her toward the parking lot. "Sorry," he said, sounding less than apologetic. "I'm not allowed to talk to you in school, is that it?"

"I didn't say that," she said, still scowling. "Anyway, it's too late now. She'll be calling me every five minutes soon enough."

They reached the white Volvo and he stepped forward, opening the door for her. She was about to get in when he pushed her aside, saying, "Hold on" and tossing a pile of athletic gear in the back seat. "There. Better," he pronounced, waving her in.

She sat down, inhaling the unique blend of sweat, fast food, and orange air freshener. Surprisingly, it wasn't wholly unappealing. "Haven't had time to clean out the car yet, huh?" she teased.

"Nope." He smiled. "Probably never gonna happen. Does it bug you? You're a neat freak, I can tell."

"You can leave off the _freak_ ," she answered. "Just neat."

"Thought so," he replied, popping in a CD. They followed the long line of cars waiting to exit the parking lot. A couple of them peeled out, squealing their tires as they sped off down the street.

"Gotta love teenage drivers," he said with a laugh.

She rested her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. "Oh! I love this song. Who is this?"

Declan paused to listen. "I don't know. Patrick made this mix for me. He's really into music. I'll have to check the song titles he wrote on the case." His expression changed suddenly as if he'd just thought of something. "Hey! I should introduce you two. He's an awesome musician. He plays the piano, like you. And the saxophone, too."

"Hmm," she murmured. She turned to look him in the eye, her thoughts still on the music. "I told you, I don't play anymore. But your brother sounds interesting. Kind of like mine." As soon as she'd said it, she wanted to open her mouth and suck the words back in. She sat up straight and tried to think of a way to change the subject.

Too late. "You said you didn't have any brothers or sisters."

"I said I didn't have any _younger_ brothers or sisters," she corrected.

He waited for her to finish.

She did. "My brother was older."

"Was?"

She exhaled slowly and turned away. "He was killed in a car accident five years ago." She could feel him looking at her but she didn't trust her face, so she continued to stare out the window. Why did she have to go and tell him that? They barely knew each other. This was the second time in just a few days that she found herself discussing a part of her she rarely shared with anybody.

"Wow...that's awful," he said. "I'm really sorry."

She tried to look at him but ended up studying a loose thread on her jacket instead. "Thanks."

After that bombshell, she was at a loss for conversational topics, and since Declan remained silent, she assumed he felt the same. She certainly wasn't going to get into the gory details of Ashton's death and how she and Ramona had spent the following year in an emotional fog. Definitely TMI for a first date. The music continued to play, so she just sat back and listened to the lyrics.

Declan pulled into the gravel parking lot and shut off the engine. "You OK?" he said after a minute.

She smiled thinly in an effort to appear composed. "Of course. I'm fine."

He continued to stare at her.

"What?"

"You might get cold in that jacket. The wind off the lake can be strong."

She looked down at her vintage leather bomber jacket she'd found at her favorite secondhand store. She loved this jacket. She wore it all the time, no matter the temperature. "I'm fine," she assured him.

Declan looked unconvinced.

"Where to?" she asked, opening her door.

He followed suit. "We'll just take the path that heads toward campus. I like the view that way."

She fell in alongside him and they began walking at a leisurely pace. "Do you come here often?"

"I run the loop around the lake when the weather's good. I watch the sailboats. I've always liked being by the water."

"Do you sail?"

"Two summers ago I took some lessons. On the little Sunfishes they have over at the Parks and Rec marina. I've got the basics down."

"Nice. What else can you do?" she asked, smiling at him.

He thought about this. "Um...since I don't like to brag, I'll just tell you what I can't do. I can't play an instrument. I totally suck. I tried the trombone in middle school and it was a horrible experience for my entire family. I also can't dance, or do any kind of art that doesn't look like a first grader's. I don't cook. I can make macaroni and cheese, but even that turns out mysteriously runny. Let's see, what else?" He stopped walking and tapped his finger on his temple.

"That's good enough. I think." The wind suddenly sent an icy gust against their faces and she ducked her head with a shiver.

"Aha! Told you you'd be cold. Let me help." He wrapped his arm around her waist and they started to walk again.

"I'm not cold," she countered. "Just for a second there." She was extremely conscious of his body against hers. He _was_ warm, and he felt good so close to her. Up ahead she saw a park bench that appeared to be protected from the wind by a large boulder and a trio of pine trees. She pulled him toward it, saying, "Let's stop over there. It looks like the perfect place to sit."

They sat in silence and she began to read the various graffiti carved into the bench. _Joe_ _loves_ _Rachel_. _Out_ _of_ _Afghanistan_ _now_. _Sarah_ _Wells_ _sucks_ _dick_. She hoped Sarah Wells hadn't seen this. She glanced sideways at Declan. The more she saw of him, the more gorgeous he looked. What in the world was she doing here with this guy?

"So," he said.

"So."

"Is there anything else you want to know about me? Or should we discuss current events?"

"No. No current events. I don't know." But in her head, she could think of a thousand things she wanted to know. For instance, how was it he had chosen _her_ of all people to hang out with? And just how many girls had he been with already? What did he talk about with his friends? Would he talk about her? Would he say that she was boring? Or worse, emotionally unstable, now that he knew about her brother? The questions went on and on.

"Do you like playing lacrosse?" she asked finally.

"Lacrosse? Yeah. It's an awesome sport. You get to run around a lot and it's kind of violent, like football, but not that crazy."

"So you play with what? Rackets or something?"

He laughed. "It's called a lacrosse stick. I take it you've never been to a game?"

She shook her head. "Sorry. No. But I will. One day." Now that she had someone in particular to watch.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"As in sports?" She laughed. "Ah. You just so happen to be sitting with the most uncoordinated girl ever. I tried softball when I was little—I guess it was actually T-ball—and I couldn't hit the frickin' thing even though it was sitting right in front of me. I also messed up completely in the outfield and nearly broke my nose. That was enough for me."

"There're lots of other ones you could try, you know. You shouldn't have given up so easily."

"I do yoga at home. My mom went through a yoga phase and would drag me to classes with her. I turned out to be pretty flexible and I liked the music. It was this cool new-age Indian music. It made me feel happy. We have a pretty good selection of videos at home."

"Now that's something I'm sure I would hate."

"No, you wouldn't," she disagreed. "There were men in our class. In fact, one of the best instructors was a man. And he was hot, too."

"Really." He looked skeptical.

"Yes. _Really_. He had an amazing body."

Declan raised an eyebrow. "What the hell is that? An _amazing_ body?"

She twitched, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know! I can't explain." She thought for a moment. "It means he was like, muscular, but not in a gross, body-builder kind of way."

"You think body builders look gross?"

"Definitely. When all their veins are popping out and stuff? Disgusting."

"So the look you prefer is muscular, but not bulky. What else?"

"I don't know what else," she said. "Why?"

He smiled. "I'd like to know in advance if I'm your type. It might save me some time."

"Is that so? OK. I like a guy with a nice smile. Like yours." She smiled back at him.

"That's good."

"Yeah. And I also like a guy who's taller than me." She made a point of looking him up and down. "You're not standing now, but I happen to know you also score well in that category—although that's no great feat; half the fifth graders at Lakewood are taller than me."

He laughed. "Another point for me."

"Yes," she allowed. "You're doing well. Let's see...I prefer a guy who's not..." She hunted for the right words. "He has to have a certain level of intelligence."

Declan frowned slightly.

"You know," she backtracked, "he has to be capable of having an interesting conversation."

"No problem," he assured her. "I'm in honors biology and Spanish V. Impressed?"

"Oh. Totally."

"Three yesses. It's a match," he concluded. "You'll have to go out with me again."

"Whoever said three was enough?" she teased.

"I did." He leaned in close to her, his face only inches from hers.

She opened her mouth to say something but failed under the spell of his gaze. Suddenly she felt a touch of warmth as he slid his fingers in between hers and she looked down in a mild state of shock at their hands, neatly intertwined, resting on her thigh.

"Your hands are cold," he said, his eyes smiling with their own private joke.

She merely nodded, her mind focusing with all its strength on the sensation of his touch. She wanted it to last forever.

"Ready to go?" he said finally. He stood, gazing out over the lake, his back to her.

She remained seated, staring up at the shape of him. Her first thought was that this was, definitely, one of the most magical moments of her life. Her second was that possibly—more than likely—she was in serious trouble.

### Seven

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

How to tell the difference between love and lust? The answer is quite simple!! Lust is purely physical. And always temporary. When the hormonal chemicals in your body wane, so too will your desire, and you will suddenly find yourself wondering what it was you ever saw in that person in the first place! But love? Love's in it for the long haul!!

"Come in. Come out of the cold." Christophe pulled a grimace as he opened his front door. "What happened to fall? We seem to have jumped headfirst into winter."

It was four o'clock on Monday. The weekend had flown by, as was its nature, and for Vivien had been sadly anticlimactic.

Saturday morning she'd awakened with a vague sense of anticipation. She lay in bed wondering what had come over her. And then she remembered. The Future Leaders were meeting today to rake leaves.

The day had begun crisp and clear, the bright sunlight heightening the leaves' rich colors as they cartwheeled over lawns in the light breeze. Perfect weather for spending a few hours outdoors. However, despite this nicely fabricated cover story, deep down she knew the true source of enticement was not the chance to be one with nature.

It was something else entirely.

Not that she'd immediately agreed to see Declan after their afternoon at the lake. He'd left her with the promise of a phone call, and she in return had done her best to take leave with an air of indifference. She was playing it cool. That's what you were supposed to do, weren't you?

Unfortunately, less than twenty minutes into the raking, the sun disappeared behind a thick gray slab of clouds and a chilling wind cranked up, blowing relentlessly against the student volunteers as they scrambled to keep the leaf piles from scattering across adjacent lawns. Before long her back began to ache from constantly stooping over, and her nose kept up a steady and annoying drip.

Yet the worst part hadn't been her physical discomfort. No, the worst part had been the fact that she was distracted from her work by the urge to check and see if Declan had yet arrived. This urge she succumbed to approximately every two to three minutes. When at last she noted the time at a quarter to five, she came to the realization that he wasn't going to show, and the heavy burden of resentment set up house, unwelcomed, somewhere deep in her chest. Here she had just donated several hours of her weekend to a charitable activity she didn't even feel good about. How ridiculous was that? She vowed from here on out to keep her thoughts away from Declan Mieres. The last thing she wanted was to be a slave to some stupid infatuation.

The whole incident put a damper on the remainder of the weekend, and she'd actually found herself looking forward to school on Monday.

Now here she was, staring directly at the handsome Christophe. As usual, he was smartly dressed, today in a casual chestnut-brown blazer, olive button-down, and khaki pants. She could smell his signature spicy yet sporty scent. "It _is_ freezing," she agreed, experiencing a head-to-toe shiver as she brushed past him.

Christophe had managed a bit of redecorating since her last visit. Off to the left, a striped rug in bold colors now sat beneath the coffee table in the living room, and several large prints were hanging on the wall, modernistic pieces in matching colors. The bright oranges, blues, and reds went nicely with the deep woodwork of the interior of the house. The hallway leading back to the kitchen also displayed new art, a pictorial of night woods. While she could appreciate the beauty of the photographs they were a bit too gloomy for her tastes.

"I see you've been busy," she said as she glanced around. She let him help her out of her leather jacket as she rambled on. "I swear it always turns frigid right before Halloween. Without fail, I freeze my tail off trick-or-treating—not that I trick-or-treat anymore," she assured him, "I'm way too old for that! But I could never wear what I wanted, you know? Those cute little ballerina or genie costumes...I always had to resort something covered in fur."

"Yes?" He gave her a blank look. "I wouldn't know. Halloween is new to me. We don't celebrate it in France."

"No way! That's weird. Well, it's the best way to get a ton of candy, of course. Although I was always super-strict with myself. Two treats a day, that was it. I wanted to milk my stash for as long as possible," she explained. "It never really worked, though, because Ashton would always sneak into my room and steal it. His would be gone, like, the day after Halloween! And he was always taking my favorite, Snickers. Now that's the perfect candy bar: chocolate, caramel, nougat, and peanuts—mmmm!"

"Licorice is my favorite; dark and bitter, with a hint of salt."

She frowned as she rested her backpack on a bench near the front door. "That sounds pretty awful—sorry."

"Oh no. It's excellent. You must try it." He headed back toward the kitchen, his crutch making a dull thump on the wooden floor with each plant. He called for her to follow. "Come, I've made us coffee."

Entering the kitchen, she saw that Christophe had already set the table. The large, bone-white mugs sat opposite each other, a mouthwatering aroma wafting into the air. She took the same seat as before—already, it seemed like _her_ spot—and wrapped her hands around the cup, relishing the warmth before raising it daintily to her lips.

Christophe watched her absently. "You remind me of someone," he said at last.

"Do I?" She waited for an explanation, but none came. She took several more sips before finally asking, "Who?"

Her question seemed to snap him out of a deep reverie, and he looked her with surprise, as if he'd forgotten she was there. "We were close at one time..." His voice trailed off. He shook his head and smiled at her. "Reminisces of an old man," he teased. "You must stop me before I give too much away."

She smiled in return but his cryptic explanation only made her more curious. Was he saying that she reminded him of someone he once loved? And if so, did this mean he was attracted to her in a similar way? The thought made her grin foolishly and she took a long sip of her café crème in an attempt to hide her delight. After an extended silence, she decided to try a different tack. She wanted to know more about him. "You must miss your family. I mean, since you're the only one here in the US, right?"

"My family and I no longer speak. As a matter of fact, I haven't seen them in years." His voice sounded strained. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the silver lighter and a pack of cigarettes. "Again. Forgive me." He took a long, hard pull, twisting his lips expertly to the side as he exhaled a stream of smoke.

She watched, finding his actions distasteful and captivating at the same time. "Geez," she said softly, unable to think of a better response.

"It's no great loss on my part." He removed his cup from the saucer and tapped his cigarette on the edge of the plate, tapering the tip into a fine point. Then he leaned back, extending his legs. "As you yourself must know."

She blinked. "Me?"

He smiled slowly. "Yes. You know quite well how it feels to be disappointed by an unscrupulous family member."

Her lips parted. She frowned slightly. "I'm sorry. I still don't understand what you mean."

"Isn't your father Alan Allen, the infamous defense attorney? I've seen his commercials on TV."

Realization dawned in the form of burning cheeks. "Well, yes...but my parents are divorced. I don't consider him family."

"My point exactly."

She stared into the depths of her cup and began chewing her lower lip. "It's not that I have a problem with what he does for a living—although with all the slimy people he's defended, even _that's_ questionable. It's just...the way he treated my mother. He was so...so..." She raised her eyes to find him studying her intently.

"And now your father's out of your life entirely?"

She shrugged. "Oh, he's still around. Obviously. But we don't see him. The divorce was..." She crossed and uncrossed her legs, suddenly uncomfortable. "Anyway, he's with someone else now." She let out a yip of laughter. "She's like...practically my age. How sick is that?"

He shook his head in commiseration. "And your mother? How does she cope with all of this?"

"She's doing OK, I guess. She's dating again. But I don't know. The men she goes out with, they're all just like my father." She took a deep breath. "It's like she's trapped in this...this—"

"Perhaps her need to feel secure overshadows everything else," he said. "It can be intimidating to be all on your own."

She nodded but her disapproval lingered. Her mother would never change.

"People are complex, full of twists and turns. That's what keeps us on our toes, does it not?" Christophe smiled mysteriously and changed course. "How about your relationship with your mother?"

"Oh. We live together, but...I don't think you could call us close."

"I'll bet you need each other more than you know."

Hmmpf. Maybe. But what about him? Why was he no longer on speaking terms with his family? She had to ask. "What's your story? If you never see your family anymore, they must've done something really bad."

He rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving her. "I'm afraid that shall remain a mystery until another day." He took one last pull from the cigarette and extinguished it forcefully onto the saucer. "Chaos awaits."

They spent an hour or so finishing up the boxes on the dining room floor. These contained what she guessed were reference books or textbooks, all in French, with long, complicated words that she'd never seen before and did not know the meaning of. There were also several boxes of brand-new office supplies still in their plastic wrappings. These she carried into a small bedroom which he had converted into an "office" simply by placing a large, dented metal desk in the center. Already, it was cluttered with folders, newspapers, and used coffee mugs.

Christophe looked around the room with satisfaction. "Things are taking shape."

"They are?" she said.

"I don't require much. Just the bare essentials." He circled around, nodding. "And now, thanks to you, everything's in one place."

"Are you working on some kind of research project?" she asked. "Something special?"

"That has yet to be determined." He turned to face her with a glimmer in his eye. "The next set of boxes should be far more interesting."

She followed him out of the room, her curiosity piqued. A row of crates lined the wall, blocking the fireplace. Christophe laid his crutch aside and sat down on a stool near the crates. "I loosened the lids this morning," he told her. "Go ahead, look inside."

She settled down on her knees and carefully opened the first crate. Beneath layers of packing papers she spied a metallic object. She reached in and pulled it out, holding the object up in the air with a frown. "What's this?"

"Have you never seen them before?"

"No. I mean, yes. Of course, I've seen them. I just—"

"I collect them," he said.

She paused. "You collect _handcuffs_? I've never heard of that."

"Oh yes," he said, his voice tinged with excitement. "There may not be many of us, but we're a passionate bunch. It's a fascinating—albeit unusual—hobby."

She remained perplexed. "Wow. So..." She stopped, eyeing the row of crates. "How many do you have?"

"Quite a few."

She turned the cuffs over in her hands, feeling the weight of them. Why anyone would want to collect such a weird object was beyond her. The things reminded her of the furtive looking characters she saw stooping into the back of patrol cars on the nightly news. Undeniably bad characters. Felons, chain gangs, _undesirables_. Why not collect something normal like stamps, seashells, or coins? She looked up at him again, seeing him in a different light. A mysterious and slightly alarming light. "How on earth did you begin collecting handcuffs?"

He sighed. "When I was young, twelve or thirteen maybe, I loved to spend every Saturday at a flea market in the center of our village. I would hunt around for treasures—you know, unique, original finds I could show off to my friends. It was there that I found a book all about the great Houdini. Out of curiosity, I bought it and quickly read it cover to cover. This was to be my true calling, I decided immediately. Magic!" He chuckled. "Yes, I was going to be a great magician who could perform daring escapes just like the master himself. The book suggested having your own handcuff and key set, so the following week I purchased my first one.

"As it turned out, magic wasn't much of a practical career choice, and eventually I lost interest altogether. But I remained fascinated by the cuffs. There was something special about them. I'd spend hours imagining the history behind a certain pair. Who had worn them? What were the circumstances? I fantasized that I owned the very pairs that were once used to restrain infamous criminals. It captivated me." He paused. "It still does."

"Did you know," he informed her, eyes dancing, "you can find literally hundreds of models and variations from all over the world? And not just handcuffs—leg irons, thumb cuffs, neck collars, balls and chains. Hundreds of different patents were issued throughout the years, and some models are quite rare and valuable."

"Hmm." She set the cuffs down and began digging through the crate for another pair. "I guess I can see why it would be sort of interesting, when you put it that way." She retrieved the next cuffs, a decidedly older, more primitive model.

He held out his hand and she passed them over. "Yes, for me, the attraction is the history, the story behind the piece. Who wore these cuffs?" He paused. "Aren't you _dying_ to know?"

She shrugged, unsure of the right answer. But Christophe was no longer looking at her. "Since the beginning of civilization," he went on, "there has been a need to...restrain, for lack of a better word, certain populations. Slaves, captives, criminals. It's simply a fact of life. Strong versus meek. Good versus evil. A history of conquests." He scooted his stool a few inches closer to the crate. "Here. Look in that box there."

She replaced his treasure with care and moved on.

"Dig deep down, near the bottom," he instructed as she removed wads of paper, finally extracting a thick silver pair with a longer chain.

"One of my favorites, the Rivolier Long Chain. Most likely manufactured in France in the 1950s." Once again he gestured for the pair, holding them inches from his face as he inspected the craftsmanship. "Lovely."

Never before had she seen someone so enamored by something so unusual. She just didn't get it. "Where are you going to put them all?"

Almost reluctantly, he lifted his gaze. "An excellent question. I need some sort of display case, wouldn't you say?"

"I would think so."

"Yes." He nodded several times, his head still off in the clouds. Then all at once he was back. "Are you feeling adventurous?"

The question came out of nowhere. Unprepared, she merely frowned.

"Would you like to try them on?" he said.

Her confusion grew. "Try them on?"

"I'll take a gamble you've never been cuffed before."

Confusion spread to dismay.

"Relax," he said lightly. Then added, "You trust me...?"

She hesitated at his enigmatic phrasing of the words. Was he asking or telling? Either way, she felt compelled to answer. "Uh..." she began. But the matter was not so simple. Here she'd gone and blabbed practically her whole life story, while his remained a mystery. In actuality, she knew shockingly little about him. Granted, as a teacher at her school, he was not some random stranger. And neither was he just any old teacher. The name Christophe Laval echoed breathlessly, incessantly within the walls of the girls' bathroom stalls. Only weeks after his arrival, he'd achieved near celebrity status. Any girl would be crazy jealous to know she was sitting here, in his house—at his feet, no less!

Interpreting her stutter as an answer in the affirmative, he clicked a cuff over each wrist in one swift move, then sat back and admired his work. After a moment, he said, "How does it feel?"

She shook her head, still in a state of mild shock. But as the seconds ticked by, she relaxed a bit, spreading her wrists wide, getting a feel for the sensation of restricted movement. She let her hands drop into her lap and was startled by the clink of the chain on the wood floor. "Weird," she said finally. "Not good. But not horrible either, I guess." She met his eyes just in time to catch a brief glimpse of something—something that hadn't been there before.

"I'm aware of how it feels _physically_ ," he replied. "But how does it make you feel _emotionally_? Being constrained in such a way?" He stared at her intently, waiting for her response.

She tried to think. But everything was a jumble in her head with him staring at her so. She had to look away. "It makes me feel weak," she said at last. "Powerless. Bad." She fought to look at him. "I think I'll do my best to avoid a criminal record in the future."

Christophe seemed to nod in agreement, but made no move to uncuff her. A small tremor shook her shoulders. The metal chafed her skin and quite suddenly she felt ill at ease. "So, um..." She laughed nervously. "You have the key, right?"

He smiled faintly, but said nothing for what seemed to be an endless stretch of time before finally motioning her forward.

She made the short trip on her knees. Christophe promptly produced the key and unlocked the cuffs. As he withdrew, his fingertips slid deliberately along the heel of her hands, glancing off the tip of her thumbs.

She jumped to her feet so quickly she nearly toppled over backward. "Wow," she said, and another unnaturally high giggle dribbled out.

With a look, he rose as well and hobbled over to the coffee table. Rummaging through piles of junk mail and a good week's worth of newspapers, he came away at last with a look of victory. "Hungry?"

She frowned, perplexed by the question and the mix of strange emotions that were churning inside of her. She'd been feeling a rather keen attraction to Christophe, ever since the day she first saw him. But now? He was turning out to be different from what she'd imagined. There was a slight edge to him that made her catch her breath. Then again, people were always saying it was good to be unique. To have your own set of beliefs, your own interests. She didn't like to be judged, shouldn't she act accordingly? She hardly knew him. She was being unfair. And boring. Her friends were always telling her she was too set in her ways. Hadn't Declan picked up on this as well? No wonder he'd decided to stay away from her.

"It's ten to six," Christophe continued, wagging the menu in the air, "and I believe I promised you sushi."

Dinner. Alone with her French teacher. Now here was something that was far from the usual. "Yes. That's right," she said with a show of confidence that was not entirely believable.

"What's your preference? Tuna? Salmon? Tempura shrimp?" he said, scanning the choices.

"I don't care."

He raised his head sharply. "No," he said. "You do." His brusque tone startled her. "Vivien," he continued more gently, "while I appreciate your good manners I believe you could use a little practice in saying what you want. Courteousness is one thing; feebleness is quite another. Are you afraid to tell me what you're really thinking?"

"I..." Of course she had her own opinions, but she'd always thought putting others' needs ahead of her own was the right thing to do. Selfishness was a despicable quality. Her father was selfish, was someone she would never willingly imitate. "Tempura," she declared after a moment. "I would like tempura shrimp."

"Good for you." He smiled at her like she'd just taken her first few steps. "Tempura it is." He dialed the phone and placed their order, adding to it a smattering of new and unfamiliar items. "Twenty minutes," he told her upon hanging up. "I'll make us tea."

She helped set the table. Christophe handed her real Japanese sushi plates with matching bowls and bamboo placemats. As a finishing touch, he placed in the center of the tiny table three votive candles in intricate gold vases. Everything looked so professional, she felt like they were eating at their very own restaurant.

"Do you always eat this way?" she asked.

He grinned. "Proper presentation is essential."

Dinner was delicious. But problematic. As it turned out, chopsticks were not her friend. At one point, while trying to snag an exceptionally hefty piece, she managed to catapult the roll several inches up into the air before it bounced off the table edge and into her lap. She waited until he wasn't looking before she shimmied the thing back onto her plate.

Christophe, on the other hand, maneuvered chopsticks like an expert, scoring even the minutest threads of seaweed salad.

"How do you do that?" she asked, tossing the sticks on her plate in defeat.

"Practice," he answered. "Oh, and I did live in Japan for a year."

"What? That's totally unfair. What were you doing in Japan?"

"I taught French and English at a small school outside Tokyo."

"How cool. Did you like it? It seems like you've been everywhere. Where else have you traveled?"

"I wandered around Southeast Asia for a while after that—let's just say it was my nomad phase—and when I'd had enough, I returned to Paris to finish my degree." He shook his head modestly. "I've hardly been everywhere."

"Compared to me you have. The most exciting place I've been is Chicago—whoopee!" She twirled her finger in the air. "I'm dying to get out of here."

"Dying?" he said dubiously. "Come now. This town holds something special for me...I can sense it."

"You're kidding, right?" She shook her head. "Soon you'll be bored to tears. You'll see."

Christophe looked amused but said nothing.

"Why you ever left France, I have no idea," she told him. "I would so love to go shopping in _Paris_. That would be beyond awesome."

Her dreamy enthusiasm sent him into a lengthy chuckle. "Poor Vivien, a culture-starved girl looking for something new." He sipped his tea, watching her. "Perhaps I can help you out."

She looked at him with interest.

"I can introduce you to...new experiences," he said.

"Not here," she said, shaking her head. "It's the same old places, same old faces, week after boring week. Nothing interesting ever happens here."

Christophe studied her quietly. "Had your fill, have you?"

She wasn't sure if he was referring to East Lake Pines or the dinner. Either way, the answer was the same.

### Eight

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

When choosing the right person to date, there are many virtues to consider: honesty, respect, and compassion. Be selective! Slow down!! Get to know the person before permitting any intimacy to occur.

Tuesday night Vivien had just finished up her homework and was sprawled out on her bed ready to dive into two of her favorite things: the latest vampire novel and a pint of butter pecan ice cream. A large spoonful of the delicious concoction was inches from her mouth when her cell rang.

"Hi, sweetness," Miranda chimed.

"Hey. What's up?"

"Nothing. Literally." Miranda paused. " _Sooooo_...did anyone special call you today?"

"No, why?"

"Awww, what's he waiting for?"

"What are you talking about?" she said, but she knew very well who Miranda was referring to. "He" as in Declan Mieres. But she'd just about given up on him. It'd been four days since their walk at the lake, and she'd heard nothing. Nada. He'd changed his mind. Obviously.

But maybe, just maybe, Miranda had heard something and Declan actually _was_ going to call her. Wouldn't Miranda be the one to know? She knew everything; spreading (mostly bad) news around the school was her drug of choice. A particularly juicy piece of gossip would almost send her twitching like a heroin addict.

"Spill it," she said.

Miranda giggled. "I managed to get some good stuff out of Thomas in class today." She paused, milking the tension on the line. "And he told me Declan thinks you're pretty cool."

Vivien's heart sank. "Those are the words he used?" She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, suddenly humiliated by the idea that Miranda had resorted to pumping Declan's friends for information.

"I guess. What's it matter?"

_It totally matters!_ she wanted to shout at her. _Cool_ meant nothing, a ubiquitous word used to describe inanimate objects: cars, shoes, jackets, purses—as in, _Cool bag, Vivs, where'd you get it?_

"Thomas is so frickin' hot," Miranda went on, oblivious to Vivien's concerns. "I heard he hooked up with Mariah Garofoli over the weekend. You know, the really tall one who looks like a Victoria's Secret supermodel?"

She thought about this. The description fit a number of girls in the senior class. To make matters more confusing, they all hung out together and dressed alike. "No. Not really," she answered.

Miranda sighed.

"So, what do you really know about Declan?" Vivien found herself asking. "Is he just...?" She didn't know what she was fishing for...something, anything. She just wanted to know _more._

"Excuse me? After centuries of looking down your nose at those guys, you've suddenly taken an interest in what Declan Mieres is really like?"

Sufficiently chastised, she muttered a jumbled response.

"All I can say is he's a nice guy. Like, nice to everyone, not just his own crowd. He was in my health class last year, remember? Anyway, I didn't get to talk to him that much 'cause that skank Cassie was always trying to monopolize him. Like he'd ever be seen with her! Did you know she smokes pot all the time? During school? And what's with the hippie/flower child thing she's got going on all of a sudden? Her hair's like practically down to her ankles. Do you think those are extensions? I don't see how her hair could've grown a foot in like, one month." There was a long pause while Miranda seemed to be mulling this over. "So yeah," she resumed. "He's nice."

"Nice can mean a lot of things. Is he sincere? Or does he just act that way so he can...? I mean, some people act a certain way, but underneath they're really..." Where was she going with this? "I only want to know because I have to work with him at Lakewood, you know?"

There was silence, then Miranda got directly to the point, "Basically what you want to know is if he's some kind of man-whore or not, am I right?"

She was quiet. No. Yes. Was that it?

"Last year he went out with a couple girls from the Bitch Clique," Miranda informed her, taking her silence as permission to proceed _._ "And they partied all the time and stuff. But this year I get the feeling he's different. He's been single for ages, and so far I haven't heard any wild rumors involving him."

Vivien found herself secretly relieved. "Well, like I said, I'm just working with him. That's all."

"Whatever you say, Vivs."

With a groan, Vivien hung up. Enough was enough. No more of her precious time need be wasted pondering Declan Mieres's motives behind calling or not calling. She had let herself get all starry-eyed over nothing. And the thought made her angry. Grabbing the pint of ice cream, she settled back down, spoon poised before her lips a second time. But now it was the sound of front buzzer that kept the creamy goodness from her mouth. "What the _..._?" she grumbled.

Muttering her way down the hall, she pressed the intercom, ready to give the annoying solicitor a piece of her mind: "Thanks, but we're not interested!" she nearly shouted. Just how many magazine subscriptions was she supposed to buy? Even if they were desperately needed to fund the local wheelchair basketball team and without her help it looked like the team was going to have to call it quits after fifteen years of high-fiving, self-esteem-boosting good times. Wasn't there a point when you just had to say no?

A wave of static spat forth from the speaker and then a voice broke through—a disturbingly familiar voice, the sound of which caused her heart to leap up and land with a thud. "Vivien?"

She stood frozen, unable to respond.

"It's Declan."

"Oh Geez! Sorry! I thought you were someone else...duh! Just a sec. I can't talk through this thing. I'll come down." Releasing the button, she immediately dashed to the full-length mirror in the hallway for a quick head-to-toe scan. "Crap! _So_ not good!" she muttered as she tousled her hair and checked for any crusty substances that might be hiding in the nooks and crannies of her face. With a resigned shrug, she made her way downstairs to the front entrance.

"Hey," Declan said as she opened the door. His hands were crammed in his pockets, chin tucked deep beneath his jacket collar. "It feels like ten degrees out here."

All it took was one quick glance at him and her resolve crumbled. Forgetting about him was about as likely as Miranda minding her own business. "Well, come in, then...I guess," she said and opened the door a fraction wider.

"Thanks." As he brushed past her, she caught the smoky scent of nearby fires. They stood staring at each other in silence. Declan rocked back and forth on his heels, apparently unbothered by the lack of conversation, and offered no explanation whatsoever for this impromptu visit.

"So what's up?" she said at last, the dead air exacerbating her already frayed nerves. Her voice was tight as she reigned in her emotions. She so badly wanted to ask him why he'd never showed up to rake leaves on Saturday, why he'd never called...but then it would look like she actually cared. And it was taking all her strength not to.

"Yeah, um," he began, a hint of apology in his shrug. He'd picked up on her coolness and his eyes darted around the cramped space as he spoke. "So...I was gonna call you over the weekend, but I—things kept piling up, you know? I had two games and..." He shrugged again, this time managing to look her in the eye.

A smug look crossed her face; he was coming up with excuses already and they weren't even dating. Out loud she said, "Whatever."

His eyes narrowed. "No."

She blew a puff of air over her upper lip. Please! Now he was all apologies?

"Listen, I...," Declan continued, but stopped suddenly, letting her dangle there on the hook.

She waited, but eventually her patience wore out. "What?"

He let her off with a smile. "I really liked hanging out with you at the lake. And I meant what I said about seeing you again. So...here I am." His smile grew wider. "I thought maybe we could do something. Hang out."

Her eyes went wide. "What, now?"

"Why not?" he answered, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to show up unannounced on a Tuesday night.

Her thoughts turned to her juicy paranormal romance and her pint of butter pecan ice cream, which at this point was most likely a chunky yellow soup. She imagined putting the items on a scale: guilty pleasures (comfort/safety) on one side; Declan Mieres (excitement/risk) on the other. Which way would it tip?

She chanced another look at him. Grinning innocently, he stood awaiting her reply, completely oblivious to the internal struggle that waged within. And as the seconds ticked by, one thing became increasingly clear: he'd already managed to find a chink in her armor. Of this her subconscious was well aware, for whenever her thoughts wandered, they moved with purpose, nose to the ground, seeking out the hidden stash of previously recorded Declan memorabilia: his expressions, his voice, the way he moved. Suddenly she'd come to find an entire page filled with middle-school-esque doodles of Declan's name encased in squiggly hearts.

Still, the idea of stepping into uncharted territory freaked her out completely. How was she to know when she'd taken one step too far?

"I don't know," she stalled, all the while making a point of looking down at her baggy sweats and fuzzy rainbow socks. "I'm not exactly dressed for company."

"Don't change on my account."

She nodded noncommittally, her mind still plagued by indecision. And then an answer formed. "All right. Come up," she heard herself say, as if eavesdropping from the next room. "I'll just throw on some jeans. You can wait."

Just who was this new girl?

Upstairs, as she headed toward her bedroom to change, she felt all jittery, like she'd guzzled several giant lattes on an empty stomach. Her limbs were out of control, shooting out at odd angles in a rhythm of their own choosing.

_He_ was here. Declan was _here._ In her apartment! It was...unbelievable...thrilling... terrifying! A thought occurred, stopping her in her tracks. She doubled back. "I have no manners," she said, startling him so that he gave a little jump. "I forgot to ask if you're hungry. Actually, we don't have much. But if you're thirsty, I can get you a soda."

"I'm good," he said, resuming his careful stroll around the room.

She watched him. Various knickknacks appeared to catch his interest and he would halt before them, fingering the item with care.

"All right," she said finally, "I'll just be a few minutes." But she was hesitant to leave. The idea of having him in such close proximity while she undressed gave her a pang of uneasiness. Maybe he had the wrong idea about why she'd invited him up in the first place. "So...um, don't come back. My room's a total mess. It's so embarrassing."

He stopped his browsing and gave her a curious look. "And you think I care? After riding in _my_ car?"

She thought about this. "No," she agreed. "But don't come back anyway. OK?"

He just stood there, wearing the mischievous grin again. At last he said, "I heard you. I'll stay where you put me."

"Fine," she muttered, relieved and humiliated.

Once in her room, she was at a loss as to what to wear without having any idea where they were going. She grabbed a pair of jeans, a lace camisole, and a casual-looking plaid blouse. After slipping on a pair of ankle boots, she took a moment to attend to her face in her bathroom mirror: mascara, blush, strawberry lip gloss. Adding a finishing touch of her go-to scent, Tahitian Vanilla, she hurried back to see what Declan was up to. Who knew what sort of humiliating things lay hidden amongst the dusty rows of books in the family room? Embarrassing old photographs in "I Love Mommy" frames. One immediately came to mind: five years old, perched on the backyard swing, modeling the new bangs she'd decided to give herself the day before. Or maybe she'd find him puzzling over the parade of pathetic clay creatures—one for each year of elementary school—who resided on the lower-level shelves: unstable four-legged creatures, a smattering of milky glaze across their backs.

With relief, she found him on the sofa thumbing through a book. Her arrival unnoticed, she took the opportunity to admire him sitting there carelessly in his button-down shirt, perfect-fit blue jeans, and Sperry topsider shoes. His lips were moving ever so slightly as he read.

She plopped down next to him and closed the book cover halfway in order to read the title. " _Romeo_ _and_ _Juliet_? Where'd you find that?"

He gestured toward the bookcase. "Over there. Is it yours?"

She shook her head. It must have been Ashton's copy from school. "I haven't read it yet." She felt a touch of shame. Wasn't this the best-known love story of all time? "I saw the movie version," she told him. "With Claire Danes? It was really good."

This brought a smile. "The movie version, huh? I read it in English Lit last year. I remember thinking I was going to hate it, but it was actually all right."

"You liked it?" she said.

"Sure. Why?"

She shrugged. "Never mind."

"What?"

"It's just, I thought your everyday, average guy would find a love story dumb. You know, girl stuff." She looked at him closely. "Like, girls are the basically the only ones who swoon for _perfect_ _love_."

In fact, those two words caused her much anxiety, for as much as she wanted it, wanted to believe in it, she had serious doubts that it existed at all.

Of course, it seemed to be human nature to yearn for love. How many love stories had been written over time? How many movies, plays, and songs had romantic love as their main theme? Even Ashton's band had written love songs, collaborative works of art with disturbing titles like, "Strangle Me with Your Love," "Black and Blue Ecstasy," and "Parasite." Had any one of them ever been in love? Or were they just using their artistic license to create emotion?

Uncertainty dogged her. From what she could see, in real life, love never lasted. Instead, it somehow changed form, mutating into a sticky web of negative emotions: lust, jealousy, dishonesty, loathing. In other cases love was capricious and fragile, simply dissolving over time to become nothing more than a convenient arrangement.

"So." Declan's voice brought her back to the present. "That's me, 'everyday average'?" He cocked his head.

"No. That's not what I meant. I just think guys—when they're our age—they aren't exactly capable of love—intense love. You know, they're not at that level yet— _emotionally_."

He let out a low whistle and leaned back on the sofa, staring at her with an incredulous look. "Wow. OK. And have you completed some kind of scientific study to back this up?"

"I just know what I see," she said.

"But the girls, now _they're_ different," he replied. "They're never interested in just keeping it casual. So tell me why I can think of at least a dozen nasty words for the no-strings-attached kind of girl you claim doesn't exist?"

"You're twisting my words! I never said those kinds of girls don't exist. I'm not even talking about that right now. Haven't you ever heard of the book _Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus_? The two genders are wired differently. All I'm sayings is guys prefer just about anything over a good love story."

He considered this. "OK, fair enough. That could be true in some cases." He began tapping his finger on the book. "All _I'm_ saying is that I liked the story. So, plug that into your equation." He was quiet a moment, then went on with renewed strength. "I'm certainly not against love, if that's what you're implying. And correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't it require both a girl _and_ a boy to fall in love? It doesn't work if only one side is capable of an emotion _at_ _that_ _level_." He appeared to be enjoying poking holes in her theory. "Not to mention the fact that the main theme of _Romeo and Juliet_ is young love; they're only teenagers when they fall head over heels for each other."

She began to reply, but he cut her off. "A love story is only dumb when it's unrealistic. I can't stand it when girls get all worked up over some dude who's totally unbelievable."

This threw her. "What? Like who?"

"Oh...you know, what's the name of that gay-looking vampire dude? The one who's on the cover of all the chick magazines?"

She thought of her novel, _Passion's First Tender Bite_ , still lying open to page ninety-three on her bed. "I have no idea. I'm not into that."

"The whole thing's stupid," he said, getting more and more worked up. "The dude's like this _predator_ , who also happens to be the perfect boyfriend. Yeah, right. He wants to love her forever _and_ suck her blood? And that's hot? Come on! Chicks' minds are poisoned against us. We don't stand a chance."

"It _is_ fiction, you know," she pointed out. But there it was again. Girls did want perfect love—alongside unbelievable passion. Were they really to blame if they found themselves falling for pale strangers with sharp teeth? Strangers who found the smell of their blood so irresistible they couldn't stay away, no matter how hard they tried? No. The romance industry had poisoned women's minds. Now neither sex could win.

Nevertheless. She wanted it. The whole lovesick fairytale, complete with princely handsome stranger who would court her properly, PG-13 style.

Declan suddenly leaned toward her with an earnest look on his face. "So tell me. If you're such an expert, what's your theory on _attraction_?"

She backed away a fraction of an inch. "My theory?"

"I mean, if you're so into it, what about plain old desire?"

Her mouth dropped.

"Here's what I think. I think two people can be immediately and intensely attracted to each other. It's kind of scary, actually. Like having the wind knocked out of you or something."

She stared at him, unable to speak. Now, _desire_ did throw her for a loop, for it didn't necessarily agree with her vision of the proper romance. Desire had a feral plan all its own and no concern whatsoever whether she was on board or not. Up to now, she had never truly felt its power. But with the sudden entrance of Christophe—and now Declan—strange feelings and completely foreign urges would temporarily take hold of her mind and body. She wondered if she would have the strength to fend them off indefinitely.

A careful silence permeated the air.

"Hmm," Declan said finally, tossing Shakespeare on the coffee table. "So...what do you say? What's the plan?"

Right. What was the plan? She was having trouble concentrating. "We've got school in the morning, remember?" she told him, forever the conscientious student. "Maybe we should just stay in. There's no one here but you and me."

Declan cleared his throat and readjusted himself on the sofa. "Sure. OK, if that's what you want."

With these last words, her body tensed. Oh, crap! What was he _thinking_ she wanted? What kind of things was Declan Mieres used to doing with girls when they found themselves alone? Unsupervised? In a state of _intense_ _attraction_?

Abruptly she jumped to her feet. "But wait a minute! You'd be bored here. For sure. We should go somewhere. We should go out."

"What?" he said, rising with her. "I'm not bored. I like your place."

"Yeah, but...you're hungry. And like I said, we've got nothing good to eat. _Nothing_."

"Easy. We'll just order a pizza."

"Yeah, but then what?" Her voice had ridden up an octave. God help her, she was sounding hysterical.

"Who cares? Whatever. I just want to be here. With you." He shrugged. "That's why I showed up out of the blue, apparently freaking you out in the process....Hey, is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. It's just..." She couldn't finish. Couldn't let him know he made her crazy nervous. Her body felt taut and liquid all at once.

He reached out for her hand, pulling her in close. "It doesn't matter," he said quietly. "We'll do whatever you want."

She tried to smile. "I just want you to...I'm sure you're used to..."

"Pizza first," he announced, "and then we can—I don't know, watch a movie or just sit and stare at the wall. It'll be great!" He pulled his cell from his pocket. "Who do you order from?"

She had to laugh at his enthusiasm. "Um, Eastside Grill?"

" _Eastside_ _Grill_? Are you kidding? Their pizza tastes like crap. They don't even use real cheese."

She frowned. "Of course they do."

He shook his head determinedly. "We're ordering from Gino's. You'll see what real pizza actually tastes like."

"Geez, you're taking this so seriously," she observed.

"What can I say? I like to eat." He grinned.

Apparently, Declan liked Gino's so much he had the place on speed dial. Leaving him to his business, she went into the kitchen to get some drinks ready.

"Hey, what's your address again?" she heard him call out from the other room.

"Six East Hollow Ave, apartment 2C."

She heard this repeated slowly. "Thirty-five minutes," he told her, breezing into the kitchen.

"Want a Diet Coke?" she asked.

"Later." He watched as she poured two sodas into ice-filled glasses. These she set carefully on the upper right corner of the placemats. "Why don't you show me your room? You're a liar anyway."

She flinched slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Since when does the neat freak have a messy room?"

"I thought we agreed to leave off the freak part. And why do you want to see it so bad?"

"Because. It's where you hang out. It's your own personal space, and I bet I can learn something more about you by seeing it."

She thought about the melted pint of ice cream on the floor next to her bed. What else would he see? Had she left dirty underwear on the floor? Was her economy-sized container of facial hair bleach sitting out in plain sight? And what about that vampire book she'd claimed she "wasn't into"?

"Well, maybe I don't want you to see it," she told him. "There could be stuff sitting around that's...private."

"Private," he repeated skeptically.

"Yeah, as in none of your business."

"Let me get this straight. We've known each other less than a week, and already you're keeping secrets from me?"

"Secrets? Who said anything about secrets? Maybe I've got a box of tampons sitting on my dresser. Is that really what you want to see?"

"Please." He rolled his eyes. "It's gonna take more than that to send me running."

"Wow." She drew out the word slowly. "Who knew you were so mature? You hide it well."

He laughed, saying, "Is that right? Well, you're wrong. I hide nothing. What you see is what you get," he added, puffing his chest proudly.

An intense stare-down ensued. "Fine," she relented at last. "Let's just get this over with." But before she finished speaking, she was off, sprinting down the hallway, successfully managing to toss the vampire novel under the bed as well as chuck the container of ice cream into the bathroom wastebasket. Declan was standing hesitantly in the doorway as she came out.

"There," she said, eyes scanning the floor. To her great relief, none of her undergarments seemed to be out and about. "So...welcome to my room. What do you think?"

He stepped inside and turned full circle. "Just as I suspected: you're one hundred percent anal retentive." He pointed to her shelves. "Are those magazines arranged by date?"

"No," she lied, stepping in between to prevent any closer inspection.

Skeptical, his gaze roamed, settling on the collage that covered the wall above her bed. "You made that?"

She nodded. "It started small but just kept growing."

He moved closer. She came up alongside of him and looked too. All her favorite things stared back at her: restaurant menus, ticket stubs, birthday cards, sketches on napkins, magazine cut-outs, concert programs, tons of old photos, and a pressed four-leaf clover that had yet to bring her any luck. Stealing another look at Declan, she was forced to revise that complaint. Perhaps her luck had just changed.

"Is that your brother?" Declan asked, pointing to a picture of a tall, skinny kid playing the guitar.

"Yeah. That's Ashton. Eighth-grade talent show." She pointed to another picture lower down. "This is the most recent one." The picture looked as though it had been ripped from the pages of _Rolling Stone_ : Ashton and Max, on stage performing their most popular song, "Suck Me." They were bending forward in midscream, long hair slick with sweat. Both giving the camera the finger. "Not a super-flattering shot, I suppose." She let out a short laugh. "They were _so_ out of control."

"Yeah. I kinda get that feeling," he said. "So...he was into music, too."

"Oh, he was super-talented! I wish you could've heard him. I don't know if you're into heavy metal—it's not exactly my thing—but he was good. Like, _really_ good."

"Like you," Declan insisted.

"Maybe." She shook her head, brushing his comment away. "I love this one," she said, pointing to a picture of Ashton and herself perched high up in the branches of a giant oak. "That was our old backyard. We used to spend hours hanging out in that tree. It was so peaceful, so private. But at the same time you had this awesome view of all the other yards. Get this—one time we caught our neighbor peeing in his mom's vegetable garden. And he was no toddler—he was like twelve or something."

"Maybe he hated vegetables."

"No." She laughed. "He was just...different. I used to play with him when we were little. He always had these crazy ideas. He was obsessed with death. This one time we spent the morning digging up his backyard, looking for bones. He had me convinced all his ancestors were buried along the fence in secret graves and we had to free them because they couldn't breathe." She smiled sheepishly as she realized how silly this sounded.

"Why would they need to breathe if they were dead?"

"Yeah, well, I don't know. That didn't occur to me at the time. Anyway, he could be very persuasive. Unfortunately, his mother caught us and was not pleased with the mess we'd made. She sent him to his room, but he snuck me back in through his window and we ate marshmallows in his closet. They always had marshmallows at his house, the miniature ones that come in different colors." She stopped, lost in time. "Anyway, I stopped playing with him after he tried to hang himself."

"What?"

"Yeah. He wanted me to help him do it. He tied a rope around a wooden beam in his garage and then tied it to his neck and stood on a chair. He said he wouldn't die for long. Just long enough to see what it was like. After five minutes I was supposed to bring him back to life by dumping a bucket of cold water over his head." She frowned. "Luckily, the knot didn't hold. After that, he told me I should be the one to do it because I was lighter. But when I saw the rope burn on his neck, I got scared and ran home."

Declan looked alarmed. "Vivien, what the hell? Who let you hang out with this kid?"

"We were neighbors," she said. "I guess nobody knew he was so strange."

He frowned. "Except you."

She dropped her gaze and said nothing.

"Hope you learned your lesson," he muttered, settling down on her bed and motioning for her to sit beside him. After a silence he said, "You must miss him—Ashton, I mean. I can't imagine..."

His voice held such compassion that Vivien was afraid to speak. He was right, such loss was unimaginable for those untouched by death. For those who'd gone through it, it was all they could do to imagine anything else.

His hand floated in her direction but stopped just short. He seemed to want to say something more, but the silence between them had gathered too much weight. Finally, he sighed deeply, turning toward her and saying, "You must be really strong. I mean, you seem it...to me."

His observation jolted her, so unexpected it was. She had never in her life pictured herself as strong. Everyone around her seemed far stronger, far more daring. In fact, her friends teased her mercilessly about her many fears and hang-ups. But apparently Declan saw something beyond these, and his words warmed her from the inside out.

The sound of the buzzer startled them both.

"Pizza's here," she observed.

He opened his mouth as if he had something more to say, but before she could ask, he was hurrying ahead of her, money in hand. "I got this," he called out.

Declan returned to the kitchen carrying two large boxes. She was leaning against the counter, arms crossed and raised an eyebrow as he placed both boxes on the kitchen table. "Expecting company?"

"Funny." He grinned. "One for you, one for me." He opened the top box and removed a gigantic slice.

"You actually think I'm capable of eating an entire pizza?" The thought dismayed her.

He shook his head, waiting to reply until he'd swallowed. "Just in case." Shoveling more into his mouth, he yanked off a slice and held it out to her. "Here. It's awesome. From now on, Eastside Grill is history."

She stared at the drooping, oversized triangle. A trickle of orange grease had begun to run down the side of his hand. "How about some plates, maybe?"

Later, they lay back on the family room sofa like a pair of beached whales. Vivien began flipping through the channels, searching for something good to watch. An episode of _Full_ _House_ caught her eye.

"Oh!" she squealed. "I love this show. Look at them! They're this totally dysfunctional family—the mom's dead, right?—and they manage to survive just fine. It's all so funny and cute."

"It's a TV show. And a really bad one," he replied.

"Come on, who doesn't love this show? You can't tell me those little girls aren't adorable." She pointed to the toddler, Michelle, as she made a goofy face. "Oh! And I know this episode, too. It's the one where Stephanie accidentally drives the car through the garage into the kitchen. It's hilarious!"

"Gimme that," Declan grunted, stealing the remote from her grasp. He cruised through another fifty channels before he found an acceptable alternative. "Now _this_ is a good movie: _Halloween_. You like horror movies?"

She watched as a terrified Jamie Lee Curtis scrambled to escape a masked intruder holding a large kitchen knife. She covered her eyes. "Ugh! No! I _hate_ this kind of movie! Who wants to see people getting stabbed to death?" She turned her face away, pressing it against his shoulder.

But he went on, undeterred. "This is a classic, 1978. After that, all the horror movies copied its formula: if you want to survive, whatever you do, don't have sex, do drugs, or investigate mysterious noises when you're all alone at night—wearing nothing but your bra and panties, of course."

"How do you know all this?" she asked, looking up into his face. "You actually like horror movies?"

"Sure. My brothers got me started. They're fun. You can't take them seriously."

"Well, they freak me out. I saw parts of _Psycho_ —my brother and his friends were watching it." A shiver ran through her. "That one guy? Norman Bates, right? He was so disturbing! Killing his mother and dressing up the body. Didn't he keep her in the basement or something?"

Declan nodded excitedly. "Awesome movie! The first time the killer was just your regular guy next door instead of a monster. Did you know Norman Bates was inspired by a real serial killer, Ed Gein, who secretly stashed his victims' body parts around his house? Alfred Hitchcock was a genius. The whole movie was a work of art."

"Hmmm." She frowned at him. He wasn't kidding about being into horror movies. "My favorite Jamie Lee Curtis movie is _Freaky_ _Friday_. You know, with Lindsay Lohan? My kind of movie—a nice Disney comedy. I don't want to think about the regular guy next door turning out to be some lunatic serial killer. Can you even imagine knowing someone like that?"

Declan snuggled her in closer. "You're a funny girl."

She shook her head, slightly self-conscious.

"That's OK. We can move into that genre slowly. And I'll be there to protect you, naturally."

"Sure you will. In the meantime, could you turn this off?" she said, gesturing toward the TV. "Halloween's coming for real and I'd like to be able to sleep tonight."

Declan shut off the movie, then turned and gave her an excited look. "Hey! That reminds me, what are you doing on Friday night for Halloween? A friend of mine, Riley—he went to Eastbrook last year? Played lacrosse? Anyway, he lives on campus now and he's having a party. We should go."

She frowned, temporarily at a loss for words. "I don't know." The idea sounded dangerous. "Do we have to, like, dress up?"

"Nah." He studied her face. "I mean, you can if you want to."

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "No thanks. I'm not into that. Actually," she added, straightening and moving away from him, "I'm not exactly a party girl either."

"I'm fine with that," he said, leaning toward her, foiling her attempt to create distance. "I'm not saying we'll go there and get smashed or anything." He paused. "I just thought it'd be cool for my friends to...meet you. You can't blame me for wanting to show you off."

This revelation blindsided her. "Seriously?" she croaked, her cheeks coloring. How had things managed to move so quickly in this direction? Less than a couple of hours ago, she'd vowed she wasn't going to waste her time on someone like him. But here they were, one sly compliment, one bat of his long, dark lashes and she was caving. Was this what lay in store for her? She was at once thrilled and disappointed with herself.

"That's right," he was saying. "Now. Quit trying to resist my charms."

Hmmn. She stared at him, his lips parted, eyes shining and eager. Maybe, just maybe, she would.

### Nine

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

What is alcohol? Alcohol is created through a process called fermentation. Fermentation uses yeast or bacteria to change the sugars in foods (commonly grains, fruits, or vegetables) into alcohol.

_When alcohol is consumed, it is immediately absorbed into the bloodstream. As it travels throughout the body, it suppresses the functions of the central nervous system, as well as blocks a sizeable number of messages trying to make their way to the brain. This phenomenon alters how a person_ sees _,_ hears _,_ moves _,_ feels _, and_ perceives _._

A person who is intoxicated may act completely out of character!!!

The week passed quickly and Friday—Halloween—arrived before Vivien could properly prepare for it. The idea of a college party had loomed ominously in the back of her mind, but with homework, volunteering, and the simple daily chore of living with a mother who didn't shop for groceries, who seemed to be barely aware that she had a daughter at all, she'd only dedicated the bare minimum amount of time to obsessing over it.

But now it was here. Declan was going to pick her up at seven o'clock—in twenty-five minutes, yikes!—and still she stood naked, frozen in indecision before her closet.

A costume was definitely out of the question. Yet she couldn't decide if she should opt for some sort of Halloween theme so as not to look like a total nonparticipant. But what, exactly? All black? Black and orange? No, that was dorky, like something an elementary school teacher would wear beneath her medley of Halloween-themed buttons. She should wear something that suggested a hidden sexy side, but of course nothing over the top.

She passed over every hanger and emptied nearly every piece of clothing she owned from her dresser drawers: skinny jeans, bootcuts, flares, leggings, miniskirts, pencil skirts, pullovers, cardigans, loose tees, fitted tees...the end result being nothing but dissatisfaction. Everyone had seen her wear these things over a thousand times. She wished she had time to run over to Lauren's house; now _that_ girl had clothes. Her parents were loaded, and every weekend without fail, Lauren could be spotted at the mall, shopping bags stacked on each arm like multicolored bracelets.

Speaking of Lauren, she wondered how things were developing with Nathan. How her friend could actually fall for such an infamous playboy was beyond her. As if his good looks could make up for his defective personality. Wasn't this the weekend she was supposedly going to invite him over for...casual sex? No, that was next weekend. So maybe she still had time to talk her out of what seemed like a really bad idea. She made a mental note to have a private talk with Lauren. Soon.

After trying on at least six different outfits, she finally settled on her tightest pair of jeans and a glittery silver top that fell off the shoulder. She added a pair of silver hoop earrings and put her hair up in a casual twist. With five minutes left to spare, she applied her makeup and several quick sprays of Tahitian Vanilla Dream.

Her cell vibrated on her desk. She hurried over and read Declan's text. He was waiting outside.

"You smell really good," he told her as they pulled away from the curb. "But you're going to freeze in that wimpy leather jacket you keep wearing."

"You're just going to have to accept the fact that this _is_ my winter jacket." She patted the worn leather lovingly. "And it works just fine." After a minute she added, "Do you always make a habit of looking after others? You remind me of a mother hen clucking over her chicks."

"Mother hen?" he said. "That sounds so wrong, coming from a girl. I'll try not to show any further interest in your welfare, if that's what you prefer."

"Don't get mad." She laughed, then said more seriously, "Don't stop. I like it." In fact, this quality of his that showed itself now and then had been a complete surprise to her. She had carelessly and prematurely figured him to be the same as all the others he hung around with: shallow and vain. Now she was beginning to see she'd been seriously mistaken, and she felt a tad guilty for being so judgmental. To think that he was concerned about her and was willing to show it made her an even bigger case of putty in his hands, for it felt like a long time since anyone had bothered.

Declan kept silent, but she could sense him working over her confession in his head. Apparently he decided not to pursue it because a few seconds later he changed the subject. "I gotta stop for gas up here."

The Volvo swerved around several cars and came to a stop before an empty pump. Declan cut the engine and hopped out, saying, "Be back in a sec."

She studied him through the window. He was a confident guy; his movements said so. Everything he did, he did quickly and efficiently, appearing much more experienced—wiser, even—than she. As she watched him replace the pump and tighten the gas cap, she realized she had never pumped gas herself. Why would she? She didn't even know how to drive yet. Suddenly, putting this milestone off seemed a massive misjudgment on her part. Wasn't it every teen's dream to get their license? Along with that crisp plastic rectangle came responsibility, independence, and, more importantly, escape from adults.

But she was already free, wasn't she? Who was around enough to care where she went, what she did? Her mother only interfered if it somehow affected her: Why hadn't Vivien bought more coffee? Now she was going to have a headache before the day had even begun. How could Vivien leave the apartment wearing ripped sweats? Now everyone would think they were living below the poverty line. And so on...

She fantasized what it'd be like to stuff her meager belongings into her mother's Toyota Camry and step on the gas, driving without end until her previous life was reduced to nothing but a tiny smudge on the map. She would roll down the window, the wind sweeping inside, blowing her hair wildly about. And she would _feel_ wild. No longer trapped by tragic circumstances. Truly free.

"Damn!" Declan exclaimed, sliding into the driver's seat accompanied by a rush of frigid gasoline-scented air. "Winter's here already."

On the way to Riley's, she decided to tell Declan she hadn't started driver's ed yet.

"You're kidding, right?"

"No. It's not _that_ unusual. I'm only sixteen. Almost seventeen," she amended.

"I suppose..."

"Listen." She had several excuses ready and began ticking off each point on her fingers, "We only have one car. My mother needs it for work every day. She's told me in no uncertain terms that she doesn't have the skill or the patience to practice with me anyway. Which, by the way, is lucky for me because she's been in like _three_ fender benders in the last six months."

"Thanks for the Power Point presentation." He was silent for a minute. "You know, I could teach you. It's not that hard." Instantly, she saw a light bulb go off in his head. "We could do some practicing right now. What do you think?"

"Now?"

He considered her for a moment. "You're not the most spontaneous person, are you? Must everything be planned in advance in your world?"

She looked away, affronted. "There's nothing wrong with a little preparation," she informed him. "It makes things go smoothly."

"Yeah, but..." He shook his head, an amused look on his face. "Just hear me out. I know the perfect place to go. Safe. No traffic. You could—I don't know—take a small step out of your comfort zone and give it a try."

She hesitated. The chances of her looking like a complete idiot seemed dangerously high. "I don't...I've never been behind the wheel before," she told him. "This could be a true test of your teaching skills."

"Oh, I love a good challenge," he assured her. "Come on. Don't worry. Here's your chance to be adventurous."

"Fine," she said. "But in my opinion, adventure is highly overrated."

As it turned out, Declan's great place to practice revealed itself as they drove through the spiked wrought iron gates of East View Cemetery.

"This is where my brothers taught me," he told her, when she gave him a curious look. "It's perfect because there's a long, empty road running all the way through. You can practice steering, accelerating, braking smoothly—you know, get a feel for driving in complete safety."

Once in the driver's seat, she firmly regretted agreeing to such an impromptu scheme and did her best to talk her way out of it. She was positive it would prove to be one of the more embarrassing moments in her lifetime.

But Declan was hearing none of it. Calmly, patiently, he showed her how to turn on the headlights, start the engine, and shift from park into drive.

She let out an involuntary squeal as the car began to cruise forward, and she gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "Oh my God, it's moving."

"Yeah. That's the idea."

She waved him off in an attempt to silence his blatant sarcasm, then shouted an unintelligible string of nonsense upon realizing she had only one hand on the wheel.

"Whoa! Calm down, there." He grinned, shaking his head. "You're the one in control. The car's not going to drive off on its own."

She scowled, creeping along at a snail's pace. "Your car is too long," she complained. "I'm going to crash into something. I should be practicing in a Mini Cooper. Or even better, a bumper car."

"You're not going to crash. Just start out slow." He checked her speed. "Maybe a little faster."

Her foot pressed down on the gas pedal and she stared straight ahead as she concentrated on navigating the Volvo around the curves. With each turn, the headlights illuminated the frost-covered grass and the gravestones surrounding them.

"Ooooh! This place is creepy," she said, looking sideways at a towering black memorial. She half expected a zombie to emerge from the shadows, marching stiff-legged, arms extended. It was Halloween after all.

"Keep your eyes on the road," he warned.

She returned her gaze forward, jerking the wheel swiftly as she realigned the car to the center of the road. "Oops!" she cried out. This little mishap made her start to giggle, and soon she was fighting back tears as she struggled to control her laughter. In the end she was forced to slam on the brakes, jolting the two of them forward into the dashboard.

"Sorry," she said once she had regained control.

"OK, OK. That wasn't _too_ bad," he said. "Did you like it?"

"Sort of. I definitely need more practice."

"Nah," he said, "you're fine."

She giggled again and gave him a slap him on his thigh.

Taking advantage of the gesture, he grabbed hold of her hand, sliding his fingers smoothly in between hers. "It's nice out here," he said, glancing around. "Peaceful."

She could concentrate on nothing but his touch. With effort, she tried to speak naturally. "Oh yeah, I forgot; you love spooky places. Nothing would be more exciting than a maniac with an axe to pop out of nowhere like a real horror movie."

"Most definitely," he agreed. "But I could take him. He wouldn't even have a chance with us."

"Is that so?"

He gave her a funny look. "I guess now's the time to tell you about my...superpowers."

She frowned.

He nodded. "Yeah. That's right."

"And what exactly are these superpowers?"

"Nothing you've ever heard of before."

"Would you come—"

"I'm serious. It happens at night, when the moon is...a waxing gibbous—"

"A waxing gibbous?" she said incredulously.

"Hey, I kept a moon journal in fourth grade. I know my phases."

"I vaguely remember that," she replied.

"Anyway," he continued, "only then do I morph into a mystical creature. A cross between Spiderman, SpongeBob, and...Sir Paul McCartney. And I kick some ass as I scale skyscrapers with my webbed hands, serving Krabby Patties and singing 'Hey Jude' to all my fans."

"That was brilliant. Thanks for sharing."

"Whatever you say, Doubting Thomas. Won't you be surprised one of these nights when I appear at your window?" He lifted their interlocked hands up into the air and appeared to be examining them. "So...care to go for a walk? It looks awesome out there."

She swallowed. It looked totally freaky. "Absolutely not."

"Then I guess we're off to the party." Releasing her hand, he commanded, "Switch seats."

"Wait! Don't open the door. I think we should keep them locked."

"For real?" But the look she gave him answered that question. "Okaaaayy. You'll have to scoot under me, then," he directed her, twisting off the seat.

She swung her right leg over and scooted her backside across the center console into the passenger seat, ending up, much to her dismay, pinned awkwardly between Declan's forearms. His face only inches from hers, she held her breath and bravely attempted to look him in eye.

Help! Was this it? Was this going to be her first kiss— _real_ kiss? The first one that truly mattered, that sent her heart thudding away deep in her chest, and her breath coming in ragged gasps? The small gap of air between the two of them was charged with electricity. She could almost hear it sizzle.

Their eyes locked. The tension became unbearable. She let out a small whimper and closed her eyes just as his breath, warm and lightly sweet, washed over her. She felt the timid soft touch of his lips, which vanished, then found hers again, a hint of pressure the second time around. At first she kept rigid, but soon found the courage to kiss him back. It lasted but a minute, yet that minute seemed to stretch on endlessly. All sense of time was lost.

She opened her eyes just as he was pulling away. She hoped the look on her face didn't match the turmoil going on in her vital organs. She had a strong inclination to jump up and down, clap hysterically, shout with joy, and vomit all at once.

Declan gave her a shrewd smile, as if he somehow knew everything she was thinking. Then he spun around into the driver's seat. And they were off.

Vivien was familiar with the campus but had never had occasion to venture into the student neighborhoods clustered on the southern edge of the university. Thick branches of tall, stately elms arched majestically over the street. But a closer look revealed rows of houses that had fallen into a sad state of disrepair and outright neglect. A good number of windowpanes were cracked or boarded up completely. Shutters hung unevenly. Front porches sagged beneath the weight of tattered sofas and La-Z-Boy recliners that sat adjacent to card tables littered with plastic beer cups. Every third house boasted a red and white "Now Leasing" sign.

Declan parked the car in front of an especially questionable-looking residence. She was pretty sure this might be what your standard crack house looked like. She glanced up at the second floor balcony. The entire structure sloped ominously to one side, an accident waiting to happen. She made a mental note never to set foot on it.

"This is it," he announced.

She watched a plastic shopping bag skitter across the lawn and get caught up on one of the many bicycles that were locked haphazardly on the side of the front porch. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to decorate for Halloween; a couple of jack-o'-lanterns peeked out from windows, and a ghost she'd seen on sale for ninety-nine cents at the drug store was taped to the front door. Inside, she could make out the dark silhouettes of people migrating from room to room.

Declan turned to her with a grin. "Ready?"

"Sure..."

"Don't worry," he said, reading her like a book. "I won't leave your side. I'll introduce you to everyone." He took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

Their hands stayed clasped as they mounted the steps to the front door. She was about to make a generic observation on the chill in the air when the door burst open and Nathan appeared, arms spread wide. "Dude!" he shouted. "How's it hangin'?"

Declan chuckled a greeting. "Hey."

"And who's this fine Betty?"

"Vivien, remember?" Declan gave him a look. "Are you shit-faced already?"

Nathan lifted his cup in salutation. "Fuck, yeah!"

"Nice." Taking her arm, Declan pressed past him into the house. There were clumps of people everywhere, and the sound of Eminem blasting expletives came from somewhere in the back.

"Hey, Vivs!" she heard someone call out. Turning, she saw Lauren bumping her way toward them from the living room. "I didn't know you'd be here," Lauren said once she reached the couple.

"Likewise," she said, frowning at Lauren's cup of bright red punch. It smelled strongly of rubbing alcohol. "Are you with—"

"Nathan," Lauren blurted, grinning wide and taking a sip. "Isn't this _cool_?" She gestured around her in slow motion like they were in a strange new world.

Vivien shared a look with Declan. "Um, yeah. I guess."

"Come on," Declan said, "I want to find Riley." He started moving them off in the other direction. "See you around, Lauren," he added.

Vivien gave Lauren one last look. "Be careful," she told her, wagging her finger.

Lauren just smiled vacantly and wandered off, hunting for Nathan, Vivien assumed.

They passed through a hallway and into the kitchen. Here they found the host of the party, a tall, attractive guy, sitting on the countertop in the midst of telling a story. Upon seeing them, he stopped talking and hopped down to give Declan a fist bump, thrusting a bottle of beer in his hand.

"Long time, no see."

"Riley, this is Vivien." Declan snuck his arm around her waist and pulled her in a little closer.

Riley nodded, looking her up and down. "I _approve_!" he said with a grin. "Hey, Vivien, there's some wicked punch my roommate made over there in that tub." He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. "Don't ask me what's in it, but you should definitely have some."

She shook her head. "That's OK."

Immediately, the two boys launched into an animated conversation about the university's lacrosse team this year. Declan had told her beforehand that Riley was an excellent player. He'd been offered a full scholarship early on in his senior year at Eastbrook. It was clear he was someone Declan admired, so she concentrated on looking attentive. But they might as well have been speaking a foreign language. Her focus slipped, her eyes darting around the room in curiosity. A good number of girls were dressed up for Halloween, wearing costumes that barely covered their bodies. Scantily clad vampires, witches, and several French maids wandered in and out of the kitchen, serving themselves the mysterious red drink or grabbing a beer from the refrigerator. Hungry male eyes followed these gratuitous glimpses of breasts and tramp stamps.

The weight of sex filled the air. It pressed down on her and made it difficult to breathe. _This_ was why she didn't go to parties. The throbbing, pulsating rhythm of drunkenness and promiscuity felt...well, sinful, for lack of a better word. Not that she was a true believer in sin. She certainly didn't go to confession or anything. However, she believed she had a good sense of what was right and what was wrong. What was appropriate and what was not. And clearly, what was happening around her was way beyond her comfort zone.

By the time she'd returned her attention to the conversation, she saw that Riley had been recalled to his perch in order to deliver the much-awaited punch line. Declan took a swig of beer, then motioned for her to follow. In the living room, he leaned into her ear and shouted something she couldn't understand. They moved toward a group of guys and girls he seemed to know sitting on an exceptionally filthy sofa. He signaled for one of the girls to scoot over, patting the now-vacant spot for Vivien. Everyone gave a perfunctory glance in her direction when Declan introduced her.

Balanced awkwardly on the edge of a lumpy cushion smelling suspiciously like vomit, she once again found herself trying to follow a conversation that made little sense. Most of the groups lounging about were college freshmen. They seemed intent on emptying and refilling their drinks as quickly as possible. In between screams of laugher and shouting lewd comments, they discussed their course loads and complained about an infamously biased TA, whatever that was. They then moved on to lengthy descriptions of recent parties that had "rocked." Declan's chameleon-like abilities allowed him to join in effortlessly, but she remained quiet. The music made it nearly impossible to hear, and eventually she gave up on lip reading, resigning herself to just sit there for what seemed like forever.

A stripper/Tinkerbell fairy sitting at her feet tapped her on leg and shouted, "Hey, what dorm do you live in? You look familiar."

Vivien leaned forward, explaining that she didn't go to school here, she was still a junior at Eastbrook, but seconds into her explanation the girl's eyes glazed over and Vivien's voice trailed off. The girl got up and claimed a spot on the other end of the sofa.

At last, about the time when her state of alienation and frustration had reached a peak, she turned to see Lauren and Nathan heading up the stairs. Curious, she twisted full on in her seat to get a better view and was appalled to see that Lauren was noticeably unsteady. Nathan kept reaching out to support her as she giggled and wobbled with each step.

What on earth did Lauren think she was doing?

She sighed and rubbed her temples with her fingers. The smell of cigarettes had begun to make her head throb. She glanced over at Declan to see if he too had noticed the drunken couple fumbling their way upstairs, but received no indication he had. Rather he was in the midst of conferring closely with two strange-looking girls. One had a multicolored snake tattoo that crept out of the neckline of her shirt, wrapping up and behind her ear. The other sported neon pink streaks in her spiky white hair along with several crystal studs in one eyebrow. Whatever the topic of conversation, the three appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.

At her wits' end, she asked the girl sitting next to her where to find the bathroom. The girl pointed upstairs and then returned her attention to the hooker/witch on her opposite side.

She stood and attempted to shout over the music, informing Declan where she was going. He nodded and gave her one of his killer smiles.

Why did he have to be so attractive? Was it normal to be jealous of your boyfriend, she wondered as she headed up the stairs? He possessed some innate quality that made him instantly appealing to just about everybody. Maybe this was because no matter what, he seemed to be having a good time.

She, on the other hand, was not. Having a good time. Was not really fooling anybody here that she was some kind of party animal. In fact, she was the exact opposite of fun. She was hopelessly tense and just plain boring.

The landing at the top of the stairs was completely dark. As she peered down the hallway, she saw that all doors were closed. What to do? Where was the most logical place for a bathroom? Making a guess, she walked about halfway down and opened the door.

At first her eyes went directly to the source of light, a small desk lamp in the far corner of the room. Obviously this was not the bathroom. Her gaze was then drawn to the center of the room, where a queen-sized bed sat beneath a window. The bed was moving. No, not the bed, but a strange shape underneath a white sheet. No, that wasn't right, either. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that it was not a strange shape at all; it appeared to be two unclothed bodies. She could make out the girl's bare arms, spread wide on either side, as if she had fallen backward onto the bed and simply maintained this same position. The boy was on top of her. The sheet had slipped down to reveal the upper portion of his buttocks and she could see his back muscles flexing as he rocked rhythmically back and forth. She stood rooted to the floor for what seemed like an eternity, petrified by uncertainty as to how she could retreat without being noticed.

Placing a foot gingerly behind her, one step at a time, she was nearly out the door when a disconcerting whimper broke her concentration and she gasped involuntarily. Her hand flew to cover her mouth and she watched as the boy's head turned in slow motion, like a scene from a bad movie where the action is heavily exaggerated in order to build suspense.

"What the fuck?" he said. This, too, reached her ears as if the soundtrack had been slowed considerably. She willed her feet to move, spun away, and slammed the door.

Back in the darkened hallway, she stood panting like she'd just run the mile in Personal Fitness. She desperately needed a place to sit down. She began to open all remaining doors as quietly as possible, in search of the bathroom. On the very last try, she finally found what she was looking for.

After a good five minutes, she felt as though she was ready to process what she'd just seen. And what exactly was that? This was the pivotal question. Because there was something not at all right about the two people in that bedroom.

She needed to sort through her emotions and think logically. Jumping to conclusions would only make things worse. OK. So. The logical explanation was as follows: two very drunk people had decided to satisfy their urges by sneaking off to a private room to roll around in the sheets together. The odd thing was, only one of them seemed to be doing the "rolling."

But maybe that's how it was supposed to go. How should she know? She was no expert in sexual positions and the necessary motions that accompanied them. However, she assumed that if two people were willingly participating in such an activity, shouldn't they _both_ be enjoying it? Which led to the uncertainty of the physical condition of one of the participants.

Now she was ready to put a name on the faces—more like on the bodies. What on earth was Lauren thinking? Was that sadly unromantic scene her idea of a good time? Impossible! As far as she knew, Lauren was not that kind of girl.

As far as she knew.

Maybe she didn't know anything anymore. Her friends were changing and she remained stuck with the same attitudes as a fifth grader: sex was gross. At least when reduced to a basic physical act rather than an emotional one. Was she the only one who felt this way? The only girl in this house who thought that maybe she was special enough to wait for a more appealing opportunity to present itself? Wasn't it best to save this act for a time when it would actually mean something?

Obviously her ideas were totally out of style. Yet it was a distinct possibility that Lauren had overindulged in the mysterious red drink and now had absolutely no idea what she was doing. She had let her attraction to Nathan get in the way of her better judgment. She had let him pressure her into going off alone together. Now she was literally unconscious and at the mercy of his desires.

If this was true, then someone should get in there and help her. Lauren needed help. But who would that someone be? Not her. She was not going back in that bedroom. Therefore, the only other course of action would be to go downstairs and tell somebody. But she didn't think she could do that, either. Just whom would she tell? Who would even care?

No. Telling someone was actually a really stupid idea. In fact, she was sure now that she had it all wrong. It wasn't like Lauren had been forced to go upstairs with Nathan earlier. She'd been giggling and grabbing onto him. Imagine the embarrassment if someone were to burst in to rescue her when she was never in danger in the first place.

This whole night was turning into a nightmare. Her head hurt more than ever. There was nothing she could do for her friend. She had to get out of this house.

She returned downstairs in hopes of making a fast exit, only to discover that Declan was not where she'd left him. She made two circuits round, eventually bumping into the girl from the sofa. "Have you seen Declan?" she asked, trying to sound calm.

"Front porch," the girl replied, stumbling slightly and spilling the sticky red drink all over Vivien's arm.

Threading her way through the crowd, she spotted him at last, on the far corner of the porch, talking to three of his lacrosse teammates. She recognized Thomas as he took his turn with a joint, puckering his lips and sucking until his cheeks caved in and his eyes screwed shut.

Declan looked up and saw her. "Vivien! Where've you been? I've been looking all over for you."

She frowned. That certainly wasn't what it looked like at the moment. "I went to the bathroom. I told you that."

"Right. But I checked there—the one off the kitchen? You weren't in there."

Hearing there was actually a bathroom on the first floor only made her feel more miserable. She wished she could close her eyes and magically transport herself home. She'd had just about all she could handle. Of course, no such thing happened. She continued to be stuck in the present, standing there looking pathetic.

Declan set his bottle of beer on the porch railing and went directly to her. "What's the matter? Are you OK?"

"I really want to leave. Can we go now?"

"Did something happen?"

"No." She passed a hand over her forehead. "I think I'm getting sick or something. My head hurts."

"All right. Let's go. No problem." Slipping his arm around her waist, he guided her down the front steps, turning at the bottom to wave at his buddies. A string of insults ensued.

"Pussy! Whatcha bailin' for, dude? Did your mommy call you home?"

"Shit, man. The party's just gettin' started!"

Declan ignored them and opened the passenger side door for her. Seconds after pulling away, she faced him, physically shaking with emotions she could no longer suppress. Why had he taken her to this stupid party? she wanted to scream. Didn't he notice how horribly awkward she felt? No. He'd spent most of the time enjoying himself with _other_ people. And she'd thought he was different. But he was just the same as everyone in there, obsessed with getting wasted and whoring around like this was completely normal behavior.

"Stop the car!" she exploded. "What are you doing driving? I saw you drinking beer. And weren't you actually smoking too, just now?" She reached for the door handle, "I need to find another way home."

"What the hell?" Declan exclaimed, slamming his foot on the brakes. They came to a complete halt in the middle of the street. He turned to her, his face bewildered. "Where's this coming from?

She only shook her head, refusing to look at him.

"Listen! Vivien. I only had a few sips. I swear! Then I dumped it. I dumped it and filled the bottle with water so I'd have something to hold in my hand—I do that sometimes, when I'm not in the mood to drink and I don't want people giving me shit." He began to reach out to her but appeared to change his mind halfway through, gripping the steering wheel once more and staring straight ahead.

"You don't think I know what your reputation is?" she spat at him. "I'm such an idiot for thinking you were different. You...you're..." She was so upset she couldn't manage to complete her thought.

"OK, hold on just a sec. I might party now and then. But that doesn't mean I go around acting like a complete asshole."

She stared fixedly at him.

"I'm not a stoner. I don't drink and drive. Ever. I would never do that to you." He dropped his hands and began rubbing his fists back and forth over his thighs. "You gotta believe me. I wanted to be here...with _you_!"

She felt the tears begin to pool and make their inevitable descent. "Well...you actually _weren't_. I felt really out of place in there. Oh..." she moaned, "This night..." She covered her face with her hands and slumped down in her seat. "Please just take me home now."

The silence was thick and suffocating. At last she felt the car begin to move, but she kept her eyes closed.

How could this have happened? How could everything be ruined? Before it had even truly begun, it was over.

### Ten

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

New and unfamiliar situations can bring about shy feelings. Teens are often unsure of themselves, and this can make any social situation a painfully awkward experience. While it's important to remain true to yourself, a shy teen can take certain steps to become more outgoing. 1) Practice social skills with people you know first. 2) Think of some great conversation starters—compliments are always effective! 3) Rehearse ahead of time what you're going to say. 4) And remember, your critical self is not always your best friend. Send him/her packing!! Give yourself a chance to spread your wings.

When she finally opened her eyes, she saw that they were not heading toward her apartment, but toward the lake instead. Once they reached Lakeshore Park, he turned and drove down a tree-lined service road she'd never seen before, eventually parking the car on the grass near a dead end. They sat in silence.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he said after several minutes.

Why hadn't he listened? Why hadn't he taken her home like she'd asked? Another clear example of him getting everything he wanted. It was so unfair. "I told you. I told you I wasn't into parties, didn't I?" She shook her head. "I never should have let you take me there."

"I didn't—"

"Obviously I'm not the right girl for you. Whatever made me think—"

"Congratulations," he jumped in, "on having it all figured out. Well, no offense, but you have no idea who the 'right girl' is for me. And your presumptions are totally offensive." He threw his hands up in disgust. "Anyway, you're not even being honest with me. You're just feeding me a bunch of bullshit."

"Bullshit?" She laughed disbelievingly. "How would you know? You barely know me. In fact you don't know me at all." And he didn't, she told herself. She wasn't like those people at the party. He couldn't possibly know what she was feeling right now.

"Is that so? I think I do know you." He leaned in close to her. "And I've got news for you: you give up exactly what you're thinking without even knowing it."

She crossed her arms and turned away. It was better this way. They had no future, so why prolong the agony?

"That's it?" He let out an infuriated snort. "You're not even gonna be a part of this conversation?" He waited for a reply, then said, "Damn, you piss me off!" Turning the key in the ignition, he threw the car into reverse.

She groaned softly to herself. This was _so_ not going how she'd envisioned. Was this what she wanted? The luxury of deliberating was quickly fading. Declan was fuming mad now. It was the classic fork in the road: which path should she choose? Presented with an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to feel the bite of Cupid's arrow, she had to think fast. What if this was it, the real thing, and she was going to pass like the foolish TV game show contestant who missed winning the luxury sedan for a boring set of luggage?

Suddenly it occurred to her she might be overreacting, saving herself from the possibility of having her heart crushed like junkyard car. But was she really going to throw it all away for one miserable night?

"Wait!" she said, grabbing his arm. Declan sighed and cut off the engine. "Let's...let's start over. I want to be honest with you. I really do."

"I wasn't aware it was that hard."

Right. She deserved that. "It's just," she began, "before I met you...before I got to know who you really were, I sort of...thought you were a jerk."

He said nothing. "You know," she said quickly, "because of the people you hung around with. They seemed so..." She searched her mind for the appropriate word. "Vacuous," she heard herself say. Definitely an ACT vocabulary word. "Anyway. I didn't like you much. I thought you treated girls..." She crinkled her nose. This was not turning out to be a coherent explanation of any kind. She looked at him helplessly.

He offered no assistance. "I'm not following. You're trying to say you think I'm a total douchebag?"

"No! I'm trying to tell you I was wrong. I _like_ being with you, that's the truth. I think...I think I'm a little scared. That's all."

"Of me?"

She shook her head, looking down into her lap and chewing her lip. "Of _this_. I'm scared I'm going to put everything I have into this and then it won't last. You'll change your mind." She tried to look at him. "I'm just thinking...what if you're looking for a certain kind of girl, like the ones at the party, and you realize...?" Was she still talking in circles? She paused and tried to make one point clear: "See, if you're looking for _that_ , you've made a mistake with me."

"Vivien," he said slowly, "just because... _shit_." He tried again. "Is it Nathan? Did he say something to you?"

She absolutely could not bring herself to tell him about Nathan. What she'd seen in that bedroom.

"Some of my friends," he went on, "they're not so much about having a girlfriend. They just want...well, the sex, to put it bluntly. I know you know that already; it's no big secret."

"But _you,_ " she said. "Why... _me_?" She desperately needed to know. At this moment. She felt so confused. The party had done nothing but make her feel bad about herself. Now she needed to hear him say something good.

Her question seemed to cause him some confusion himself. "Why not you?" he said, frowning slightly. He reached for her hand. "I like hanging out with you. You make me laugh. You're not some dumb airhead who couldn't hold an interesting conversation if her life depended on it. And, I don't know how to explain this..." He stopped, shaking his head.

"What?"

"At the risk of sounding incredibly corny, I feel like you're what I've been looking for all along. It's...I don't know." He laughed, giving up.

She gave him a timid smile. It might have been corny but it was exactly what she needed to hear.

"Listen," he went on. "I know what you must think. But you're wrong. I've been with those girls you're talking about, and they don't do it for me." His eyes searched her face, looking for a sign that what he was saying had registered. "It's like, maybe you have to get stuff wrong, before you can get it right. You know?"

She nodded, unsure, but feeling better all the same.

He patted her softly. "Now let's get you home. You said you were feeling sick and I don't want to make things worse. You look like you might be getting a fever."

"I do?" she said. "I'm not really sick. I just made that up." Before he could respond she said, "I meant what I said about starting over."

"We don't have to start over. This was good. We cleared things up. Now we're even better."

She found herself nodding, his explanation simple yet startling. "Could we skip the parties for a while?" she asked, still struggling to shake the queasy feeling that clung to her like a wet t-shirt. We should get to know each other...without... all those other people."

"Deal," he agreed. "I could care less about the parties. Although—" He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. "I did score this phone number from Tattoo Girl and her hot pierced friend. They said they were into threesomes."

Her jaw dropped and he quickly ripped the paper to shreds. "Not interested. See that?" He smiled innocently.

She responded by narrowing her eyes. "You are..." Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted. "What time is it?" With the stress and drama of the evening, she had no idea how late it was.

He pulled out his cell. "Twelve fifteen. What's your curfew?"

She thought about that. She didn't actually have one. "Oh. I thought it was much later. I don't have a curfew," she explained. "My mom never seems to care that much. I mean, I mostly just hang out with Miranda, and Charlie and..." Lauren's name stalled on her lips. "Maybe she'd care more if she knew I was out with a guy. With you."

"She doesn't know about me?"

"No. I didn't tell her where I was going tonight. She wasn't home."

"Do you and your mom get along?"

She frowned, thinking. "After the divorce, she totally fell apart and had this, like, scary, erratic behavior. One minute she was happy and nice, the next she was locked in her room for days, crying and stuff. It was awful.

"Ashton and I, we were a team. We tried to get by without upsetting her—which wasn't exactly possible, you know, because Ashton was in high school and he had a little problem with authority. Those two fought a lot.

"But now she's mostly better. She's busy with her job; she works for a law firm downtown and they have crazy hours when they're working on a big case. She's also busy trying to catch the incredibly elusive perfect husband because let's face it, who would she really be without a man? But that's a hopeless quest. She is messed up when it comes to men."

She stared hard at Declan. After putting it out there like that, all Ramona's failures seemed crystal clear, and she felt compelled to voice one of her biggest fears out loud. "I so don't want to turn out like that."

Declan stared back. "You mean, messed up...about men? Or messed up in general?"

She didn't know. Both, she supposed.

"Who says you will?" he answered for her. "You're a completely different person, making completely different choices."

"Right. I know." She sighed. "I'm sure we're _quite_ different than your family."

"Nobody's perfect."

"Gotta love those proverbs," she joked. "They bring such comfort."

"Wiseass," he chuckled. Then his expression changed. "Actually, my oldest brother went through a pretty rough time the summer after high school. He and his buddies liked to get together and play poker. They'd bet a little money, just for kicks. But Gavin, he started betting other places too. And all of a sudden, he was in a lot of debt. And people were calling the house all the time, looking for him. Not the kind of people you want to invite into your home, you know?

"It got so out of hand, he was selling all his stuff. Then stealing my parents' stuff and selling that too. Lying to everybody. One night he got roughed up bad. My parents had to go pick him up in the emergency room. Someone had broken two of his fingers and beaten his face so badly I couldn't even recognize him when they brought him home. He never would say who did it."

Vivien sucked in her breath.

"He wound up in counseling. The whole family had to go in the end. It took a while, but he finally cleaned up his act."

"Wow. I'm sorry...I never meant to imply that my family is the only one who's suffered."

"I know," he said. "That's not why I told you. I just felt like...It's a part of me. And I wanted you to know. I've never told anyone that before—any girls, I mean. It always seemed like they wouldn't get it."

Vivien didn't know what to say to that.

"It really affected who I was. I was scared for him. I was scared for me, too. I never wanted to fall into that kind of craziness. Ever since, it's been important for me to always stay in control."

He half-smiled at her. "Now you can see why I was so shocked before, when you wanted to get out of the car. I would never drink and drive. Never put you in danger." He paused. "Do you trust me?"

Her mouth opened with wonder. Strange, wasn't it, that only days before, Christophe had raised the very same question? What weird new world had she entered where men suddenly desired her trust? The ease with which they asked threw her, as if this was the simplest of things to give. Little did they know it was the one thing she kept guarded under lock and key. Never had she tossed it freely to anyone who asked. But she'd made the decision to change her ways. To try, at least. It shouldn't be that hard, should it?

She nodded hesitantly. He leaned into her and gently, finger to chin, guided her effortlessly to his mouth.

### Eleven

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Studies prove that human beings are highly motivated to form attachments throughout their lives. Forming relationships, be they with family, friends, or mate, makes it possible to attain basic needs and desires. Childhood and adolescence are particularly important stages in learning how to relate to others. Weak and/or interrupted attachments during this time can result in unhealthy relationships later in life.

Saturday morning Vivien woke up feeling energized. The near-disaster last night had been avoided and she and Declan had come out unscathed. In spite of being the worst party date ever, he wanted her. Liked her for who she was. And for who she was not. She felt unbelievably lucky.

Now something real could begin. She could already picture it. They would eat lunch together, go out to the movies and restaurants on Friday and Saturday nights. Maybe the Second Shift would become _their_ place—the place where they first got to know one another. They would spend weeknights having lengthy conversations on the phone, talking about nothing, just savoring the simple sound of each other's breath on the other end. He was the spark that lit her from within, that hand that brushed aside the cobwebs that had threatened to replace her very soul. For a split second she contemplated the gravity of this new path, for it had been a long time since she'd permitted herself this simple hope. But a moment was all she would allow. The road of fear had a checkpoint at doubt, looped through disgust, and dead-ended in despair. And she'd been down that road before. Heck, she was living on it.

Leave it to Ramona to sabotage this newfound euphoria.

"I can't find my navy pencil skirt. Did you borrow it?" Her mother stood in her doorway, face set in a deep scowl. In fact, Ramona looked downright evil: unruly hair, bloodshot eyes, clenched jaw.

"And good morning to you, too," Vivien answered in an overly cheerful voice.

Ramona stood, unmoving.

"Or not," she said, taking it down a notch. "I don't have your skirt, Mother. I would never wear that kind of thing." They actually did swap clothes now and then, being the same height, her mother only slightly wider in the hip and chest area.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." She shrugged. "It's just so...career-ish. A little too mature for me, if you know what I mean."

Ramona raised a hand, pinching the bridge of her nose as she let out a long sigh. "I need to be ready by ten."

"Ready for what?"

"I'm going away for the night." Her head remained bowed, but she dropped her hand, letting it fall as if it were made of lead. "With Ricardo."

"Ricardo?" she repeated. "Who's Ricardo?" And what kind of name was that? It sounded like an erotic dancer.

Ramona looked up, her body tense. "Vivien, you've met him on two separate occasions. The charity dinner? At Ambrosia's?"

"Oh. Yeah." The image of a tall, dark man festooned in gold popped into her head. "What happened to Charlie? No—Charles, right?"

"Look, I can't possibly fill you in on all the details of my private life, now can I?"

Vivien balked. What was her problem? "I never said you should." What kid wanted to know that kind of stuff about their parent anyway? "Like I said, I haven't seen your skirt." She attempted to say this dismissively, adding an "is there anything else?" look to seal the deal.

Ramona stared at her, a strange look on her face. "You think I'm some kind of whore, don't you?"

"Mother! _What_?"

"That's right. You think I'm nothing more than an over-the-hill divorcee with loose morals and an even looser—"

"Stop!" she shouted, covering her ears.

"You have no idea how hard it is. I'm tired. I'm just so tired." Ramona's entire body seemed to sag with these words.

Vivien softened. "Mom, I know. I know you've had some bad luck. I'm not judging you." She hesitated, weighing her next words. "It's just...sometimes...I think you make things harder than they have to be."

Ramona cocked her head, eyes narrowed. "Is that so?"

Whoops! She was heading into dangerous territory. But now that she'd begun, she felt a suicidal urge to continue. "Well, yes. I think you do." She swallowed. "You're always dating that type—the type of man who's, you know, just like _him_." She checked to see how her mother was taking this. Ramona looked mildly incensed. She plunged ahead nevertheless. "I've always thought you should pursue—just an idea, here—an entirely different category of men. How about looking for someone who's just a regular guy?" As opposed to an asshole, she wanted to scream. "Someone kind. Down to earth, like—I don't know—a teacher? That would be something new."

Abruptly, Christophe Laval came to mind and she shuddered with revulsion. Cancel that! Christophe and Ramona, on a date? That would be nasty! He was young and...youthful and...not old. Well, he was older than she was, of course, but she and Christophe, they had a connection of sorts. Plus, he was heartbreakingly beautiful. Wait. What had she just been in the middle of saying?

Ramona reminded her. "A teacher." The words came out with revulsion, as if Vivien had just suggested she date a mortician.

"Just a thought," she replied, turning her head away so she could give her eyes a good roll. After a minute she added, "I don't want to see you get hurt again. That's all." Which was the truth.

Ramona sighed, more loudly this time, and took a step into the room. "You don't have to worry. I know how to take care of myself. I've learned my lesson."

Vivien studied her. Ramona looked like damaged goods. Wary, crumpled, her former beauty faded like an old photograph. It made her sad. And more determined than ever not to end up like her.

"I appreciate your concern," Ramona went on, "but I have a plan for the rest of my life, and it does not include some completely average, middle-aged putz whose idea of a good time is spending Friday nights at Applebee's and Saturdays with his ass parked on the sofa drinking Miller Lite. I'd rather shoot myself."

"Mother, please," Vivien said. Ramona always was overly dramatic. "Isn't there some kind of middle ground? You don't have to swap filthy rich for blue collar in one fell swoop."

"Vivien, darling, I hesitate to point this out to you, but you are a mere child and you have no idea what you're talking about. Believe me. I've been out there for a long time and I know exactly what my options are. And they're getting scarcer by the minute. Finding a suitable bachelor in this town is nothing short of impossible."

Vivien gritted her teeth. This conversation was going nowhere. And she resented the fact that her mother assumed she was clueless. She was not a child anymore. "All I'm saying is, you look exhausted. Do you ever sleep? Why don't you take a break from the dating scene for a while? Relax and take some time for yourself."

"Time for myself," Ramona echoed. "I don't even know what that means! That's just a bunch of nonsense I can't deal with right now."

"OK. You win," she said, hopping out of bed and into her bathroom. "Have a fabulous time this weekend and tell Ricardo I say hey." With that, she closed the door firmly in Ramona's face.

"What is it? What's the surprise?" Vivien was smiling, biting her lip to keep from looking overeager.

Christophe suppressed his own smile. "You really want to know? You're sure?"

They were sitting at the kitchen table over coffee, as was now their habit, before tackling the reorganization of his belongings.

"It's just something I picked up the other day. I thought it might interest you."

She took one last swallow. "Well, show it to me and we'll see if you're right."

Pushing himself to his feet, he led the way down the hall and stopped before what she'd previously assumed was a closet door. He placed his hand on the knob and paused dramatically. "This way, mademoiselle."

She stepped inside a very small, very dark room. Christophe shuffled along the wall to the opposite side and parted the curtains. A dim light lit the room and she gave a quick intake of breath. Beneath the window sat a brand-new upright piano.

"It's nowhere near the best," Christophe said quickly, "but I thought perhaps you might take up playing again. If the idea suited you."

She was speechless, the sight of the instrument knocking the wind right out of her. What had he done? She thought she'd been clear on this point; she didn't play anymore. How dare he presume she would start again just because he'd gone and bought a piano? Out of the blue? Without even consulting her? "You didn't...you didn't get this for me, did you?" she said at last.

Christophe was looking at her carefully. "That would be highly presumptuous, wouldn't it? No. In fact, I myself played when I was younger and I've been meaning to get back to it."

His answer gave her some relief. "I didn't know that."

They stood in silence. "So, what do you think?" he said finally. He looked both proud and expectant, like a child awaiting his parents' reaction upon presenting them with an undecipherable work of art.

"Um, I think..." She stalled, resentment giving way to sympathy. Really, it was quite a touching gesture. She found it hard to believe he actually cared that much about her to go and do something so rash and she certainly didn't want to burst his bubble. "I think _you_ should definitely start playing again."

Christophe exhaled, bubble burst. "I see. Yes. Well, I was hoping this was something we might do...together."

She looked at him with uncertainty.

"Soon enough, my house will be in order. What enticement is left to bring you back?" He tilted his head, eyes dancing. Was he being serious?

"I've come to rely on your company," he said, answering her thoughts.

His frankness rendered her speechless once again. While she valued his friendship—quite a great deal, obviously—there was something that nagged at her conscious each and every time she knocked on his door. The more intimate they grew, the more she felt as if, perhaps, something was not quite right. This feeling lay dormant for the most part, but would, now and then, stage an attack, springing out of nowhere like a devious older brother, knocking her off balance and completely upending all the good feelings she gained during these weekly visits.

Vivien frowned slightly, her gaze breaking from his. But, no. How could this be? She was prone to overreacting. How cruel it would be to disappoint him unnecessarily. She'd made the decision to befriend him and now she was simply going to pull back and leave him all alone? She couldn't dare be so selfish. "I suppose I could give it a try," she said. "But I'm not promising anything."

His expression brightened visibly. "Have a seat." He waved his arm toward the bench in a grand gesture. "Why don't you see how it feels?"

She hesitated. "You know I haven't played in years so...this could be scary."

"It's like riding a bike. You never forget."

Still she stood motionless, wishing he would leave her to herself for a few minutes so she could work out the kinks before playing for an audience.

Christophe beckoned her forward. "Come. Try. You have nothing to fear from me. I'm sure to be just as rusty."

She swallowed and took a step, then another, finally edging around the bench and having seat. Long ago, when she'd played at the old house, they'd actually had a designated "music room," complete with a Steinway concert grand piano (only the best would do for Alan Allen's talented little prodigy). Christophe's was a midpriced upright. Yet still daunting, she observed as she gingerly placed her hands on the keyboard. Turning to him, she said in a barely audible voice, "I don't know what to play."

"How about some warm-up scales?" he suggested. Struck by another thought, he spun around and began rummaging through a stack of music books on a nearby table. "Or this?" He set several pages of sheet music on the music rest before her.

She scanned the notes and title and soon a slow smile crept across her lips. "I can't believe it," she said. "This is actually the piece I performed at my first big recital when I was eight years old. 'The Firefly,' by Anton Bilotti. What a weird coincidence!"

Christophe smiled along with her. "Rather fortuitous."

She closed her eyes and listened to the music play in her mind for several minutes. Then she took a deep breath and placed her hands in the proper position. The keys felt cold and smooth and familiar, and her fingertips began the strokes she had once known so well. Before she realized it, they were dancing along the black and white, and somewhere deep inside of her, a door, long ago swollen shut from disuse, blew open with a pop. The music rushed through her body, filling the dusty corridors with a fresh new breath of life.

Floating back in time as the notes crystallized in her memory, the event played itself before her eyes like a favorite old movie. Her parents sat in their seats, first row, smartly dressed, hands folded in their laps. Ashton was next to them. At fourteen he was in a goofy, awkward stage and refused to take anything seriously. Every time she looked at him he gave her a thumbs-up sign and a stupid grin, eyes crossed. The concert hall was part of the university and was a much larger venue than she had ever played before. It felt cold and impersonal.

When it was her turn, she walked across the stage, her black patent leather shoes making crisp clacks across the polished floor. She smiled, curtsied, and seated herself, glancing one last time at her family. Her father's face was hidden behind the video camera. Her mother sat impossibly erect, her legs tightly crossed, top foot bobbing in rapid-fire motion.

Vivien wasn't nervous. She had practiced; she was ready.

The piece went flawlessly. With the fading of the final note, Ashton jumped to his feet and whistled loudly between two fingers. Her parents shone with pride, nodding their heads in all directions, taking credit for this small but noteworthy musician.

It was a feeling she would never forget.

"Impossible!" she heard from far away. She looked up to see Christophe with an ecstatic look on his face. "That was impossibly beautiful."

A hot rush spread across her cheeks and she actually felt a bit lightheaded. She withdrew her hands and laid them in her lap in an attempt to arrest their trembling.

"How am I to follow that?" He came up behind her and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder, one thumb touching the bare skin of her neck. "You should have given me some kind of warning."

Her body tensed with his touch. She kept her eyes straight ahead and tried to keep her pulse under control. He had never touched her before like this. "You're going a little overboard on the compliments, don't you think? It wasn't anything."

He said nothing. After a moment, she felt the warmth of his hand disappear. Turning to look at him, she wondered if she'd been rude. "I mean, it was totally mediocre. I could do much better." She paused. "With practice."

He narrowed his eyes a fraction. "And do you intend to? Practice, that is?"

She twisted her mouth to the side in contemplation. She hadn't allowed herself to reach a decision. "I don't know."

"What don't you know?"

He was always doing that, pushing her when she had no answer. "I don't know if it's such a good idea."

"Why not? Help me understand."

She fidgeted around on the bench. "Because..." She wanted to tell him it was too much, going this direction. With _him_. It made her uncomfortable, and just the slightest bit frightened. But instead all she said was, "I quit."

"But that was years ago. You're a different person now. Sometimes in life, it is important to take stock and revisit things."

But did she really want to "revisit" this? It was no small task to reopen a chapter that had been previously closed. Especially one that had been so...emotionally charged. On the other hand, it was not impossible. She had vowed to be more adventurous. And clearly he desired this from her for some reason or another.

"I suppose," she said, allowing just a hint of possibility. "I'm certainly not going to _perform_ again. It would have to be...you know, a different kind of thing. And I don't want anyone to know."

His eyes shone. "Of course. It will be between you and me. No pressure. Only pleasure." The hand moved once again to her shoulder, this time giving the neck the tiniest of caresses. "I have some very interesting explorations we could make together. And I think you're just the one to do it."

She was confused by this but could not deny that she was pleased by his confidence in her.

"Do you have a piano at home?" he inquired.

"No." She shook her head. "My dad sold it after the divorce."

He nodded as though he'd assumed as much. "What would you think about coming more often then? Maybe twice a week?"

Her hands began to tremble once again.

Christophe had moved off and was once again fussing with the stack of music on the table. "Because I was thinking," he said, turning back to her, "that we could begin working on _this_." He handed her a slender folder and stood hovering while she opened it.

" _Tristan und Isolde_ , 'Prelude,'" she read. "By Richard Wagner. I've never heard of this."

His mouth dropped. "Never heard of it? How can that be?"

She shrugged, slightly embarrassed. "Well, maybe I have. I just forgot."

Christophe grabbed the folder and with remarkable agility maneuvered himself onto the bench. Their thighs touched briefly, and she scooted an inch or so away.

"It's an opera," he explained. "A tale of tragic passion—truly immortal music! Actually it's an old love story dating back to the Middle Ages which has been retold many times over. I believe the first legend appeared around 1150."

He paused and his eyes gradually lost focus. "Imagine a love that cannot be. It is vague and hesitating, overshadowed by the dark cloud of duty, hanging over both lovers. Tristan, a nobleman and knight, serves the man to whom Isolde, the Irish princess, will be married. Their secret love for one another is forbidden. Unwilling to accept this, they share a goblet of poison, unaware that the contents have been switched to a potion of love. Rather than dying, their passion soars to the highest state of ecstasy. But as fate would have it, they are at the mercy of this passion, and inevitably the lovers are caught. Tristan is gravely wounded. He is carried back by ship to his native land, and Isolde soon follows. She holds him in her arms as death takes him. Overcome by grief, she herself passes from this world."

He returned his attention to her. "Naturally there's much more to the story. I have given you the condensed version. We can discuss it in more depth during your future visits."

She let out a slow breath. "Wow. That's so intense! It reminds me of _Romeo_ _and_ _Juliet_ —the forbidden love and the dying together part." And she now recalled how she had discussed this very subject with Declan on the family room sofa.

"Yes, both are tragedies. Quite possibly Shakespeare was influenced by earlier works." His upper arm brushed against hers as he twisted to look her in the eye. "So, tell me Vivien. Are you up for the challenge?"

She held his gaze for as long as she could and then glanced over at the music. It looked complicated for sure. But nothing she couldn't handle. Alongside her anxiety, a strange excitement began to buzz inside of her. He wanted to work on this beautiful story—a love story—with _her_!

How could she possibly say no?

### Twelve

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

_It is said that you can only be in love as much as you_ allow _yourself to be. For in order to be intimate, you must have the courage to be your true self in the company of your mate. Finding love means taking risks! Play it safe and you'll never know what love truly means._

"It's nothing to be nervous about. They're completely normal people."

Vivien was on the phone with Declan late Monday night. He was doing his best to convince her that having dinner with his parents would be fun.

"I know they're _normal_. I'm not worried about that. What if they don't like me?"

"Why? What are you going to do, chew with your mouth open? Fart at the table?"

"Stop! You're horrible! Wouldn't you feel the same meeting my mother for the first time?"

"Lighten up. I'm just trying to get it into your head that it's no big deal."

"What night are you thinking of?"

"Thursday. We can eat and then take off 'cause we'll have the Future Leaders meeting as an excuse. You definitely don't want to get cornered by my dad and one of his long, boring stories. Believe me, he can turn just about anything into a long, boring story."

"Aw. He sounds sweet. OK. Thursday it is."

"I'll pick you up at five."

"Great." She paused, frowning, as the memory of Riley's party flashed through her mind. "Say, have you talked to Nathan lately?"

"Sure, why?"

"Oh." She couldn't do it. The incident was too upsetting. "No reason, really."

"Since when are you interested in Nathan?"

She swallowed. "I'm not. I mean, it's not _him_ I'm interested in. I was just thinking...do you think he really likes Lauren or...?"

"Or what?"

"I'm worried. Lauren's my friend and I'm afraid she might get hurt. I think she's liked Nathan for a long time. She was so excited to be with him on Halloween, you know? I wish I could find out what really happened." She'd meant to say that last part to herself.

Luckily, Declan failed to pick up on it. "To be honest, I don't ask. I try to make it a habit to stay out of Nathan's private life. It's always...uh, complicated."

"Oh." She couldn't hide her disappointment.

"What I'm saying is, in general, I prefer not to know. But I could fish around a little. If it's bothering you that much."

"Really? What would you say? Do guys usually talk about stuff like that?"

"Sure. We talk. Of course, we don't share _everything_ ," he clarified.

"But you would tell each other if you liked someone, right?"

"Mostly."

"Hmmm." She contemplated this. "What's something you _wouldn't_ share?"

"I don't know." He paused. "Let's see...I wouldn't tell my buddies things that you and I discussed in private. Like...personal things."

"That's good. Me neither. Would you tell your friends...if you'd kissed me or not?"

"I suppose. If the subject came up. But not the intimate details of the kiss, of course. And I definitely wouldn't tell them what you looked like naked."

This caused an indignant squeal. "You've never seen me naked!"

"Oh. Right."

"Very funny."

"I thought so," he said, then changed the subject. "Hey, you want a ride to school tomorrow?"

"But it's only a few blocks. And you live in the opposite direction."

"So? I don't mind. I'll pick you up at seven thirty."

" _Seven_ _thirty_?"

"Something wrong with that?"

She liked to arrive extra early, before the halls were crowded and impossible to move through. "I don't like to be late."

"How's that late? Last time I checked, school started at seven thirty-five."

"I usually get there at seven fifteen."

"OK. There's a huge difference between being late and being twenty minutes early. Is the school even open then?"

"Of course it's open! Just be here by seven twenty. Please. No later or I'll start to get anxious. I can't help it."

"Fine. You are an odd one," he said.

"I know," she replied. "See you in the morning."

As she drifted off to sleep that night, all she could think of was Declan. It must be true; her luck had changed for real. But this meant she'd have to be extra careful not to mess things up. No walking under ladders. No black cat sightings. And heaven forbid, no broken mirrors. She'd knock on wood every chance she got—maybe even lock up the salt shaker if that's what it took. "Just let me have this," she whispered out loud. If her God was listening, a little bargaining couldn't hurt. "I promise, I'll do anything. Anything you want."

"Good morning," Declan said cheerfully as she opened the car door. "Am I punctual or what?"

Sliding in, she smiled back, kicking her overstuffed backpack under her feet. "You are."

"Fiona will get you there with plenty of time to spare. So you can do...whatever it is you do before first hour."

"Who's Fiona?"

He patted the dashboard. "My car. It's a long story that involves my great uncle's childhood sweetheart back in Ireland."

"Hmm. I won't ask," she told him. "Anyway, I don't do anything special. I just like to be on time. And I like to have _time_ to be on time, if you know what I mean."

"Not sure I do, but whatever," he replied. "So...I talked to Nathan last night." He gave her a meaningful glance.

"You did? What did he say?"

"He said that Lauren was—and I quote—a shitload of fun on Halloween."

She frowned. "That's it?"

"Pretty much."

She waited a full minute before asking, "So what does that mean, in guy-speak?"

Declan shrugged. "It means they're not seeing each other. Exclusively."

"That's what I was afraid of." This was not good news. She wondered if Lauren knew this already. That she'd just been used. She wanted to shout, "What an _asshole_!" But Declan was his friend. How was it that Nathan was constantly getting away with stuff like this? She fantasized about an angry mob of jilted girls lined up in front of his house, ready to tear him apart if he so much as peered out the window.

Declan eyed her carefully as he pulled into the school parking lot. "Are you gonna say something?"

She looked undecided. "I don't know. Should I?"

"It's not my call. Chances are she knows already. Nathan's pretty transparent."

"That's a creative word for him. I can think of some others."

"Look. I'm sorry. I hope Lauren's not too bummed out."

"What are you sorry for? You didn't do anything. You're nothing like him."

"I'm glad you know that now. Just think, if we hadn't kept running into each other, you'd still be hating me right now. How sad."

She flinched. "Hate is a strong word. I don't think I ever _hated_ you."

"Hey, those were pretty much your words. I know how to read between the lines."

She shrugged, "I must've been really stupid, then." She tried to get him to smile by making a goofy face. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Declan played injured. "I don't know. It really hurt." He pulled into a semi-secluded parking spot and cut the engine.

She was about to reply when Declan leaned toward her, reaching out to fold his fingers around the back of her neck. "But I might get over it. One day." He pulled her to his mouth and their lips parted. Timidly, she darted her tongue inside, tasting his mint toothpaste. Eventually they separated and each took a moment to restore their breathing to its natural rhythm.

"You'd better get going," he said. "You don't like to be late, remember?"

"Honestly I'm having trouble remembering anything at the moment," she admitted. "You're totally distracting."

He looked genuinely pleased by this.

"OK...here it goes." She opened the door and got out, hoisting her backpack over one shoulder. "Aren't you coming?"

"Nah. I've a good five minutes left before I need to go into that tomb of misery. I'm waiting out here."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Suit yourself. See you at lunch?"

He nodded and she hurried across the parking lot to the front doors.

As it turned out, Vivien had been correct in calling Declan a distraction. He was that and more: an interruption of her normal thought processes, a commotion in her brain, a disruption of her focus.

All morning long, her mind snuck off and returned to their kiss. To his incredible eyes that could change from soft to smoldering in an instant. To his smell, a thing she'd spent a good deal of time trying to classify: it began with a cavernous and earthy top note, like soggy moss on a forest floor, then a synthetic and spicy middle note, like imitation leather and a plate of Caribbean food, and finally a bottom note of freesia, thanks to Mrs. Mieres' selection of fabric softener.

Her class subjects had no chance competing with him. Her catatonic state appeared to irritate her creative writing teacher to the point where he felt compelled to say, "Miss Allen! Do you have someplace else you need to be at this time?" She lowered her eyes, shaking her head in embarrassment. Declan was not going to be good for her GPA.

At eleven twenty-five she rushed to her locker to grab her lunch and was about to take off for the cafeteria when Miranda and Lauren intercepted her.

"There you are!" Miranda said, as if she had been hunting her down for weeks. "I was looking for you this morning but you weren't at your locker." She waited, tapping her foot impatiently.

"I was late," Vivien replied, eyes darting repeatedly in the direction of the cafeteria. She wanted to keep moving. Lunch was only forty minutes long. She wanted to spend every second of it with Declan.

Miranda wasn't buying it. "You're never late."

"What's with the grand inquisition?" she snapped. "I'm in a hurry." She took a few steps away from her friends.

Lauren was watching her with an inscrutable expression, causing her to wonder if Lauren knew she'd seen what went on in that bedroom. Fighting the urge to pull her aside and find out the details, she continued to back away. "I have to meet someone in the cafeteria," she explained. "I'll catch you guys later?" She turned away just in time to see her friends exchange a shrewd look.

She and Declan sat together at a table far off in the corner. She chose to sit with her back to the chaos of the noisy room. Plus she didn't want to risk any eye contact with Miranda. Her constant meddling was getting on her nerves.

Normally the paltry scraps in her brown bag lunch would have been a source of grumbling. But today she wasn't even hungry. The mere act of looking at Declan was enough to fill her body with energy. In fact, she found it rather difficult to restrain herself from reaching out and touching him at every opportunity.

Their chatter was lighthearted, a bit mindless, but this was of no consequence. They were together.

"So, are your friends going to give you a hard time for ditching them?" She tipped her head in the direction of the lacrosse players.

"Are yours?"

"Most definitely. Miranda already tried to corner me at my locker."

"She seems kinda nosey."

"Oh, she is."

"Girls. You all love to gossip."

"That's such a sexist comment. I thought you knew better."

He laughed. "I just wanted to see how you'd react. I had you pegged for a feminist the moment I first saw you." On a more serious note, he added, "Truth is, there're plenty of guys who do it, too."

"There are?"

"Sure." He shrugged. "I'm not one of them, though."

"Yeah. Sometimes people do it specifically to be mean. To hurt someone. It's pathetic, really." She glanced over at her friend. "Miranda's not mean. She just loves to talk. She loves to know what's going on at all times. Being left out is the very worst thing for her." Despite her annoyance with Miranda lately, she found herself making excuses for her. No matter what, she was still a close friend.

The conversation meandered, and somehow they got on the subject of their favorite breed of dog. Her family had never owned a dog, but she knew when she was living on her own, she was going to have a German shepherd. Everything about the breed appealed to her: the perky, pointed ears, the expressive brown eyes, the short (no mess) fur, and the superior intelligence. The German shepherd was a true watch dog, not some fluffy mop of a dog. Like Lauren's. Sparky, Lauren's Lhasa Apso mix, was constantly worming his way underfoot and then yelping when stepped on. He also had giant puke-colored eye goobers that dripped down his face and smelled—so gross!

Declan was in agreement that large-breed dogs were better. "It's good to know you're not the kind of chick who wants a dog for her purse. Those miniature things that tremble? And get carted around in those queer little outfits? The worst! In fact, I'm pretty sure they're not dogs at all."

"Ugh! You actually thought I'd be into that? What kind of girl do you think I am?"

He chuckled. "We've got a chocolate Lab," he told her. "She's an old lady now; she's ten. Guess what her name is?"

"Brownie?"

"Close. Cocoa. Original, huh? Patrick got to name her—he'd just broken his collarbone falling off his bike, so my parents were in the process of spoiling him rotten."

"What would you have picked?"

"Cleopatra," he said, straight-faced. "Cleo for short, of course."

"How'd you come up with that?"

"She was very queen-like, even as a puppy. If you tried to get her to fetch when she wasn't in the mood, she had this _look_. Killer."

"Well, now you can use that name for your next dog. I like it." She smiled at him.

The bell rang for fourth period and they both sighed simultaneously, then laughed.

"The guys and I are going to the Y after school to work out, so I won't be able to take you home," he told her.

"That's OK. It's really not necessary for you to drive me to and from school every day."

He grabbed her hand as they began to head out. "I know it's not _necessary_ ; I want to do it. I like you in my car. You make it much prettier than it normally is."

They kept walking, hand in hand, until they reached the foot of the stairs. "I'm going this way," he said. Suddenly his expression changed and he flicked his chin in a sideways direction. "Incoming," he warned as he backed onto the first step. "I'll talk to you later."

She nodded and followed his gaze. Pushing her way toward her at an alarming speed was Miranda. It seemed unlikely Vivien could make any kind of escape.

"Vivs! Wait up!" Miranda fell in stride alongside her, breathless. "And how was _lu-un_ - _ch_?"

"Fine."

"So you guys are really a thing, huh?"

She contemplated being a "thing" with Declan. "Yep."

"Wow!" Miranda exploded. "I am _soooo_ happy for you. This is like, your first _real_ boyfriend!"

Did she have to say that out loud? "I know."

"I heard he took you to a _college_ party on Halloween. What was _that_ like?"

She saw her classroom door up ahead. "Um. It was fun." She tried to break away. "I can't get into it right now. I'll call you...?"

Miranda looked crushed.

"I promise."

With an exaggerated pout, Miranda agreed and headed off to class.

Settling down into her seat, Vivien took a deep breath. This was French. Her favorite class. With her favorite teacher. She'd better try harder to pay attention.

Christophe sat at his desk. He was wearing light blue—one of his best colors, she decided. In addition, he wore a tie today, making him look extra sharp.

Midway through class, an announcement interrupted the discussion of Victor Hugo's "Demain des l'aube." The head principal, Mr. Willis, cleared his throat several times before beginning his hazardous weather alert: If the students would calmly look out their classroom windows, they would see that it had begun to snow. Dramatic pause. This meant that extreme caution was to be used at the end of sixth hour, when the majority of students would be exiting the parking lot. Second dramatic pause, followed by a short cough. Reckless behaviors would not be tolerated, and it would behoove the student body to remember that driving was a privilege and not a right. Third dramatic pause. Scuffling and muffled voices. Chronic offenders, he went on to say, would be subject to _rigorous_ consequences.

She rolled her eyes. It seemed that Mr. Willis was incapable of making an announcement without the use of his two favorite words: chronic and rigorous. Students at Eastbrook were routinely accused of being _chronically_ tardy or _chronically_ disrespectful—apparently all negative behaviors fell under the label of chronic. Just about everything else (with the exception of the students, of course) was _rigorous_ : the teaching staff, the class subjects, the homework, the athletic program—she had once even heard him refer to the building itself as rigorous.

Snow? Really? It was only November. As an afterthought she glanced down at her choice of footwear: ballet flats, no socks. Now she truly was disappointed Declan wouldn't be available to give her a ride home. Suddenly her thoughts shifted to Lauren, who drove to school every day in her brand-new Range Rover HSE—one of the many gifts she'd received for her sixteenth birthday over the summer. An excellent idea. She would text Lauren, asking for a ride. As a double bonus, this would be the perfect chance to talk in private.

M. Laval was doing his best to return the students' attention to the front of the room. "Pardon me, but I find it impossible to believe you've never seen snow before. Shall we finish this up before the bell rings?"

While she was packing up after class, Christophe caught her eye and motioned for her to come see him on the way out. When she arrived at his desk, he was balanced on one foot as he bent down to retrieve something from his briefcase. "For you. A copy of the opera," he explained, sliding a folder in her direction. "I was hoping you might read it before your next visit."

"Oh. Of course. Good idea." As she reached for the folder, his fingers grazed hers in what she was sure was a deliberate gesture.

"It's not long," he told her. "You'll enjoy it, I'm sure."

"Thanks." Tucking the folder under her arm, she glanced at the clock over the door, calculating how much time she had left to spare. "Actually, I wanted to—" As her gaze dropped, she caught sight of a familiar figure passing by. He stopped and took an exaggerated step backward, and before she knew it, Declan was strolling into the classroom, a pressing look on his face.

"Hey, I was just looking for you, but I didn't know what class you had." His eyes darted from Vivien to M. Laval and back to Vivien. He paused, then said in explanation, "It's snowing."

She opened her mouth to reply, but had all at once lost the ability to speak, the words sticking in the back of her throat like a wad of cotton balls.

"And," he went on, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "I know I told you before I couldn't drive you home. But then I was thinking about you and that wimpy thing you call a jacket, and with the snow and all, I felt bad." He paused, his gaze again flickering between student and teacher. "I want to take you home. The guys can wait."

As Declan spoke, she became increasingly aware of the folder tucked under her arm. It seemed to take on a new meaning altogether, like evidence in a trial, evidence that would not come out in her favor. And she had the sudden impulse to get rid of it, or least hide it from Declan's view. She was certain he was going to ask what is was and then she'd have no alternative but to explain its contents.

"No," she said, turning her head and directing her response to Christophe rather than the person who'd actually made the offer. "You're being silly. I don't need a ride."

Christophe, in turn, was studying the pair with a curious expression, as if, behind his eyes, a frenetic sort of calculation was going on. She could almost hear the whizzing, ticking, and sputtering as random thoughts were reorganized into one ultimate conclusion. Upon reaching this conclusion, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"What are you talking about?" Declan said, his voice too loud for Vivien's ears. "You're going to walk home in a blizzard?"

Her heart was pounding. She so badly wanted to step back, to remove herself physically from the discomfort of this awkward trio. And yet, her legs felt unbelievably heavy, her feet fused to the floor, and she was forced to stay and endure each passing second in increasing agony. Outside it was indeed snowing. So hard she could see nothing but white. Perhaps it was her imagination but she thought she heard thunder as well. Turning to Declan she said, "I'd hardly call this a blizzard."

He cocked his head in confusion, a frown passing across his face.

A second rumble of thunder rolled through the building, causing her to reach out and grasp the edge of Christophe's desk in order to steady herself, for now she was feeling quite ill. "Anyway," she went on, her voice thin and breathless, "I don't have to walk after all. Lauren's taking me."

The bell rang for fifth hour, slightly off key, as if wanting to impart its own jarring voice to the discomfort of the moment. The three figures stood on, unmoving, valiant competitors in a merciless game of chicken.

"Well, then," Christophe said at last, a bright almost manic look claimed his eyes. "It seems everything's all set now, doesn't it? You'd best be on your way,...?"

"Declan," Declan answered.

"Day- _clahn_ ," Christophe repeated, converting his name into French. "You're late."

Declan regarded him carefully, his jaw muscles jumping. "No. I'm a peer counselor this hour. No one takes attendance."

Christophe merely glared.

"Well... _I_ should get going," Vivien said, attempting to slip the folder between her books and binder as she spoke, but her hands trembled so that she nearly dropped it. Several times. Hidden at last, she forced a smile, saying, "You know Ms. Goldberg. She totally flips out when people are late."

With reluctance, Declan broke off the stare-down and reached for her hand possessively. "I'll walk you."

"Great! OK! Great!" With his steadfast grasp on her fingers, she felt free at last to move. As they passed through the door, she glanced back briefly and tried to smile, but M. Laval turned coldly away, giving her nothing in return.

Several minutes of silence went by before Declan posed the question she knew was coming: " _That's_ your French teacher? What's up with the guy? He seems...I don't know...different."

"Yes," she replied, looking straight ahead, walking at a brisk pace. She felt an enormous sense of relief at getting out of there and wanted nothing more than to forget the whole incident altogether.

But Declan kept on. "Is he, like, really French or something?"

"Yes."

A minute passed before he said, "That explains it."

She slowed, glancing sideways. "Explains what?"

"Why he comes off like a huge A-hole."

The remark made her flinch, but she said nothing in reply.

They walked a few more paces before he set in again. "What's the crutch all about?"

She inhaled a calming breath. "An accident. He told me his car was hit head-on when the oncoming driver fell asleep." She paused, then added, "It's horrible, really."

Declan digested this information. He frowned. "Told _you_?"

She glanced at him quickly. "The class. He told the class."

They walked on in silence. "All right. Sorry...I guess it's just...I don't like the French."

She now came to a full stop. "Wait. You're telling me you dislike _all_ French people?"

He stood his ground. "I have to say I do."

"That makes no sense. For what reason?"

"I think they've got a chip on their shoulders, after being thoroughly humiliated by the Germans in World War II. _And_ I don't like their accent."

She blinked. "You're serious."

"Completely."

She turned away and resumed her quick pace. "Crap! I'm going to be so late!"

He caught up with her, grasping her arm and twisting her to face him. "Vivien. Who cares? One tardy mark's hardly going to screw up your spotless attendance record."

He was right. Why was she acting this way? She let out a long sigh and relaxed into his grip. "Maybe I am overreacting."

Declan studied her carefully. "What's going on with you? You're acting all weird."

She looked away. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"And you don't need a ride? You're going with Lauren?"

"Yes. I asked her on purpose. You know, so we could talk."

He nodded, disappointment visible on his face. "I guess you don't need me, then."

She took his hand in hers. "Declan..." She smiled and lightly traced his knuckles with her finger. "Thanks. It was sweet of you to come looking for me. You...you totally surprised me."

He grinned back at her. "Anytime. Like I said, I like you in my car. Way better than those fools I drive around all day."

She pulled away. "I really have to go now. I'll talk to you later?"

"Sure." He raised his arm and gave her a mock salute before he turned and headed in the opposite direction.

The remainder of the day passed quickly. It was a struggle for the teachers to hold the students' attention as they seemed unusually keyed up by the weather.

After seventh hour, Vivien grabbed her books from her locker and hurried down to the first floor to meet Lauren. She caught sight of her by the main entrance, talking to Nathan. Slowing her pace, she watched, attempting to read Lauren's facial expressions in order to decipher the mood of the conversation. Lauren wasn't doing her usual giggle/hair flip/chest-out move. This must mean they were having a more serious discussion.

A wide array of posters lined the walls of the front lobby and she read them as she meandered along, killing time. She noticed that the next performance by the theater guild was going to be _West Side Story_. Maybe she and Declan could go see it. Wasn't the plot just a modern version of _Romeo and Juliet_? Passion and romance. The perfect date.

Eyeing the entrance again, she saw Lauren was alone now. She went to join her, pretending as if she'd just arrived.

Outside, the snow was still flying in a horizontal direction. All around them students were whooping, running and sliding, flinging snowballs at one another. Some of the cars were already spinning their tires and several horns blared as the train of vehicles crept toward the exit.

Lauren's Range Rover was parked at the far end of the parking lot. By the time they reached the car, Vivien's feet were soaking wet and bright pink.

"I hate winter," Lauren announced as she cranked up the heat.

"Normally I kind of like it, but I'm not ready for snow just yet," she said.

Creeping along behind the train of cars, Lauren began fiddling with the radio, while Vivien tried to think of a way to broach the topic of Riley's party.

"I'm so starving right now," Lauren said. "Do you mind if we visit the drive-thru? I've been craving a chicken snack wrap and a smoothie since first hour."

"Sure. Actually, that sounds good." Now that she thought about it, she realized she'd been so caught up with Declan she'd barely eaten all day.

Losing patience with the radio, Lauren popped in a Taylor Swift CD. "Love Story" began to play. The luxury car had an excellent sound system. The lyrics seemed to reach out and touch Vivien personally, so much so that she lost track of her previous thoughts and sat motionless, experiencing the emotions of the song as they floated through the air.

"She writes the best songs," Lauren said when it was over. "I think that one's my all-time favorite. I'm a sucker for romance. A guy down on one knee for me and I'm there. So totally awesome!" She giggled.

An uneasy mix of feelings came over Vivien. What girl didn't want her very own Romeo? But was Nathan the best choice here? Seriously! The idea that he was going to treat Lauren any differently than he treated all the other girls would almost be funny if Vivien hadn't seen firsthand his trick for getting girls into bed with him.

Before long, the Range Rover was pulling up to the oversized menu board. As Lauren lowered the window, a puff of air blew a miniature blizzard inside the car. The girls shrieked and giggled.

"Good afternoon," the speaker buzzed. "Would you like to try our new quarter-pound, one hundred percent Angus beef burger today?"

"No, thanks," Lauren replied. She placed their order and pulled up to the next window to pay. "This is on me," she told Vivien.

"Wait. I've got money," she said, digging through her backpack.

Lauren ignored her and paid for the food herself. "Don't worry about it." She swerved over to the right and pulled into a parking space. "Do you mind if we stop here? I don't like to eat while I'm trying to drive. Snow makes me nervous."

"No. This is good."

As they unwrapped their food and got comfortable, she decided this was probably the best opportunity she'd have to get to the bottom of everything. "So...um, you and Nathan...are you guys actually...?" Stupidly, she couldn't figure out how to finish the question.

Lauren stopped chewing.

She tried again. "We haven't had the chance to talk, and I've been thinking about you and Nathan. You know, wondering how things are going."

"Mmm, mmm-hmmn," Lauren replied, her lips puckered over the straw of her smoothie. "Things are going great."

"They are?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Why? Well...because—"

"Did you hear something?"

"No, no. I didn't hear anything. I just—"

"Vivs, I have to tell you something. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. OK?"

Vivien began to have second thoughts. "Oh, um...are you sure you want to tell me? I mean, if it's like super-personal, then..." But Lauren's urgent expression got to her. "Yeah, OK. I promise."

Lauren crumpled her wrapper and dropped it in the empty bag. She took another long sip before she twisted to face Vivien. "So, at the Halloween party? Last Friday...?"

"Uh huh?"

Abruptly Lauren hid her face behind her hands. "Ughhh! I had way too much to drink! That frickin' red punch...I couldn't even taste the booze and then all of a sudden the whole house was spinning. And Nathan. He was soooo funny and nice to me. And damn! So hot! He wanted to go upstairs. So I did." Lauren stopped and looked out the window.

Vivien waited. "And?"

"And...I'm not, like, one hundred percent sure. I remember feeling so happy he'd asked me out that night. I was on cloud nine. I can't even explain how awesome it was."

"Right, but upstairs...what happened when you went upstairs?"

"I don't know." Lauren closed her eyes. "I _do_ know that I puked all over the bed. So uncool."

How could she _not_ know? "Lauren. You're telling me you have no idea what happened before that? _Before_ you puked, that is."

"Well, we fooled around. That's what we went up there for, duh."

Vivien put the rest of her sandwich away, uneaten.

"I have never felt so horrible in my entire life!" Lauren went on. "I puked all night. I don't even remember being driven home. I don't remember going into my house, my room. When I woke up I literally thought I was dying." She gave Vivien a solemn look. "For real!"

"What did your parents say?"

"They didn't say anything." Lauren laughed. "I don't even think they noticed. You know them; they give me a lot of space. So I stayed in my room all day. I told them I was tired and I was doing homework and stuff."

Vivien knew what this was like, having a parent who "gave you a lot of space." This was just a nice way of saying they were too self-absorbed to give a crap. "Wow," she said quietly.

"I am _so_ never drinking that shit again," Lauren vowed.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then she said, "So...I don't understand. You're OK with this? With what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you don't even know what you...if you went farther than...is this what you really wanted?"

Lauren looked away and shrugged. "Nathan was really sweet—"

" _Sweet_?" she nearly shouted.

Lauren looked stunned by her outburst. "He called me right away, the next day—to see how I was feeling and everything. He told me he had a really good time. He said he'd definitely hang out with me when my parents go out of town."

She felt the urge to grab her friend by the shoulders and shake the sense back into her. "You're still inviting him over? Have you given this any thought whatsoever?"

Lauren frowned. "What are you getting so mad about? I thought you'd be happy for me."

Taking a deep breath, she tried again. "I'm not mad, Lauren. But I don't know if I'm happy, either. Are you _sure_ he really likes you? I mean, how do you know he's not just interested in...messing around? Especially now that he's managed..." She couldn't say it. She couldn't tell Lauren what she'd seen with her own eyes.

"That's not how it is!" Lauren shot back. "I know it! And anyway, I want to be with him when I'm not totally wasted. I want to remember it all."

She sat dumbfounded. Was this the same Lauren she'd known since elementary school? The one who loved dressing up American Girl dolls, who would spend countless hours playing Monopoly? (Despite Lauren's angelic personality, she'd been the ruthless one, the cutthroat business tycoon who never lost.) Admittedly, Lauren had always been a little boy crazy. And a whole lot more adventurous in that department than Vivien. But no one deserved to be treated this way.

"Listen," she began, "as your friend, I feel like I have to say this to you."

Lauren crossed her arms and put on a pouty face.

"I think you and I both know what kind of guy Nathan is. Come on, has he ever had a girlfriend for more than a week? And I don't know how you can be so sure he likes you, based on what you've told me. I think he might just be using you. Seriously! You have to at least consider that possibility before you go and invite him over to your house for...for more of the same." She paused and gave her a hard look. "Don't you think you're worth it? You don't have to lower yourself down to his level."

Lauren seemed to contemplate her words. Finally she said, "I just can't help the way I feel. I've liked him for so long, and now I have him. Who knows? Maybe he'll be different with me. People change." She pulled her straw out and began chewing it absentmindedly. After a few more minutes she added, "I think about him all the time, Vivs. You have no idea what it's like."

She opened her mouth to protest; she most certainly did know what it was like. But Lauren wasn't finished. "I would do anything for him. _Anything_. So..." Her eyes became suddenly moist and she sniffled a couple of times. "I can't _not_ be with him. I'm just going to have to see what happens."

With this grandiose declaration, she appeared to pull herself together and she leaned over and gave Vivien a tender hug. "But what about _you_? I'm _dying_ to hear all about Declan Mieres. He is a _god_!"

Vivien gave her an awkward smile. After all that, she wasn't exactly in the mood to discuss her relationship with Declan. It was as though that pig Nathan had tainted the atmosphere and now it was dirty. She and Declan certainly didn't belong in such filth.

"Is he a good kisser?" Lauren asked. "I heard he totally was."

"What? Who told you that?"

"Oh, I don't know. It was a while ago."

"What time is it?" she said suddenly. "I have to be home by four thirty." It was just a small lie, the only way she could think of to get out this conversation.

Lauren glanced at the clock. "It's four twenty-five. You're sure you have to go? You haven't told me anything yet."

"I haven't?" She tried to look disappointed. "Sorry. I have a ton of homework, plus a bunch of stuff to do for my mom."

Lauren started the car. "Fine. But you're not excused. I want details."

"Right."

"And Vivs, like I said, could you keep this just between us? I mean, it's so embarrassing."

Which thing, she wanted to ask, the puking or the drunken unconscious sex? "Sure," she said.

It was just beginning to dawn on her that she was keeping secrets of her own.

### Thirteen

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

According to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, human beings date and mate on the basis of what they get out of it. We are constantly asking ourselves, how will this relationship meet my needs? Those who grew up in an unsupportive home environment will look for a more nurturing partner, while those from loving homes will seek out a mate who provides opportunity for growth. It may seem a rather self-serving theory, but our survival relies upon it. Only when lower-level needs are satisfied can we then move on toward the goal of realizing our personal potential!

What he was doing there, she didn't know. But he most definitely was hanging around on purpose, hands tucked casually in the front pockets of his jeans as he slouched his rear end directly against her locker.

She hesitated. He hadn't seen her yet. Could she turn around and leave without stopping? No, she needed her algebra II textbook. There was a quiz on linear systems tomorrow. With a deep breath, she advanced. "You mind moving? I need to get in there."

He said nothing, just scooched one locker over and gave her a cool look. Eyes averted, she spun the combination to her lock, sensing his invasive stare throughout the entire process. Finally she couldn't take it anymore. "Um, is there something I can do for you, Nathan?"

"Why, yes," he replied, as if whatever this was had been her idea all along. "You're seeing my man Declan now, am I right?"

She nodded hesitantly, instantly suspicious of where this was going.

"So don't you think it'd be a good idea if we got to know each other better? I mean, I don't know about you, but I kinda got the impression we started off on the wrong foot."

"I really have no idea what you're talking about," she said as she grabbed the mammoth book and dropped it into her backpack with a thud. She pulled her leather jacket off the hook, slammed the locker closed, and turned to face him at last. And what a sight: cocky and smug. It was impossible to look at him without seeing Lauren's watery eyes, her shoulders slumped in desperation. She could barely hide her disgust.

Nathan's phone jingled. He retrieved it from his back pocket and scanned a few texts before blessing her once again with his undivided attention. "I'm talking about how you don't seem to like me much."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" she replied. It wasn't true; she didn't dislike him. She utterly loathed him. Nathan was simply a younger version of her father. A soon-to-be good-for-nothing sleaze ball husband. And with this foresight, something uncharacteristically hostile and venomous rose up from inside. The meek and humble Vivien stepped aside to make room for the righteous one, the one who had no problem putting Nathan Dorsette in his proper place.

Nathan shrugged, rubbed his neck as if he was under great strain, then nestled his hands back into his pockets. "It's just this vibe I get whenever I'm around you."

"And you care because...?"

"Because, _Vivs_ , I wanna be your friend."

"Look." She sighed. "I'm not sure what this is all about, but I'm kinda in a hurry. I'm supposed to be somewhere right now."

"And where is that?"

"It's really no concern of yours." She'd stayed up extra late last night reading _Tristan und Isolde_. The story had captivated her right from the start. And now, despite her previous hesitations, she felt the old excitement she used to feel when she was working on a piece she loved.

Nathan held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "No need to get testy. I know sometimes people get the wrong idea about me 'cause I tend to joke around a lot and shit."

She couldn't decide if he was sincere or not. "Whatever. I guess we can, since you happen to be seeing one of _my_ best friends. I heard you're going over to her house."

He raised an eyebrow. "Whose house?"

"Lauren's!"

"Oh. Right."

What the heck? What was with this guy? She felt like kicking him square in the nuts. "Yeah. It looked like you guys were way more than friends the other night at Riley's," she blurted. "All over each other, if you know what I mean."

He ran his fingers through his blonde hair, flicked his chin, and gave her a self-satisfied smirk. But his smile faded as he studied her face.

She narrowed her eyes. "Yeah... _all_ over each other. Especially you. I have to say I was quite surprised. Shocked even." She hadn't meant to go in this direction, but once she'd started, she couldn't help herself.

Now his smile vanished completely and he gave her a hard stare before looking down at his feet. "Sure. We had fun. Riley always throws a kick-ass party," he replied.

"Fun, right. That's what you're calling it."

His head popped up again and he frowned.

She smiled innocently. "So...if we're finished being friends, I gotta get going. Glad we had a chance to clear things up."

When Christophe opened the door to her, he looked different. The usual spark was missing.

She tried to pretend it was nothing all through the coffee and small talk, but at last she couldn't stand it any longer. "Christophe, is something wrong? It seems like you're somewhere else today."

"It's nothing," he said, his lips closing softly on a cigarette. He didn't light it. Just sat and stared vacantly out the window. At last he turned to her. "I'm afraid this is not going to work."

"I'm sorry, what?"

He reached for his lighter, holding it to the tip with a slight tremor in his hand. After a deep exhale, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arm out the length of the table, dangling the cigarette between two fingers. "You can't come here anymore."

She felt her pulse slow, stop, then restart in double time. "I don't understand."

"It's for the best."

What was he talking about? A feeling of panic overcame her, which was crazy because _she_ had been the one having doubts. The idea to end it had been hers. But now that he'd come up with it first, she felt blindsided, her pride wounded. Quickly, her mind raced through possible explanations. "What, because of yesterday?" she said. "Declan and I...we just happened. I meant to tell you..."

He broke into smooth laughter, shaking his head repeatedly. "Vivien. That has nothing to do with it." His expression turned solemn. "What you do on your own time is no concern of mine."

She felt her entire body heat up. "Oh...I just meant...I don't know why I thought...Geez, I feel really stupid right now."

Christophe took a deep drag and studied her some more. There was a curious twinkle in his eye. "Don't," he said. "But I must admit, I was surprised. You seemed less than interested in him that day in the courtyard."

"I know. I wasn't. But—"

"Precisely when did you succumb to his devastating charms?"

She hesitated, detecting what she thought was a trace of sarcasm. But maybe he was just speaking formally, as he tended to do. "We kept running into each other," she told him. "It was raining. I actually didn't want to get in." She stopped, the memory so sharp in her mind: the smell of the car, her wet clothing stuck to her skin, Declan's eyes in the rearview mirror, watching her so carefully. "I guess the more I saw of him, the more I realized he wasn't so bad after all," she finished.

"Sounds like love at first sight."

There it was again, the mockery. "No, of course it wasn't. It was—it turned out—he wasn't who I thought he was. It's all new to me," she added after a moment, ducking her head, skirting his gaze. "I've actually never had a boyfriend before."

He stubbed out the end of the cigarette and regarded her with care. "Allow me to offer some advice."

She waited while he appeared to be searching for the right words.

"Be careful. I happen to have several kids from that crowd in my morning class, and I know what they do when they're not in school."

"It's not like that," she said quickly. "And anyway, I'm not a child. I know what I'm doing." She wracked her brain to try to back this up. "We've already been to a party together. A Halloween party. On campus." She placed a particular emphasis on this last detail.

Christophe frowned. "So this is where he's leading you? College parties?"

The way he said it made her feel instantly ashamed. "No, no." She picked up her spoon and tried to look busy stirring her coffee. Then she looked up at him. "Honestly? I had a terrible time," she admitted with a nervous laugh.

Christophe nodded and withdrew another cigarette. "You don't fit in with his crowd," he said, tapping the cigarette as he spoke. It stung to hear him say it, even though she'd known this well enough beforehand. "People don't change, Vivien. You of all people should know this." His look was sad. "I'm afraid you're heading for a world of hurt."

She stared at him, open-mouthed. Why would he say such a thing?

He left her to draw her own conclusions before he said, "You haven't told him you come here."

This statement stopped her cold, yanking her from present doubts, tossing her head first into deeper ones. She frowned and could manage no response but a simple shake of her head.

He said nothing for a long time. "Sub rosa," he finally murmured.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sub rosa—under the rose. A phrase used to represent confidentiality—secrecy, if you will." He grabbed the crutch, pushing himself to his feet. "You and I," he explained, "we fall under this definition, don't we?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned his back. "How perfect. I think you shall be my Rose from now on. What do you think?" He let out a lengthy sigh, as if their discussion had zapped all of his strength. "Come and see, _Rose_...see what we've gotten ourselves into." And with that, he loped out of the room.

She sat still as stone for several minutes. The feeling that the conversation had somehow changed things gnawed away at her. They had crossed a line. A line she'd sensed was there, but had chosen to ignore. Now she struggled to grasp what exactly were the ramifications. Unfortunately, she hadn't the time to spare for he was calling for her, once again, and without thinking she rose to her feet and went to him.

Due to her previous state of anxiety, Vivien had failed to notice the construction project going on in the living room. As she entered, Christophe was waiting for her with a childlike grin on his face.

Reflexively, she smiled back. "What's all this?"

"I took your suggestion and am building a display case for my collection." He tapped his crutch against the row of crates. "I can't bear having them all boxed up like this."

She stepped closer and examined the progress thus far. "Do you actually know how to build stuff?"

He picked up a corner piece and waved it at her. "I'll have you know I won first prize in woodworking in my scouting group—Les Eclaireurs de France. My birdhouse was the envy of all."

"You were a Boy Scout?" She grinned.

"Do you have something against the scouting tradition? Scouting, as I see you are unaware, presents our youth with opportunities to acquire essential skills: learning by doing, teamwork, surviving in extreme weather, and much more."

"You sound like a brochure."

"I feel compelled to enlighten you."

"Are you being serious?"

"Scout's honor," he pledged, holding up three fingers.

She pursed her lips. "So you can build this thing all by yourself?"

He set the wood aside and dusted his hand against his pant leg. "That's the plan."

"Well. Cool."

A long silence ensued. She stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. Was she supposed to leave now? He'd only just finished telling her she couldn't come here anymore. But she had this feeling that things remained unfinished between the two of them.

"You know, it's not fair; you never told me about your family, like why you don't speak to them anymore. You promised you would," she reminded him.

Christophe arched a brow. "Is that so?"

"Yes," she insisted. "You said it was a story for another time, or something like that. Don't you remember?"

"Well, I'm certainly not one to make empty promises."

She waited. "But I can't possibly tell you," he said at last.

Her jaw dropped.

"On an empty stomach," he finished. "Let's order dinner first."

He picked his way over to the coffee table, which now appeared more cluttered than ever. Fumbling beneath the rubble, he miraculously retrieved his cell phone and punched in the number while mouthing, "Got it memorized now."

If possible, she was even more baffled than before. Were they going to dine together, one last time, and then say their farewells? His behavior continued to confused her, and yet she felt compelled to stay. For better or worse she would stick this night out until some sort of resolution took place.

Decision made, she returned to the kitchen to clear away the coffee cups and set the table. She hummed softly as she worked, wondering what sort of story he would share with her. She assumed it would be one similar to her own, in which the joy and innocence of childhood had fallen prey to your typical parental shortcomings. Depending on style, this often went from one extreme to another: overbearing, rigid, and critical to apathetic, lax, and distant.

Christophe took his time. They were midway through the meal before he stopped, withdrew a fresh pack of cigarettes, and assumed a relaxed pose as he blew dual streams of smoke from his nostrils. He watched her eat with an amused expression on his face.

She chewed self-consciously, maneuvering her chopsticks more ineptly than ever, and wiped her mouth with her napkin after every bite. At last she gave up and pushed her plate to the center of the table.

"Growing up, I sensed something was off from the very beginning," he began. "My parents were old for having a child my age. My father was a hard man with an abusive personality. He'd beat my sister and me at the slightest provocation. Discipline ruled the house." Christophe tapped his ash into a neat pile between the pale green wasabi and a mound of flesh-colored ginger. "His preferred method was the leather belt. He was sneaky, ambushing me when I was in the bath—the lashes stung more on wet skin," he explained.

She covered her mouth. "How awful!"

"One day he caught me taking money from his wallet. He waited until I was sleeping, snuck into my room, and smashed my face with a two-by-four." He pointed to his left eyebrow. "Twenty-four stitches and a broken nose."

"Oh! Did you call the police?"

He shook his head slowly. "Family issues were a private affair."

"Even so, that's—"

"He seemed to have a special grievance against my sister," he continued, ignoring her interruption. "More than once I overheard him calling her names: whore, Jezebel...things I didn't understand at the time. I couldn't comprehend why she'd let him say those things to her, why she never fought back. But ultimately she put an end to it. She moved out and took me with her—she was quite a bit older than I, you see—and we went as far away as possible, putting a good three hundred kilometers between us and our parents."

She wanted to reach out and touch him, to physically seal the bond she felt toward him at this very moment. Without a doubt, her childhood woes paled in comparison, but as he spoke she felt a shared disappointment in human nature. In the end, her timidity prevented her from doing anything more than leaning far over the table in an effort to close the gap. "Geez," she said. "I can see why you left. For a child to go through that..." She shook her head as words failed her.

A slow smile crept across his lips. "I haven't finished yet," he told her.

Her eyes grew wider.

"My sister married a few short months after we left. Before I knew it, she had a family of her own—two girls, my nieces. Her husband, Bertrand, tried to include me. Took us camping and hiking all over the place. He was an avid adventurer, always outdoors. I came to love it as well, but I just couldn't love...him. Any of them. I felt like a constant outsider. I began to wonder if there was something wrong with me."

Abruptly he stood, pushed himself away from the table, and staggered to the kitchen counter, where he froze, head bowed, his back to her. "My sister, Nicole, laid into me relentlessly: Why couldn't I try harder? Why was I acting so selfishly, after all she'd done for me? And I believed her. I was bad. Ungrateful. These thoughts haunted me over the years and I felt more alone than ever."

He spun around, his face a vision of anguish. But slowly the pain appeared to recede, to be replaced by a determined look of ice-cold hatred. "Then I found it," he said quietly. "When I was eighteen, I found several photographs hidden in one of her books, an old copy of Vladimir Nabokov's _Lolita_ , if you can stand the irony." He shot a devilish grin in her direction, but Vivien only frowned in bewilderment. She was not familiar with that particular story.

Christophe continued, "Yes, there she was, her belly round and swollen, her face that of a mere child. I held the photo for a long time, trying to figure out who this girl was. In that brief moment, I swear I passed through all five stages of grief. Acceptance was the final stage; there was no place else to go. What I'd known all along, the sense that something was off—in this, it turns out, I was not mistaken." He looked at her with satisfaction as he nodded repeatedly.

She waited for him to go on, but he appeared to have finished. "I don't understand," she said finally. "Who was the girl in the picture?"

Slowly he made his way back to the table and collapsed into his chair as if this was the only and final act he was capable of. His chin dropped to his chest, the weight of his head clearly too much for him. He raised his gaze and sought her out. His beautiful gray eyes darkened like clouds before a storm. "My sister," he told her. Then he closed his eyes and she observed the muscles along his jaw clench, relax, and clench again. "My mother."

She sat unmoving, her body taut. She didn't understand. What was he saying? After a moment, she pieced it together. "Wait. Your sister was...was...?"

Christophe opened his eyes and nodded once. The intensity had faded and they now appeared fogged over, unfocused.

"What did you do?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I did nothing." He shrugged. "What could I do? The damage had already been done."

"But you must have been—I mean, how could you just accept that? You must have been furious."

"No," he replied. "More than anything, I felt...empty. I felt nothing. I was finished with them. And so I left."

"You never said anything?" she demanded. "But it was inexcusable, what she did. She lied to you for all those years! Don't you think she owed you an explanation?"

"Yes." He let loose his devilish smile again. "It was all a big lie, you're quite right. All that I thought myself to be, I was not. And this was terrible, yes, it was. But it was also wonderful." Suddenly he reached out and grabbed her wrist. "I was free," he said, trembling with excitement. "I was finally free."

She tried to share his enthusiasm but was left feeling nothing but confusion. She smiled weakly and glanced down at his hold on her. She was desperate to understand, to show him how much of a connection she felt to him on a deep and meaningful level. "You were free because you left, because you got away, right?"

Her comment seemed to snap him out of his euphoria, and he looked momentarily lost. Then he released her and dropped his arm heavily to his side. "I knew the truth," he said slowly. "I knew what I was."

Feeling like she was still somehow missing something, she sighed and put on a sympathetic face. "But look at you. You're a success all on your own. You don't need them." She gave a soft snort and added, "Who needs them?" as her thoughts shifted to herself.

Christophe reached for his water glass but appeared to change his mind, rising quickly to his feet. "The occasion calls for something with a little more kick, I believe."

She watched as he uncorked a bottle of red wine and removed two large wine glasses from the cupboard. He poured both half full and brought one to the table, placing it in front of her. He then retrieved his own and stood before her. Raising his glass, he said, "I propose a toast."

She froze, caught between her desire to impress him and her inexperience with any sort of alcohol. Nodding, she lifted her glass in imitation.

"To living your own life," Christophe stated. "That's the gist of it, in the end." He took a healthy sip, keeping his eyes locked on hers the entire time.

Following his lead, she too took a sip, swallowed, and shivered.

"What do you think?" he said.

She replaced the glass on the table with decisiveness. "You're absolutely right. That _is_ what it's all about. Keeping people out, not allowing them to get to you." She was pleased they shared the same outlook on life.

But her response produced a curt chuckle. "No. I meant, what do you think of the wine?" He brought his glass close to his face and swirled the contents several times. "This is a vin de Bourgogne, from the Côte de Nuits region. Of course, it is a village wine and no _grand cru_ , but it is one of my favorites."

She had no idea what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, I don't drink much wine."

"Ah. Then I believe this is the perfect selection from which to start."

She took another sip; this time it tasted better.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" she replied.

Reaching out, he coaxed her gently to her feet by the elbow. "Our voyage into the world of Wagner," he explained.

She frowned in confusion. Dinner and now this? One minute he was dismissing her, the next he was baring his soul. It was nearly impossible for her to keep up.

"Bring that along." He nodded toward the wine. "We shall imbibe as we work."

And once again she found herself trailing along behind him, wondering what exactly was going to happen next.

His talent was unexpected. She stood to the side of the piano bench, holding the slender stem of the wine glass in an awkward grip, and listened carefully as Christophe introduced "The Vorspiel"—the prelude to _Tristan und Isolde_. He played with confidence, his style bold and aggressive. She watched in awe as his broad hands traveled the keys. The music filled her head, dulling the earlier sense of unease that had gnawed at her.

Closing her eyes, she focused on the moment. Her body hummed and buzzed, an effect of Wagner or the wine, she couldn't say.

At length, his voice broke the spell. "The prelude is the musical introduction to the philosophical issues of the opera," she heard him say. "It begins quietly with a descending chromatic phrase paired with a rising four-note phrase. In the third measure of the prelude, these two intersect and you have the famous Tristan chord. This chord contains two dissonances—Wagner used dissonance throughout, and this essentially marked the beginning of modern music—which serves to double the desire for resolution in the audience. The listener is in a constant state of tension, as are the lovers, until the very end when they are released. By death."

"Wow," was all she could say.

Christophe slid over and patted the bench. "Come. Let's give it a try."

She obeyed and settled down next to him, the warmth of his body sending an electrical current through her as his forearm brushed hers.

"Now, you must remember that the psychological states of the characters are preeminent in this work. German romanticism placed a great emphasis on the inner dream world, where there was a particular attraction to the themes of night and death. To the state of ecstasy."

She nodded, trying to recall the characters she'd read about the night before.

As if reading her mind, he prompted, "This is, in essence, the love story of two individuals for whom the everlasting realization of their love is unattainable—in this world." He brought his lips close to her ear and whispered, "Think of a story where the longing is without end. It becomes unbearable."

She held her breath and placed her hands on the keys, trying hard to overcome the feeling of lightheadedness. She wanted to get it right. She did not want to disappoint him.

In the end, she managed to play quite well. The music spoke to her, coaxed her on so that midway through she was no longer holding back. Letting go, she took risks and the decision paid off, culminating in a strong first performance.

When she'd finished, she rested her hands in her lap and waited for him to say something. She waited a long time, twisting finally to analyze his face.

Hastily he rose, maneuvering around the bench to stand behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed ever so slightly. "That was simply breathtaking, Rose. Once again I am speechless."

She dipped her head timidly at this new pet name and the over-the-top praise. "Really?"

Christophe reached down and lifted her right hand from her lap. Gently he ran his thumb up and down her slender fingers as if he were a sightless man attempting to discover her identity. She remained still, barely breathing, her heart thumping away rapidly in her chest.

"Now I'm sure we're doing the right thing. Bringing music back into your life. For you to give up on it forever would be a true crime. Your hands are like magic." He let her hand fall back and stepped away from her. "It's getting late. You should go. I'll call you a cab."

She stood and turned to him. "That's not necessary. I can walk."

"It's not safe," he replied.

"No. It's fine. Really."

At the door, she wiggled into her leather jacket and slung her backpack over one shoulder, all the while feeling as though she was moving along in a dream state. It was difficult to process everything that had happened between the two of them. After all this, she was to never come here again? It made no sense.

"It's all right," he said, reading the confusion on her face. "I want you...I would _like_ you," he corrected, "to come back. I'll figure something out."

She was at once both relieved and frightened. "Maybe we shouldn't. I don't...want to cause problems for you."

He waved off her apprehension with a flick of his hand. "I'll take care of it. Just leave everything to me."

### Fourteen

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

It's important to be able to recognize trouble or danger when actively dating. Violence is all too common in adolescent relationships. Be on the lookout for these red flags: 1) extreme neediness; 2) bullying or passive aggression to get his/her way; 3) consistent attempts to isolate you from friends and family; 4) flirting with others while in your presence; 5) deliberately disrespecting your choices, especially your prerogative to say no!!!

"It's not safe." These words echoed in her mind as she hurried down the sidewalk. But it was, wasn't it? She was accustomed to walking alone. She tucked her chin into her collar as the chill wind whipped around her and whistled past her ears.

The neighborhood was pitch-black in between the evenly spaced streetlights, and not a soul appeared to be out. As she approached the corner, she noticed yet another missing-cat sign, this time advertising a yellow tabby named Sunshine. People shouldn't let their pets run wild, she thought irritably, imagining their soft furry bodies flattened by the early morning traffic.

Two blocks down from the high school, she crossed the street and headed south. A single car passed, then another. Soon a frail-looking elderly woman scurried past, walking an equally frail-looking dog decked out in a sweater.

With these signs of life, her apprehension eased and she began to replay the evening in her mind. It had been a rollercoaster ride of emotions and even now she was not sure how she felt about it. Christophe had a way of getting inside her head. Even when her ideas were set, he managed to flip things around so that soon enough she was second-guessing herself. Was this good or bad? Of course, he was older and far more experienced. Maybe he could see what was best for her when she, herself, could not.

All at once, a jarring voice broke the solitude of the night and stopped her cold.

"Yo! Vivs!"

Her head spun around, seeking out the source, and her heart sank as she recognized Nathan's shaggy blond mane hanging out the window of his red Saab 9000.

The car veered to her side of the street and rolled to a stop. Nathan lowered the volume on the rap music that had every window in the car vibrating. "Well, well," he said slowly, deliberately. "What do we have here? Isn't it kinda late to be out walking all by your lonesome?"

She stared at him, her mind a sudden blank.

Nathan's face broke into a manic grin. "You headin' home? I'll give you a lift."

A vague feeling of apprehension crept over her. "No, thanks."

"Hey now," he pressed. "We're friends, remember? I don't bite."

"I'd rather not," she answered, taking one step forward. "So feel free to just continue on your way to...wherever it was you were going."

Nathan let that sit a moment. "Right," he said at last. "The funny thing is, I was on my way to my good buddy Thomas's when I saw you come out of that house back there. And the dude in the doorway, he looked familiar." He pretended to think for a minute. "I was like, I've seen that dude before. And then it hit me. Yeah. It was what's-his-name—that new French teacher. The one that's making all the girls' panties wet. Am I right?"

She didn't answer.

"So I gotta tell ya, my curiosity got the best of me," he went on, "and I thought to myself, I'll just swing by and ask her. Ask her what she was doing there. For such a _long_ _time_."

She stood motionless, her mind churning frantically. "Have you been following me?" she said at last.

He shrugged and looked away. "How 'bout that ride? You look cold. You're shivering."

She looked down at her hands, and sure enough, they were trembling, but it had nothing to do with the cold. What was he getting at? Indecision froze her to the spot. Yet she knew. She wasn't stupid. "Go to hell!" she wanted to scream, but instead she found herself walking haltingly toward his car, her jaw set in thinly concealed fury. Against her better judgment, she circled around, opened the passenger door, and got in.

Nathan pulled away from the curb with a jerk as he shifted gears rapidly. The music was on low, but she could make out the obscene lyrics as they sped off down the street.

After a minute or so, Nathan glanced over and gave her a sick smile. "So tell me, do you personally visit all your teachers in their private residences?" he asked. "Or just the good-looking ones?"

She glared at him. "What's your problem? You're not even making any sense."

"Then why don't you clear things up for me? 'Cause as it stands right now, I'm pretty sure you're not gonna like what I'm thinking."

She twisted in her seat. "Where do you get off saying such crazy stuff about me? You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"It doesn't take much to get the wrong idea," he told her matter-of-factly. "You're a hottie. He's young, single. You do the math."

"For your information, I was over there working on my French." She bit the inside of her bottom lip and spun away from him. "What else would I be doing?" She tried to regain control of her breathing. "I'm doing extra credit and he offered to lend me some materials."

Nathan waited, letting the lie sit there out in the open. "How convenient."

"It's totally none of your business anyway."

He shook his head and chuckled. "Maybe you shouldn't have started something you can't finish."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you started this...this...business of saying 'crazy stuff.' I'm just making my move in your little game."

She let out a cry of indignation. "Game?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "I know what I saw that night."

"Really? Then why don't you just come right out and say it."

"You're not making me say anything," she shot back. "I don't answer to you."

"Have it your way." Nathan took the approaching corner at high speed, throwing her back against the door. She glanced out the window and saw that they were nowhere near her apartment.

"Slow down," she shouted. "What are you doing? You said you were taking me home."

"That's right. We're just taking a different route. I wanted to give us the opportunity to talk." He shot her a quick look. "But since you're not in the mood for sharing, I'll just ask Declan about your visits to Frenchie's house. I'm sure he'll be much more cooperative."

She chewed her lip again. "Go ahead. Like he cares."

Nathan turned and studied her. "You're lying. Declan doesn't know what you're up to. In fact, he told me the other day that he thinks Frenchie's a real dick."

She could think of no reply to this.

"Look," he said, "it's really quite simple. I'll keep my mouth shut if you do the same."

"What, are you, like, blackmailing me or something?"

"I wouldn't call it that. Everybody has secrets. I'm just agreeing to keep yours, since that's what friends do."

"You are a despicable human being. And I am not your friend."

"But I believe it's in your interest to have me as a friend," he told her. "You wouldn't like me as an enemy."

She sighed in frustration. "I can't believe we're actually having this conversation."

He reached over and patted her knee as if she were a mere child. "It's just that I don't want you going around spreading nasty rumors about me. Rumors that just aren't true."

She tried to scoot out of his reach.

"Lauren's into me," he told her. "She had a good time on Halloween. Ask her yourself."

"I did."

"And?"

"And..." She shook her head. "You got her all drunk. She doesn't even remember what she did. Correction: what _you_ did."

His response came low and trembling, "You're wrong. That's _not_ how it was."

She dropped her head in her hands. "Just take me home now."

He stared at her without speaking. Then his look of malice faded to be replaced by a gracious smile. "Of course." He reached over and raised the volume on the music. The drumbeats vibrated their seats and Nathan began bobbing along. They were in front of her apartment building within minutes. "There you are. So glad I could be of service."

She scowled at him, and grabbed her backpack.

"Take it easy with Frenchie," he warned as she stumbled out of the car.

The conversation ended wordlessly by means of a slammed door followed by squealing tires.

When she got to her room, she checked her phone. There were two missed calls from Declan. She set the phone on her desk and collapsed onto her bed. She desperately needed to catch her breath, gather her thoughts.

What had just happened? She couldn't believe Nathan had actually followed her to Christophe's. Was he really that desperate? That devious? He certainly appeared quite pleased to have her backed into a corner like this.

And how had she let him? What did he truly have over her? He couldn't have seen anything unseemly, just her standing at the door. Could he have? Would he have stooped so low as to go peeping in the windows? What if he had watched the two of them in there? Having dinner? Drinking wine?

She rolled over and moaned. Oh, how she hated Nathan, how his sick twisted mind had turned her afternoon with Christophe into some kind of indecent tryst. He was so wrong.

Her cell rang and startled her upright with a jolt. After several rings, she reached for it.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where've you been?" Declan said. She thought she could hear a slight edge to his voice.

"Nowhere really. Just running around. Doing homework. And stuff." She wandered over to the window and looked out.

"Hmm." Pause. "I left you a message."

"Yeah, I just noticed that. As a matter of fact." A blue pickup truck was parked on the far side of the street directly below her window. The interior light was on and she could make out a figure sitting in the driver's seat, the outline of his face turned up toward her window. As she leaned forward for a better look, the light went out.

Another pause. "Are you OK? You sound..." He let this observation trail off into silence.

"What? I'm fine," she insisted, closing her blinds with a frown. "I'm good."

"Well, we're all set for Thursday," he replied, changing the subject. "My parents seemed really into it. They said they were looking forward to meeting you."

It took her a moment to remember what he was talking about. When she finally did, her stomach lurched. "Oh. Are you sure? They're not too busy?"

"Too busy to eat? I don't think so. Why? You're not still nervous are you?"

"No," she answered, then changed her mind. "Maybe."

"Don't be."

"I know. I shouldn't." She lay back on her bed and sighed. "I just want them to like me."

"They will. What's not to like?"

She closed her eyes to consider the question but decided it had been posed rhetorically and a thorough dissection of her character wasn't called for at the moment.

"Hey, you still there?"

"Yes," she said, "Sorry. I'm just tired."

Silence. "I'll let you go then."

"OK. I'll see you tomorrow."

That night she had a dream:

"Fucking Spics," her father was saying.

" _Alan_ ," Ramona admonished, glancing around nervously at the other tables.

"Hey. I'm just telling it like it is," he replied. "I never said I wasn't going to defend the bastard; he'll have his day in court. I just can't stand 'em. They're overrunning the country, you know. Crawling underfoot like a bunch of cockroaches."

Ashton stood abruptly, his arm inadvertently tumbling a tall water glass into the bread basket. "You're a real piece of work, Dad." He slung his electric guitar over his shoulder and hopped on his bike, riding off over the plush red carpet.

"Stop driving him away," Ramona said through her teeth, surveying once more the adjacent tables and smiling stiffly.

"Don't ever marry a Spic," her father continued, ignoring his wife's comment. He gave Vivien a hard stare. "They're a good-for-nothing, lazy people."

Immediately she began to worry about Declan. He was only half Cuban. Did that qualify as a _Spic_? She hoped her father wouldn't notice. His approval was important to her.

Alan raised his arm, signaling the waitress. She hurried over to their table. He reached around and grabbed her generous behind, giving it a good squeeze. "Bring us some more wine, Toots," he told her. "And none of this Chilean piss water. I want your best. Bring me a Chateau du Masson, Bordeaux Rose—2007."

"Excellent choice," Christophe said, causing Vivien's head to spin. When had he arrived? she wondered.

"You're a fine man," Alan directed at him.

Christophe nodded and removed a pair of handcuffs from his briefcase. "I would like to ask for your daughter's hand," he announced to the table.

Alan let out a loud guffaw. "Take her, by all means. Who do I make the check out to?" The joke sent him into soundless spasms of laughter.

She looked with concern at her father, then her mother. Ramona simply shrugged and removed her lipstick from her purse. She drew a clown-like red circle around her lips, then began singing softly to herself.

Christophe reached for her hands and carefully secured them in the cuffs. "Only the best for my girl. I just found these: August Schwarz, 1930s, Germany."

An irritating itch began in the small of her back and Vivien lifted her hands off the table. The cuffs were surprisingly heavy and her arms fell back, the metal causing a startling clatter against her plate.

"Shhhh," Ramona hissed. "People are looking at us."

The young waitress arrived with the wine. She held the bottle in front of Alan for inspection. He pushed her away. "Not now, doll. Bring that up to our room for later." He winked, retrieved a hotel key card from his wallet, and slipped it into her pocket.

From the back of the room, a song started up. Vivien strained her eyes to see a handsome young man dressed in a tuxedo seated at the piano. He leaned back and turned to her. "This one's for you, babe."

She frowned. "Declan, I didn't know you played."

"I changed for you," he replied. "Who needs lacrosse?"

She began to weep. He'd thrown away his future for her. "No. Don't do this." The music suddenly turned ugly. She wanted to go to him. She looked down at her hands. "I'm all tangled up, Declan. I can't break free."

He gave her a wistful smile. "The more you fight, the tighter the grip."

She tried to stop struggling, but the weight of the cuffs was dragging her down onto the floor.

Just then, Ashton passed by on his bike. He turned, lifting his hands from the handlebars to give her a double thumbs down. "Listen!" he said. "You're not listening."

Ahead, the blood red carpet dropped away like the edge of a steep cliff. "Ashton, watch out!" she screamed. But it was too late; over he went.

The seated guests turned, one and all, her guilt etched in their faces. "Now look what you've done," they said in unison.

She awoke with a start. She glanced around the room with suspicion, her breath coming unevenly. From the shelves against the wall, multiple pairs of glowing eyes stared back at her. Retreating back beneath the covers she mumbled, "Time again to bag up the dolls."

### Fifteen

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Long-term relationships are special relationships where a "we" is created. This means, in essence, that the couple is intimately and profoundly connected in an exclusive way. Above all, the individuals involved do not share such a bond with any other person. This type of relationship does not just happen! A successful relationship requires hard work!

On Thursday at five o'clock sharp, the battered white Volvo pulled up to Vivien's apartment building and Declan hopped out, opening her door in a perfectly gentlemanly fashion. They were going to have dinner with his parents.

She hurried across the sidewalk, pulling her leather jacket up over her head to protect her hair. The skies above were releasing a cold, persistent drizzle. The snow was gone. It had lasted only twenty-four hours before the ground melted it away. And then the rain had arrived. Five solid days of overcast skies were making the whole town bad-tempered and irritable.

Declan closed the door behind her and dashed around to the driver's side. "I can't take this weather anymore," he said as they pulled away from the curb.

"Oh, I know."

"I definitely prefer snow to this. At least you can _do_ stuff in snow." He gestured out the window. "This just sucks." His arm dropped onto the seat and waited for her. She watched as her own inched sideways to meet his, as if his body had its own gravitational pull.

"Do you ski?" she asked him, her mind on snow.

"Hell, yeah! I love it. My family's been going out East since I was a baby. My brothers are all awesome skiers."

"Where do you go?"

"The White Mountains. New Hampshire. There's a ton of great ski resorts there." He glanced over at her. "How about you?"

"What, ski? I thought I told you: I'm not athletically gifted. I would break something for sure."

"Have some faith in yourself," he told her. "You're always selling yourself short. I could teach you to ski, no problem. Give me a week."

She shook her head. "No way. You radically underestimate my spazziness. I assure you, I cannot learn to ski. Besides having no hand-eye coordination, I'm afraid of heights. And of going fast," she added. "So how exactly would I get up—not to mention back down—the mountain?"

"You wouldn't ride a chair lift?" he chuckled.

"Are you kidding? I just saw a story on the news last week where this chair lift broke—it actually fell off the cable—and everybody plunged to the ground." She gave him a look as if that explained it all.

"OK. That, like, never happens, Vivien. It was a freak accident. You're far more likely to get hurt crossing the street. Or walking around alone at night." He gave her a significant look.

"Whatever. So, what have you told your parents about me?" She was starting to get nervous again at the thought of meeting them.

"Not that much. I told them you were a junior at Eastbrook. That you lived with your mom. That you were hot..." He turned to grin at her.

"You didn't," she said.

"What's the problem? It's true. Anyway, I already told you not to worry. My parents aren't intimidating people."

"Hmm." Dropping the subject, she occupied herself by looking out the window as they passed the striking entrance to East Bluff Estates.

Immediately the lawn acreage doubled. Enormous houses peered out at them, secreted away behind dense masses of evergreens and imposing wrought iron fences. Being an older development, multitudes of mature trees graced every yard alongside perfectly manicured shrubs and flower gardens. Here was significant wealth, she surmised. If the homes weren't enough to tip you off, the cars parked in every driveway were: Mercedes, BMWs, Jaguars, Lexuses, you name it.

Declan slowed and turned left into a wide, circular driveway. She eyed the house with awe. Before her stood a traditional-style rose brick home, only triple in size. Elegant sets of French windows framed by long black shutters distinguished the front face. The left side boasted a three-and-a-half car garage in addition to a full-sized basketball court.

" _This_ is your house?" she said, turning to him.

"It is," he replied, trying not to smile at her reaction.

"Why didn't you tell me you lived...in a mansion?"

"What difference does it make? And I wouldn't call it a mansion."

"It makes a huge difference! I would have...I would have worn better clothes," she told him, looking down at her jeans with the frayed hems and her (formerly) white Converse.

"What are you talking about? Nobody cares what you wear. My family's not like that."

"Now I'm super-nervous," she said, slumping down in her seat. She would always associate wealth with her father and she could never truly define how she felt about him.

"Don't be. Come on." They walked hand in hand up to the front door. As they stepped inside, Declan called out, "We're here!" He tossed his car keys on an ornate, highly polished cherry wood table in the entryway and motioned for her to follow.

"Hey there, girl, I've got a new friend for you," he said as a rotund chocolate Lab waddled over to greet them. Declan bent down and rubbed her gray chin, then gave her a couple of firm pats on the rear end.

"This is Cocoa?" she guessed. She leaned forward and held her hand out to the dog. Cocoa came toward her, ignored the hand, and went directly to the crotch for a few quick sniffs. That done, she ambled off down the hallway.

"Not too shy about getting to know people." Declan smiled. "She goes right for the essentials."

Vivien turned away, hiding her face.

"I bet my mom's in the kitchen. Come on," he said.

They passed below an elegant curved staircase and down a hallway lined with photographs of exquisitely colored flowers. "My mom's projects," Declan explained as they went. "She's an amateur photographer in her free time. But I think she's pretty good."

She nodded in agreement.

"Each flower represents a different kind of love," he said. "Like, here, the red rose. An obvious one, right? But then you've got carnations, white lilies...and these." He stopped, tapping his finger on a photograph of orange blossoms. "Orange blossoms are meant to symbolize undying love because, unlike a rose, they don't wither away."

"Hmm." She cocked her head. "You're very knowledgeable on this subject."

An uncharacteristic look of self-consciousness passed across his face and he turned away. "At least, that's what my mom explains to everyone. I wouldn't know, really."

As they neared the kitchen, a mouthwatering smell wafted toward them. "Mmmmm," she said.

Declan smiled. "Hey, Mom," he said as they entered. An attractive strawberry blonde turned from the sink to greet them, wiping her hands on an apron. She was petite, with fair, freckled skin and light eyes. Vivien recognized the origin of Declan's soft, warm smile.

"It's so nice to meet you, Vivien," his mother said, clasping both hands in her own. "How wonderful that you could join us for dinner."

"Thanks for inviting me," she replied. "Whatever it is you're making smells incredible."

Mrs. Mieres smiled again. "Declan tells me you've never had Cuban food, so I thought I'd introduce you to a traditional meal of roast pork with fried green plantains and yucca."

"Hope you don't mind garlic," Declan kidded.

Vivien shrugged. "I suppose if you're eating it too, then I won't be the only one with garlic breath, right?"

"Precisely," Mrs. Mieres agreed. "Go and say hello to your father now. He's watching a game in the family room."

Declan swiped a roll from the counter and nodded. Shoving half into his mouth, he signaled for Vivien to follow.

"Dinner will be ready in forty-five minutes," Mrs. Mieres called after them as they made their way to greet the man of the house.

As informed, they found Declan's father in the family room, sprawled out on a large leather sofa, eating peanuts and watching Notre Dame well on its way to losing to the University of Southern Cal.

" _Come on!_ " he bellowed at the TV. "Where's the pass rush? You can't let those girls move the ball like that."

"Dad," Declan interrupted. "I want you to meet Vivien Allen."

Mr. Mieres wore a sheepish look as he leapt to his feet, peanut shells shooting in all directions. "Excuse me, kids. I didn't see you there." He gripped her hand in a firm shake. "Pleasure to meet you, Vivien." He then cast a somber look at Declan. "The Irish have absolutely no defense. I just don't understand it."

"You recorded this?" Declan asked.

"I didn't get a chance to give it my proper attention with your brother here last weekend," Mr. Mieres explained. "There were some plays I wanted to study more closely." He looked over at Vivien. "You like football?"

"I don't mind it," she told him.

Mr. Mieres grinned at his son. "She doesn't _mind_ it. You've got your work cut out for you there."

Declan shrugged. "Mom said dinner's in forty-five minutes. More like forty now. I'm going to show Vivien the rest of the house." Gently he veered her toward the door. Mr. Mieres appeared to have already forgotten about them as he resumed his berating of the Notre Dame players.

"I take it your dad's fond of football," she said once they were a safe distance away.

"Yeah. You could say that. You could even go so far as to say he's dedicated every fall of his entire life to the Fighting Irish."

"Was he disappointed you chose lacrosse over football?"

"Not at all. He actually told all of us that football was out of the question. It's his job; he's a neurosurgeon and he thinks football is way too dangerous. Too many concussions."

"Oh. Wow. He's a surgeon? Which hospital?"

"The university."

"Are you interested in medicine too, then?"

"My dad says it's nothing like it used to be, with the health insurance nightmare that's going on. I don't know, though. It really appeals to me. As a surgeon, people are counting on you. And you have the skills to change their lives and really make a difference. That's incredible, don't you think?"

She nodded hesitantly. Incredible, but scary. What if you messed up?

They had reached the front staircase again. Declan paused. "You want to see the upstairs?"

"Sure."

It took her an extra few minutes to ascend as she paused to study the display of family photos lining the wall. "Is this you?" She grinned and pointed to a picture of a chubby toddler dressed in nothing but a Batman mask and matching underpants.

Declan backed down to look. "Yeah, I was into Batman. I think I thought I actually _was_ Batman. At least for a year or two."

She squeezed his arm. "Adorable! Look at your pudgy tummy."

He broke free and started back up the stairs. "That's enough."

She laughed and moved on to linger over rows of school pictures. "Look at you here," she said, pointing. "What's this, middle school?" Declan shrugged. " _So_ not fair! You never even had an awkward phase. Don't tell me you never wore braces." She caught up to him at the landing and reached for his arm again.

"Nope. No braces. Did you?"

She nodded. "A year and a half. It wasn't _that_ bad, I guess."

The walls of the upstairs hallway were filled with sports photos of the four brothers. She noticed how healthy and athletic they all appeared. A stunning photo of Declan, flanked by Thomas and Nathan, stopped her in her tracks. It appeared to have been taken just after a game and the three were glowing. Declan looked incredible, amazingly fit and vibrant. His dark eyes shone.

She faced him, putting her hands on her hips, and declared, "How is it that every girl in town is not stalking you?"

He grinned, a dimple materializing on the left side, and left the question unanswered. A moment later Vivien found herself in his room.

"Here's where it all happens," he joked, dropping backward onto his bed. He placed his hands casually behind his head and stared at her.

"What?" she said.

"Have at it. Snoop. See what you can discover."

"I don't snoop," she replied. All the same, she was already circling, making mental notes about the books on his shelves, his CD collection, the posters on the walls.

Declan watched with amusement. "What do you think?" he said finally.

"You knew I was coming. You had time to prepare."

He sat up. "I guess I did attempt to make my bed and hide the dirty laundry in the closet. But that's all. You think I'm hiding something? My giant stash of porn, maybe?"

"No!" A fiery blush shot across her cheeks. She looked away. "Why do you do that to me?"

"Do what?" Smiling, he patted the bed next to him. "Come here. Sit with me."

She complied and eased back into his arms. "Won't your parents be mad that we're alone in your room?"

"Nah, they're otherwise occupied at the moment."

"Well, you were right. They seem nice. It's funny, now that I've met them, I can see them in you."

"Really? Like what?"

"You have your mom's smile, for sure. But you're almost an exact replica of your dad. You both stand the same way and do the same gestures when you talk. And you've got the same wave to your hair. Same skin color, too."

"Wow," he said. "You're way more observant than I am. I'll have to see what you got from your mom one of these days."

She thought about this. She knew it wasn't right, but she didn't really want the two of them to meet. She wasn't sure what her mom would say to him, but she was fairly certain that Ramona would find some way to embarrass her.

"Are you hungry?" Declan asked.

"Yeah. I'm excited to try real Cuban cuisine. It really does smell amazing."

"Good." Suddenly he slipped out from beneath her and hopped over to close the door. "Sorry, but I have to tell you that all day long I've been thinking about your lips. And now that your lips are actually here on my bed, I don't think I can wait any longer." He lay back down and Vivien rolled sideways to meet him.

"Just what is it about my lips that has you is such a state?"

"Everything. It's all good. Why don't you let me have them for a few minutes? I think they could be the perfect appetizer for our meal."

She smiled back, closed her eyes, and waited.

The dinner was excellent. Vivien was a little unsure about the yucca, but it turned out to be her favorite part of the meal. Declan was right about the garlic, however. She could smell it every time she took a breath and she was sorry she didn't have a spare toothbrush in her purse.

Mr. and Mrs. Mieres were easy to talk to. She was pretty sure that Declan had told them about Ashton because they carefully steered clear of asking too many questions about her family. Their stories of Declan's childhood exploits thoroughly entertained her. As it turned out, being responsible was something he'd had to grow into. His younger days were filled with numerous questionable schemes in which he was always able to convince the neighborhood boys to become willing participants.

The most notorious of these was a race from the top of the hill to his house. Declan and his co-conspirator decided that speed could be significantly increased if they first greased their bicycle tires before zooming down the hill. Needless to say, this turned out to be a very bad idea. Declan's young neighbor lost control, effectively putting an end to the race by slamming his face into the curb. He suffered a serious concussion and a fractured rib and was out of school for over a month.

"What a naughty boy you were!" Vivien said.

"I wasn't naughty. I was a _creative_ child who could think outside the box. Isn't that every parent's dream?"

His parents exchanged dubious glances. "I think it comes down to the fact that by the time we had you, darling, we were too worn out to keep you under close supervision," Mrs. Mieres said. "Raising four boys has just about put me in my grave several times over." She stood and pointed to her face as proof. "See what you and your brothers have done to me? Look at all the worry lines."

Declan shook his head. "I don't see anything."

Mrs. Mieres smiled to herself as she began clearing the dishes. "Well, at the very least, you did manage to learn proper manners during your stay here."

Vivien rose to her feet. "Please, Declan and I can do that, Mrs. Mieres. You've done all the work so far."

"I don't mind. It's old habit. Why don't the two of you go off to yourselves? Have some fun."

"Don't tell them that, Momma," Mr. Mieres said, leaning back in his chair. "They may take it literally." He gave Declan a serious look. "You may be the only kid left and we may be tired, but we still have rules in this house."

"Dad," Declan groaned. " _Please._ We're leaving soon anyway." He took her hand and pulled her away from the table as if he could not get out of there fast enough. They wandered into the living room where they both collapsed onto the sofa.

She groaned and patted her stomach. "I'm so stuffed! Look at this. My jeans are gonna explode."

"You're crazy. You look great, as usual."

She gave him a suspicious look. "I hope one day I look like crap and you actually tell me I look like crap. Then I'll know you've been telling me the truth all along."

He looked hurt. "Obviously you're incapable of seeing yourself as I do. You don't know how hard it is for me to be around you without..." He looked away.

She'd been half kidding, but now she saw that Declan was not. "I don't know what you mean."

"I know you don't." He stared at her for a while. "Anyway, I always tell the truth. Don't you?"

She gave a half nod and looked away.

"Hey," Declan said, changing the subject, "did you happen to notice we've got a piano?"

"That's nice."

"That's _nice_?"

She turned back to him, confused. "What?"

"I was just saying, there's a piano...conveniently located right over there." He pointed to the far end of the living room. "And I thought maybe you could play me something. It'd be cool to hear you play."

Why had this possibility not occurred to her? Hadn't Declan already told her Patrick played? Why wouldn't they own a piano? Now here she was being asked a very innocent request: he wanted to hear her play.

But she couldn't do it. At least, not here. In front of him. In front of his parents. That chapter in her life had been closed for a very good reason. She had a gift she no longer felt like giving. Simple as that. Thanks to her parents, her talent had been twisted into a sort of lethal weapon they chose to use against each other. As a child, she'd overheard one too many arguments, all unfolding in the same fashion.

"How can you be so _selfish_?" her mother would say. "Our daughter needs you now more than ever. Are you or are you not aware that she has four competition dates booked in the next six months? Who's going to pay for all that? The private instruction, the airfare, the hotels, the clothes?"

"Oh, I see your point there, Ramona. In actual fact, it's not me you need, just my bank account."

"Nice, Alan, but this isn't about you. Why can't you see how much it means to her when you come to her concerts? Every time she asks, 'Will Daddy be there?' And you rarely are, some ready excuse just waiting. Do you keep a list of those handy?"

"You will not bait me this time. Hell, the kids are right upstairs!"

"As if you care! You think they don't know what kind of father you are? Oh, they know. The _worst_ kind! The kind who refuses to grow up, to honor his commitments. That's right. You're a impressive role model for our son, teaching him how to be weak...and...and lie, and then cover it up like a common criminal." She laughed. "Exactly the same as those sleaze balls who hire you!"

Ramona's voice would grow louder and louder as her tirades grew in vehemence. By the end she was literally shrieking and reaching for the nearest breakable object to hurl in his general direction. Inevitably Vivien would hear the front door slam followed by the squeal of her father's Lexus down the driveway. Her mother would simply collapse wherever she happened to be standing and break into great, heaving sobs.

"Vivien? _Hello_?" Declan's voice brought her back to the present.

"Isn't it time to go?" she said, pushing herself to her feet. "The Future Leaders need our brainpower," she added, trying, unsuccessfully, to make a joke.

Declan stayed put and gave her a funny look. "Why do you do that?" he said. "Just shut me out like that?"

"I'm not shutting you out. I really thought it was time to go. I have lateness anxiety, you know that."

There was no response from him, merely a blank stare. Finally he stood, saying, "Whatever you want." But his voice was tight and he walked on ahead of her without looking back.

All the way to the meeting, Declan continued to ignore her. She snuck secretive glances in his direction, but his jaw was set and he stared straight ahead. After a few minutes he turned on the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Are you giving me the silent treatment or what?" she said finally.

He glanced over at her. "Hmmm?"

"I said..." She shook her head in frustration. "Please stop."

"Stop what?"

"Oh, OK. This is how it's gonna be, huh?" She began to nod. "I get it."

"Get what?"

"You're mad. So you're punishing me."

"I'm not punishing you, Vivien."

She scowled out the front windshield. He so obviously was. She'd pissed him off, apparently, when she'd shut him out. While she couldn't exactly blame him, she also couldn't help feeling annoyed.

"Look," she told him, sighing deeply. "The reason I stopped playing the piano is personal and I'd rather not talk about it. I'm not purposely trying to withhold information from you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Withhold information. Nicely put."

"Declan! I'm trying to be open here—isn't that what you want? You're making it so hard for me."

"Am I?'"

She let out another sigh and crossed her arms tightly.

"Don't you get it?" His voice sounded pained. "I want you to feel like you could tell me anything. That's the whole point of being close to someone. You need to trust me. Why can't you do that?"

"I _can_ do that," she replied. "I _do_ trust you."

"Then prove it. Tell me why you won't play anymore. I'm curious. Maybe it's no big deal and I'm getting mad over nothing. But when you choose to keep things from me, it's...it's kind of insulting, you know?"

They'd already arrived at the old Victorian house and Declan was circling around the block, looking for a parking space.

She checked the clock and saw they still had twelve minutes before the meeting began. She had time. She had time to explain things.

Pulling knees to chin, she hugged herself tightly and stared out the front windshield. "Look," she began, "the last thing I meant to do was insult you. I guess I was just thinking of myself. I wasn't thinking about how _you_ feel and...I'm sorry."

Some tension seemed to drain from his body as he acknowledged her apology.

"And of course, you were right about not sharing," she went on. "Only, sometimes it's hard to share stuff. It's not like I can do it just because you tell me to. It doesn't work that way. For me, at least."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It _is_ kinda hard. That's what makes it even more meaningful, when you actually do it."

She frowned suddenly, turning to face him. "You want to know the truth? What I think? I think _you're_ the one who doesn't see things correctly. You can't see Declan Mieres like I do. Through _my_ eyes. Every morning I wake up and I pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. Seriously! You and I, we're a riddle, really. It's so hard to believe you were ever interested in me in the first place. Look at you!" She waved her hand in his direction, feeling half crazed. "Not in my wildest dreams did I ever picture myself with your...kind. No, wait! Actually that's not true; I'm pretty sure I prayed for it millions of times, knowing all along it would never come true."

Declan started to protest, but she cut him off. "Let me finish! Don't disagree with me. I'm trying to tell you where I'm coming from. So when I pinch myself and I see that I'm not dreaming after all, immediately I'm so frickin' happy no words in the English language are fit to describe it. But then I start to feel that sneaky, destructive feeling that makes me afraid. Afraid that I'm going to do something to mess this up. 'Cause good things in my life are always getting messed up. And I begin to overthink everything I say and everything I do." She gave him a helpless look. "I don't want to scare you off. I don't want you to change your mind."

Declan opened his mouth, but she stopped him once again. "You're so perfect. What if you find out...I'm not?"

"What are you talking about?" All at once he seemed angry. "Who the hell is perfect? Do you remember when I told you about my brother, Gavin? How it was a really tough time for me because I was scared to mess up and turn out like him? I worked so hard at being perfect. So hard I chewed my nails to bloody stumps and missed so much school from stomachaches my parents wanted to bring me to a specialist.

"My parents, they're pretty cool, you know? They've always supported my brothers and me. But there's no hiding the fact that my dad's successful. Around the house, there was always this unspoken rule that we'd all follow in his footsteps." He sighed. "That's a lot to live up to. The pressure to be perfect will kill you, though. Finally, I figured out that there's no such thing. No such thing as perfection."

He leaned in closer, leaving only an inch of space between their faces. "One of the reasons I like hanging out with you is that I can be myself. I can be flawed, be stupid, and stick my foot in my mouth from time to time. And when that happens, you call me out. And we move on. Everybody makes mistakes, but when you really care about someone, you forgive them."

He held her eyes, then smiled. "Besides, what could you possibly tell me that would make me change my mind about you?" He waited half a second, then added, "What I feel for you is...bigger than that."

How could he have such unshakable faith in them? In her? She'd never experienced anything like it. The sheer force of it knocked her speechless. She wanted him to want her, but the fear of disappointing him haunted her nonetheless. There was no way she could lay it all out there for him to see. Not just yet, at least. She had to have a safety zone, a place where she could keep her flaws hidden.

"No one should have to share _everything_ ," she told him. "Sometimes it turns out to be a really bad idea."

"Like when?"

"What?"

"Yeah. When is it a good idea lie?"

"Like...I don't know, when you think you might hurt someone's feelings. For example, what if you had this super-ugly mole on your neck, complete with a nasty hair sprouting out of it, and you asked me if I thought it was gross? Should I say yes, which would be the honest response, or should I say that it didn't bother me so you wouldn't feel bad?"

"Wait just a second," Declan said with a slight frown. "We're talking about two separate things here—although I like the mole scenario; that was good. Of course people fib in order not to hurt each other. That's justified. What I'm talking about is _deliberately_ keeping secrets. There's a huge difference."

She was silent, his words wrenching her insides. "Oh, I know. Totally." She swallowed. "So let me explain why I quit playing the piano. I want to share it with you."

"Fine. I think that's what I was asking for in the beginning."

She took a deep breath. "It's not...some deep dark secret. I stopped playing because of my parents. They were fighting all the time and somehow they always managed to drag me into the middle of it. You know, like accusing each other of ruining my potential stardom." She laughed self-consciously. "And all at once, performing made me feel...bad. And sad." She looked at him shamefully. "Also—and I'm not terribly proud of this—I quit because it was a very successful way of punishing them both." She sighed as if a great weight had been lifted. "There. Mystery solved."

There was a pause, then Declan said, "Don't dismiss it like it's nothing. Like you somehow think I'm stupid for wanting to know."

"That's not what I meant," she said quickly. "It was more like I was making fun of myself."

"Well, don't do that either. That's not healthy."

She smiled. "Is that clucking I hear? Your Mother Hen feathers are flying again."

"Fair enough," he said, laughing. "But maybe I only dish it out to those who are in need."

"Hah!" She shrugged. "Yeah. Maybe."

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. "Let's skip the meeting. I'm suddenly not in the mood for Chad. What do you think?"

She hesitated. She'd never skipped a class in her life, had never had an unexcused absence her entire school career. But this was not school. Yes, there was a sign-in sheet on Mr. Stossel's desk, but she didn't think he paid much attention to it. "What should we do instead?"

"All this talking has made me hungry. I'm craving some ice cream or something."

"Fine. But don't order me any. I'll just have a bite of yours."

"If I let you," he said, starting the car again. "First, you may be obligated to meet certain conditions."

"Such as?"

"That's classified. I'll have to debrief you later." He grinned. "In private."

### Sixteen

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Sexuality assumes an important role in an adolescent's life and is widely considered a rite of passage into adulthood. No doubt, sex is a pleasurable activity! Yet it's important to keep in mind how small a part it plays in people's lives. Sex, when compared to routine nonsexual activities, takes up a surprisingly insignificant portion of our time. One study found sex to account for a measly sixty-five hours out of the 8,760 that make up one calendar year! Chew on that, little darlings!!!

Lakeview Sports Complex was an exceptionally loud and uncomfortable place. The air smelled as if it was being filtered through a heaping pile of sweaty socks. Vivien sat on the hard, cold bleachers, sandwiched between Miranda and Lauren. Charlie lounged against her knees on the bench below. Clumps of parents and a smattering of Eastbrook students surrounded them. The field was large, bigger than she'd imagined, and she was having a difficult time following the action.

"Damn!" Lauren shouted. "Nathan just creamed that other player."

She tried to locate him on the field. With their helmets on, they all looked alike. She gave up. "What number is Declan again?" she asked.

"Twenty-four!" her friends responded in unison.

"Right. I knew that."

"They're good," Miranda observed. "They're killing the other team. Eastbrook's going to be awesome this spring."

_Killing_. An appropriate choice of words, she reflected. It seemed as though the players took every opportunity to smash or trip each other with their sticks and the ref rarely ever called a penalty.

Lauren grabbed Vivien's arm and pointed. Number twenty-four flew down the field directly in front of the girls, passing the ball to a teammate who scored instantly. Whoops and hollers went up from the bleachers. Her pulse quickened as she watched Declan jog leisurely across the field. He looked so impressive. So strong and agile.

She stood and stretched. Her butt was asleep and she needed to move.

"Where're you going?" Lauren asked.

She inched along the bleacher step. "Bathroom. Where is it?"

"We passed it on the way in. I'll come with."

The ladies' room was hardly what she'd call sanitary, the smell a sickening blend of nacho cheese from the concession stand next door and urine. She focused on breathing only through her mouth as she leaned over the sink to examine her face in the mirror. What was this? Leaning closer, she scowled as she observed the ominous beginnings of zit in the crease of her nose.

Lauren spoke to her from the bathroom stall. "So, my parents are gone tomorrow night, remember? And I was thinking, you and Declan should come over and hang out. We could make dinner and stuff, the four of us. Wouldn't that be amazing?"

"You...and Nathan?" she said, thankful the stall hid her reaction. A Saturday night with Nathan—she could think of nothing worse. "Um...I'm pretty sure Declan has something going on tomorrow night."

Lauren appeared next to her in the mirror. "No, I talked to him earlier. He seemed fine with it."

Vivien turned away slightly and made a face. "Oh."

Lauren left to dry her hands, then returned. "How 'bout six o'clock?" She began to fuss over her hair. Tousled to her satisfaction, she reapplied a thick coating of pink sparkle gloss, pressing her lips together. "I'll buy the stuff. I was thinking spaghetti—that's like the only thing I know how to make. We can have that, and salad and garlic bread." She gave Vivien an excited look. "Our own private dinner party!"

"I know. Wow."

Lauren took a step closer to her, hunching down a bit, so Vivien felt obliged to do the same. "Guess what?"

Oh no. Something told her she wasn't going to want to hear this. "What?"

"After the game tonight, Nathan and I are going over to Thomas's. So we can be...alone." Vivien pulled back slightly, but Lauren tilted forward, closing the gap once again. "There's a hot tub on his back deck, you know." She giggled.

"Hmmm."

"He's going to get a peek at my new bikini. I just got it yesterday. It makes my boobs look huge! 'Cause it's, you know, the push-up kind."

As if Lauren needed help in that department. "That sounds great. For you guys. I guess..."

"He's in for some fun. And I'm so _not_ getting wasted."

"No. You definitely shouldn't," she agreed. "With what...with...him being such a—"

"What about you and Declan?"

Vivien turned back to the mirror, avoiding her gaze. "What about us?"

"You know. Is he good?"

"At what?"

Lauren came to stand next to her. With a roll of her eyes she replied, "At messing around, oh clueless one."

"I don't know. We haven't really..." Her voice trailed off as she didn't know how to respond. It wasn't like she had a bunch of guys to compare him to.

Lauren's eager look evaporated. "Oh. I just figured...with all the girls he's been with, he—" She caught the look on Vivien's face and stopped midsentence. "Never mind."

Vivien's cheeks blazed. "We should go back," she said, spinning away.

"Wait!" Lauren said, grabbing her arm. "Vivs, don't. That was a stupid thing to say. It didn't come out right. I'm sorry."

"Forget it."

"No. He's totally into you." She smiled warmly, squeezing her arm. "He is. I can tell."

"You can?" She looked her in the eye, wanting so much to believe, but unable to erase the pain of the awful truth. She should have known. Hadn't Christophe warned her? He'd come right out and told her she didn't belong. That she'd get hurt. People never change. How was she ever to prove him wrong?

The game was nearly over by the time they returned. It was looking to be a true slaughter, with the Eastbrook Colts up seventeen to two. Charlie and Miranda had evidently lost interest completely as they were both texting madly, never once bothering to look up.

"Hey. Look." Lauren pointed to the next set of bleachers. "Isn't that Monsieur Hottie?"

Vivien followed her gesture and frowned. True enough. There he was.

"What's he doing here?" Charlie said.

Vivien wondered the same. A small circle of girls surrounded him, talking animatedly and giggling. Jealousy nipped her without warning. Before she could look away, his face turned in her direction and their eyes locked. He seemed to be saying something, something meant only for her. But with all the commotion going on around her, she couldn't concentrate.

"Read his stance—he's gonna jump the ball!" Her head snapped back to see a stocky blonde man on his feet, shouting angrily. The players on the field were set up for a faceoff. "WIN THE FACE, DAMMIT!" he hollered. The ref blew the whistle, a penalty against the other team. "That's right. Way to go, Nate! Make him jump, get him off his game."

Lauran gave her a nudge. "Nathan's dad."

Geez, what kind of parent taunted the other team when they were losing by fifteen goals? Looked like the apple did not fall far from the tree, she concluded.

The game over, Charlie and Miranda headed home. It was Vivien's plan to leave straight away as well. Even though it was a Friday night she had several chapters of her new French novel to tackle before going to bed. But Lauren was begging her to stay. She had her heart set on meeting the boys down by the locker rooms. After five solid minutes of whining and pleading, Vivien finally agreed.

"Oh, crap," Lauren mumbled, rummaging through her purse as they waited. "My phone's not in here. It must have fallen out." She grabbed Vivien's arm in a hurried gesture. "Wait for me, OK? I gotta go back and check the bleachers."

She nodded. "Yeah. Fine."

"Whatever you do, don't let Nathan go anywhere without me," Lauren warned as she dashed off.

Vivien shrugged noncommittally. She couldn't care less about Nathan. She would only give him the slightest speck of consideration for Lauren's benefit.

But now that she was left standing all alone, she felt horribly conspicuous. Like a groupie waiting in breathless anticipation for the band to emerge.

"Bon soir, Mademoiselle Allen," came a voice from behind. Spinning, she saw Christophe making his way toward her from the main hallway.

"Oh! Hi there." She waited until he reached her. "I'm surprised to see you here. I never knew you were a fan of boys' lacrosse."

"I could say the same for you," he replied with a wry smile.

She blushed and looked at her feet.

"In any case, _fan_ might be stretching it. But some of my students are on the team. I like to show my support."

"That's nice of you."

There was a stretch of silence before he spoke again. "So...is there any particular reason you're standing here all alone?" he said.

"Oh, I'm not alone," she said quickly, then realized the foolishness of her statement. Shaking her head, she said, "I mean, yes, I am alone. For the moment. But I'm waiting for someone."

He waited for her to elaborate.

"Not Declan, if that's what you're thinking." She laughed weakly. "Lauren. I'm waiting for Lauren. And then we're waiting for Declan. And Nathan. Both," she explained.

Christophe frowned slightly and she couldn't help but sense his disapproval. Or was it disappointment? She seemed to be disappointing everybody lately.

"It wasn't my idea." She laughed again, an odd choking sound. "Lauren wanted me to. Wait. Here."

Still, he said nothing.

"She's not here right now. Obviously, duh! She's looking for her phone."

He nodded slowly as if attempting to follow the ramblings of a small child. And who could blame him? She sounded ridiculous. But her anxiousness compelled her to plunder ahead. "Do you know Lauren? Probably not. She has the other French teacher. She's kind of seeing Nathan. You know, Nathan Dorsette? He's on the team. I'm sure you saw him. Anyway, he and Declan are friends. They've known each other since forever." She checked over her shoulder. "I don't know what could be keeping Lauren. She went to look for her phone. She must have dropped it or something."

"So you've said," he said at last.

Another silence ensued.

"Actually, we're going to make dinner at her house. Tomorrow," she volunteered out of the blue. "A double date, sort of." She was like a wind-up toy; apparently she wasn't going to rest until the crank ground to a stop.

She waited for him to say something but he just watched her, head nodding imperceptibly. "You're probably thinking—," she began.

But all at once, a loud ruckus spilled out into the hallway. Nathan led the way, his cocky stride immediately identifiable, followed seconds later by Declan. When the boys saw Vivien and Christophe, they came to an abrupt halt and a meaningful look passed between the two.

Farther down the hallway a small group of players exited the visitor's locker room and began walking in their direction. Their conversation died down as they passed the Eastbrook players and one of the boys, a tall, gangly-looking redhead, turned to Nathan in midstride. "Must be nice to have the ref in your daddy's pocket, Dorsette."

Nathan considered the group for a moment before taking a small step forward. "Nice of you to pay your respects, ladies," he said with a smile. To the boy he said, "Suck my dick, Ginger."

The redhead flinched and came to a sudden stop. The hallway was completely silent. Then, in the next instant, the boy grabbed Nathan by the shirt collar and shoved him against the wall. Immediate chaos broke out as Nathan regained his balance and swung a punch, connecting soundly at the boy's chin. He staggered but rebounded quickly, snaking an arm around Nathan's neck and forcing him to the floor. The two figures wrestled furiously, grunting and flailing as Declan and the other players closed in, attempting to pry them apart.

Vivien watched in dismay, unable to move, grimacing each time a punch was thrown. It was M. Laval who speedily stepped in and removed her to a safer distance.

After what seemed like forever, the boy's teammates secured a firm grip on his arms and with a vigorous heave yanked him back, away from Nathan. Declan managed to restrain Nathan at the same time and the two adversaries stood breathing heavily, glaring at each other as if looks could kill.

"Let it go, dude," one of the players said. "He's an asshole."

The boy shrugged them off forcefully and brought his hand up to his chin, exploring the area for damage. His fingers came away with blood and he muttered several words under his breath. With one final glare, the group moved off, leaving the Eastbrook students in a temporary stupor.

Nathan was the first to recover. Wrenching himself away from Declan, he wiped his bloody nose on a sleeve, then paused to study a spot on his left hand where his knuckle had split. Finally he looked up and declared, " _What_ _the_ _fuck_?"

Vivien made a faint squeak, causing Nathan to look in her direction. "Pardon my French," he said, his eyes flashing at the French teacher.

M. Laval regarded him in silence. "Your behavior's not the least bit amusing," he said at last.

Ignoring this comment completely, Nathan advanced toward the pair. "Well, whaddya know? The two of you together again. How special." His eyes widened in mock delight. "Hey, Chris, awesome you could make it. I'd love to get your take on the game."

Vivien sucked in a breath, her jaw dropping in disbelief.

"Lighten up, Vivs." Nathan chuckled. "I'm just messin' with ya."

At a loss for words, she glanced uncertainly at M. Laval.

"Don't push your luck," Christophe said with a threatening look. "You've already succeeded in making a fool of yourself."

Vivien glanced over at Declan to see how he was taking the situation. He, however, was too busy glaring at the French teacher to notice.

"In the future, Mr. Dorsette," M. Laval continued, "perhaps you can make an effort to refrain from the trash talk and maintain a level of composure that better represents the integrity and dedication of your teammates."

Nathan snorted and looked away.

"I'm so sorry," M. Laval said, turning to Vivien and touching her lightly on the small of her back. His hand lingered there as he went on. "I must run. You'll be all right?" His eyes darted in Declan's direction.

Vivien frowned faintly but nodded. "Of course. I'm fine."

"All right, then." He pulled away from her to address the boys. "Please give Thomas my congratulations on a game well played," he said coldly. And with that, he moved off.

Christophe was barely out of earshot before Nathan proclaimed, "That dude is seriously full of shit."

Declan exploded, "Enough already!" He ran his fingers through his hair and whistled a sigh of exasperation. "I don't know, but you probably shouldn't have mentioned your _dick_ in front of the guy."

"Whatever. I wasn't talking to him anyway," Nathan grumbled.

"I found it!" The three students snapped out of the frosty exchange to see Lauren half walking, half skipping toward them, waving her electric-blue phone in the air. She came to sudden stop when she saw Nathan's face.

"What the heck happened?" she exclaimed. "What'd I miss?"

### Seventeen

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Commercials, movies, and TV shows often make drinking alcohol seem like a whole lot of fun. Teens run the risk of getting caught up in this questionable portrayal. Wanting to fit in, they think drinking will make them look more mature. Yet more often than not, the negative consequences of drinking are ignored. Alcohol poisoning, severe vomiting, and hangovers are frequently the results of binge drinking and (as I'm certain some of you know) are far from pleasant! Before you take that first sip, ask yourself: is it really worth it?

Going to Lauren's house always filled Vivien with mixed emotions. Countless good times had taken place here—sleepovers, birthday parties, movie marathons, and warm summer nights playing kick the can in the backyard. Yet at the same time it reminded her of her past, when her family had been whole, not broken to pieces. Her old house was in this neighborhood, a mere three blocks away.

Tonight, however, as she and Declan made their way over, a new and more pressing worry hung over her. And his name was Nathan Dorsette.

"Any word on the Lauren situation?" she began cautiously. "I mean, has Nathan said anything more to you?"

Declan stared straight ahead, concentrating on the holiday traffic around the mall. "No, not that I can think of," he said after they'd cleared the main entrance. "Why're you so interested?"

"I'm not _so_ interested. It's just...I told you already. I don't want Lauren to get hurt."

He gave her reply some thought. "Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe he _does_ like her?"

"He said that?"

"Vivien..." He gripped the wheel more tightly. "I just told you he hasn't said anything. OK?"

"Sorry."

"Leave it alone," he said after a moment. "She's a big girl and she's gonna do what she wants. It's really none of our business, anyway."

She turned and looked out the window, allowing him the last word for the moment. But she soon found it impossible to hold her tongue. "That's fine for you. But I don't feel that way. I feel like, if I know something—something important—I should tell her. Isn't that what friends do?"

He gave her a curious look. "But you don't. You don't know anything."

She turned to the window again. "I guess not," she said quietly.

"You guess not?"

She shook her head. "Forget it."

He frowned. "What's the 'it' I'm supposed to forget?"

"Nothing. All I meant was Nathan's got a bad reputation. A reputation that he created." She paused. "He's totally obnoxious in every way. You saw him last night after the game." She still could hardly believe he'd behaved that way in front of Christophe.

As if reading her mind, Declan said, "What's the deal with you and what's-his-face anyway?"

She spun to face him, then quickly looked away. "M. Laval? What do you mean?"

Declan shrugged and took his time putting his thoughts into words. "You act different when you're around him. Like you're trying to please him. Like what he thinks of you matters so much. I don't understand it..." He shrugged again. "You're not yourself."

What was this? How had he come up with such a ridiculous observation?

"And he seems way too interested in you," he continued. "In a way that's...I don't know...not right."

More outrageousness. She didn't want to hear any more. "That's crazy! He's my teacher. I'm in his class."

"Yeah. I'm aware of that, thanks."

She laughed nervously. "He flirts. So what? All the girls have a serious crush on him. That's just the way he is." Declan looked unconvinced and her sense of discomfort increased. "It's not my fault you don't like him."

He gave her a strange look. "What are you getting so defensive for?"

"I'm not."

"You sure sound like it."

She took a deep breath. "I didn't mean to."

"Fine."

Silence.

"What I was trying to say before," she said at last, "before we got so off-topic, was..." How could she tell him what happened at Riley's, without really telling him?

"What?"

She began to fidget. "This is hard for me to say."

He turned to her, his face anxious. "Just come out with it."

"That night at Riley's...I think Nathan had sex with Lauren while she was drunk. Like passed-out drunk, if you know what I mean."

Declan frowned. "What are you talking about? Who told you that?"

"Nobody."

"Then how do you know it's true?"

"No. I mean...not nobody. Lauren. Lauren told me."

"Lauren told you..." he stopped, clearly having trouble finishing his sentence, "that Nathan—what? _Raped_ her? 'Cause having sex with someone who's unconscious, I think that's considered rape, right?" He didn't wait for a reply. "No. No way. He's been with a lot of girls but he would never...that's just sick."

"No, listen," she backtracked, immediately regretting she'd said anything. "She didn't say _that_. She never used that... _word._ She just said... she wasn't sure _what_ happened."

"Well, what the hell? Was she upset? Did she tell anyone else? Aren't you supposed to go to the hospital or something?"

"No! She didn't...she didn't even care!"

"Why are you screaming at me?"

"I'm not!" She pressed the back of her hand against trembling lips. "Just forget it!"

He began to shake his head, a look of disbelief on his face. "Sometimes I don't get you at all. You come at me totally out of left field—making an incredibly serious accusation, may I add—and then you...you follow it up with 'just forget it.'" He met her eyes, his look pained. "I can't—I can't just...I need some time to digest this. You can't throw something like this at me. What...what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. I don't know!" she croaked.

The Volvo swung into Lauren's driveway and came to a sudden halt. Declan killed the motor and stared at her, his expression tight.

Vivien was miserable. "Declan, I'm sorry! I never should have said anything." She sniffled. "I...I wanted you to know...why I don't like Nathan. Why I can't stand him."

He let out an immense sigh, laying his head back on the seat. After a minute he said, "I've known him since I was four..."

"I know. You guys are friends. I don't want to ruin everything. Please just—this conversation never has to leave this car." She tried to collect herself. "Maybe I got it all wrong. It _was_ dark..."

He stared at her for some time without speaking. Then his expression changed. "What does that have to do with anything?"

She exhaled shakily and forced herself to smile. "I'm just babbling. I'm all mixed up. Come on, let's go in. Aren't you...like, ready for awesomeness?" she asked, imitating Lauren's voice.

He didn't crack a smile, just sat there. Not looking at her. At last he opened the car door. "Right. Awesomeness, here we come."

Waltzing into Lauren's massive kitchen brandishing a liter of diet soda and a half-gallon of butter pecan ice cream, Vivien did her best to look cheerful. Sparky, Lauren's small white mop of a dog, ran circles around the new guests, yipping and growling as if he might tear them to pieces. He kept darting in and out of her legs, and it was all she could do to avoid tripping.

"Should I put this in the freezer?" she shouted over the barking dog.

Lauren nodded, shooting Sparky an irritated look. "Sparky!" she shouted, "shut up!" The dog sneezed twice and trotted out of the room.

Stationed before the stove, Lauren hovered over a giant pot of spaghetti sauce. The sauce bubbled ferociously, shooting deep red projectiles over the stovetop and tiles.

"Damn!" Lauren exclaimed, jumping backward. "I'm totally going to ruin this shirt. I need, like, a...cooking apron." She broke into a string of giggles.

"Lower the heat and cover it," Vivien said, poised before the freezer as she searched for a place to put the ice cream. "Why do you have so much food in here?"

"Huh?" Lauren came to stand beside her. "Oh, it's always like that. My mom has a nesting problem. She has to have three or four of everything or she freaks."

With effort, they managed to cram it in along the side. Vivien turned and glanced around the kitchen. Declan and Nathan appeared to have wandered off, so she took advantage of this private moment to test the waters. "So...you and Nathan...you're good?"

Lauren grabbed her arm. "Are you kidding? You and Declan _so_ should've come to Thomas's last night. It was awesome."

Vivien smiled politely and walked over to stir the sauce. She noticed a layer of burnt tomatoes already glued to the bottom of the pot. "Yeah. I'll bet." She paused a moment, then asked, "Nathan didn't, like, say anything about me...did he?"

"About yesterday? The fight and everything?" Lauren didn't wait for a reply. "No one pushes him around, you know? And anyway, those guys totally provoked him. They're just a bunch of losers who can't handle the fact that they suck."

Vivien replaced the lid on the pot and leaned back against the counter, saying nothing.

"I'm _so_ excited you guys are here!" Lauren said, clapping her hands like little girl.

"Yeah. Declan...couldn't wait to come in."

"We just opened a bottle of wine. It's over there." Lauren pointed to a minibar at the far end of the kitchen. "Want some?" Vivien shrugged. "Red wine goes with pasta. That's what all the Europeans do," Lauren told her.

"Do they?" she said, her thoughts swirling to Christophe. "I'm not really into drinking, though."

"It's only wine," Lauren replied. "I'm pretty sure you can drink a ton without even getting drunk. The French serve wine to their kids at dinner like every night—that's what Madame told us." She frowned. "It's nothing like that stuff I had at Riley's. Have half a glass," she urged, walking to the counter and pouring some. "Sip while you eat." She stood before Vivien, pressing the glass toward her. "At least carry it around; it makes you look totally sophisticated."

She took the glass and gave it a quick sniff.

"That bottle cost like a hundred bucks, you know. My parents drink it like water."

She took a tiny sip. "I wouldn't know good wine from a glass of Welch's grape juice." She tried to recall everything Christophe had taught her but came up empty. Something about a village...?

Lauren laughed and poured herself a full glass. She held it up. "Cheers! A toast to hot guys!" She squealed and giggled some more.

Vivien clinked glasses and took another, larger sip. "Hot guys, right."

Lauren linked Vivien's arm in hers and they carried their wine into the entertainment room, where they found the aforementioned hot guys lounging on the sofa, watching football on a flat-screen TV that covered nearly the entire wall.

"Oh, please," Lauren said, "turn that off. We are so not watching sports."

"Mute it," Nathan said, sparing hardly a glance in her direction. "This game's crucial. I gotta keep up with the scores."

"Whatever," Lauren said, settling down next to him. Her eyes swept the room with a look of contentment. "This is awesome. Let's have a conversation. What should we talk about?"

Vivien took a seat near Declan, placing her wine on the coffee table. He followed her movements with interest.

"I, for one," Nathan announced, "would like to discuss if Mrs. Schaffer got a boob job. Her tits look spectacular lately, don't you think?"

Lauren slapped his hand. "We are not discussing the vice principal's breasts, Nathan."

"Why not? She's not that old. Forty-something?" He searched the other faces for agreement. "She's a MILF; I'd do her in a second. That desk in her office is calling my name."

Vivien tried to catch Declan's eye in order to give him a "see what I mean?" look, but he was focused on the game, doing his best to stifle a grin.

"Moving on," Lauren said. "Vivs, what about you?"

"Me?" She reached for her wine and took another sip. A warm rush spread through her veins.

"No Eastbrook," Lauren said bossily. "Too boring. Although I suppose if Nathan wants to do the vice principal, it's fair game for us girls to discuss M. Hottie." She grinned. "'Cause he's the sexiest teacher ever. Right, Vivs?"

She felt all eyes turn to her. She suddenly felt uncomfortably warm. She blinked several times, did a half-shrug, and took a giant gulp of wine.

"The dude's a freak," Nathan answered for her. "You chicks are just fooled by the metrosexual vibe he's puttin' out with his pretty-boy clothes and his gay accent. He's a fucking dick."

Declan fidgeted beside her. The room was suddenly silent.

A timer buzzed and Lauren jumped to her feet. "Water's boiling. Dinner should be ready in twelve minutes," she announced, hurrying off to the kitchen.

As soon as Lauren was out of sight, Nathan cranked up the volume on the TV and became immediately engrossed in the game. Declan grabbed a _Sports_ _Illustrated_ magazine from the coffee table and began flipping through the pages, avoiding looking at her.

With nothing else to do, she stood and mumbled something about helping with dinner despite the fact that no one was paying her any attention. As she grabbed her glass and headed toward the kitchen, she was shocked to see that the glass was now empty.

Half a glass of wine; she'd finished it in a matter of minutes. And the glasses, she suddenly noticed, were huge. Oh well. So what? No big deal. Maybe she did feel a little funny. She was well aware you weren't supposed to drink alcohol on an empty stomach—Ms. Hove had made that point crystal clear. But she was nowhere near drunk. She didn't drink.

"What do you need me to do?" she asked Lauren as she entered the kitchen.

"Bring those pasta bowls over," Lauren answered, pointing to one of the glass cupboards. "I think I'll serve it in here, then bring them out. The bread and salad are already on the table."

Once Vivien had done as she was told, she leaned against the kitchen island and sighed. Lauren glanced up at her. "What?"

"Nothing." Vivien smiled. "That wine was good. I feel...good."

"Have some more," Lauren said as she slopped piles of noodles into the bowls. "You deserve it. My parents have a ton in the cellar anyway."

"No. No more for me." She sighed again. "So...is Nathan like...sleeping over?"

Lauren just smiled.

"Where will you guys...sleep?" Vivien wanted to know. As if any sleeping were actually going to take place.

"My parents' room. They have a king," Lauren answered. "And a giant walk-in shower," she added with a wink.

"Oh!" Vivien cried, popping her hand over her mouth. The sudden image of the two of them naked, chasing each other around the bed and into a hot, steaming shower invaded her head. All at once she began to giggle.

"DINNER!" Lauren shouted in the direction of the entertainment room, as if she was calling to her brood of small children. When she received no reply, she scowled. "Did they turn the game back on?" With a determined face, Lauren marched off in a surprisingly matronly fashion.

The two couples sat opposite each other at a very long and very elegant black lacquer dining room table. The tabletop dazzled with a graceful wave design etched in gold, flowing the length of the glass top. A matching black buffet sideboard and two contemporary china cabinets completed the modern look of the room.

Bread and salad were passed around the table. The dinner party then sat erect and motionless for a moment as they contemplated the meal before them, their expressions tight, as if—now that they found themselves in an adult situation—they felt compelled to assume their perceived roles of this foreign species.

"Wait!" Lauren said, breaking the spell. She hopped out of her chair and dashed into the kitchen. She returned with a newly opened bottle of wine and commenced to refill Vivien's glass—alarmingly close to the top—followed by Nathan's and then her own. She glanced questioningly at Declan, but he held his hand over his wine glass and pointed to the bottle of soda.

"I'm good," he said.

Lauren lit several candles, saying, "Everybody dig in."

Vivien began twirling the long strands of pasta around her fork, but they kept slipping off and she was unable to take a bite for fear of slopping it all over her face. She decided to tackle the salad instead.

"This isn't too awful," Nathan volunteered.

"Thanks," Lauren replied. "I managed the whole thing by myself, since all you did was sit around and watch football all afternoon." She nudged him with her elbow.

"Yeah, well, I don't do kitchen duty. And this whole 'make dinner' thing was your idea. I would've been happy with foot-long subs and a six-pack."

"This is so much better, though. Don't you think?" Lauren said.

"So, um, do you cook a lot?" Declan asked.

"No, not really," Lauren said. "This is about as complicated as I can handle. What about you? I heard your mom's awesome."

Vivien nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, she's incredible! I had the best dinner there."

Declan smiled. "Yeah, she's good. But I try to stay out of the kitchen if I can."

With that topic apparently exhausted, a silence descended upon the table. Forks scraped against plates as they struggled to harpoon evasive chunks of noodles and sauce.

"Dude, have you seen Thomas's new ride yet?" Nathan said after a few minutes.

"What?" Declan let his fork fall to the plate. "No way! He got the Mustang GT? I thought that was gonna be for graduation." He shook his head slowly in wonder.

"He was cruising around the neighborhood last night," Nathan told him. "It's sick!"

"Yeah," Lauren chimed in, "he thought he was such a badass. He had the top down and everything. Even though it was freezing."

"What about you and your little Range Rover?" Nathan said to her. "As if you're not trying to get noticed when you take that motherfucker to school."

"I can't believe he got it," Declan said, to no one in particular.

Vivien took a sip of wine. She felt a bit excluded from the conversation. For starters, she didn't have her license yet. And secondly, she didn't have (and would not be getting) her very own car.

"Uh, Lauren?" Nathan said, frowning as he extracted a dense white chunk from his mouth and held it up for all to see. "Are you sure you cooked this long enough? I think I just broke my fucking tooth."

"What're you talking about?" She leaned over for a closer look. "What is that?" She giggled.

"You know you have to stir the spaghetti as it cooks, right?" Nathan said.

"I stirred it. At least once. Just eat it; it's fine."

"Yeah," Declan said, "just eat it, you big baby. Lauren slaved over the hot stove making that for you."

"Kiss my ass," Nathan said, pushing his plate away and grabbing another hunk of bread, which he shoveled into his mouth all at once.

"Mine seems fine," Vivien said to Lauren, even though she hadn't touched it.

"Whatever," Lauren replied. "At least I tried." She studied Vivien for a moment before bursting into a grin. "You're red as a tomato, Vivs. You're not getting drunk, are you?"

"Huh?" Vivien's hands flew up to her face in an attempt to feel the color. "No."

"Vivien's buzzed!" Lauren announced to the table.

" _Lauren!_ "

"Well, all right," Nathan said. "Let the fun begin."

Declan turned to her. "Are you really?"

"I don't see how. I barely had any." She checked her glass. The level had mysteriously dropped again. She let out a loud hiccup.

"Guys! I have the best idea!" Lauren exclaimed suddenly. The table looked up expectantly. "Let's play Truth or Dare."

"What?" Nathan said.

"Yeah, come on! It'll be so much fun!" Lauren leapt out of her seat and once again disappeared. In a few seconds she returned, waving a notebook in the air. "I've got a bunch of awesome questions and stuff. I got them from the internet." She gave Nathan a look. "We can make it naughty if you want."

Nathan deliberated for half a second. "Fine."

Without bothering to get anyone else's opinion, she declared, "I'll go first." Lauren handed Nathan the notebook. "Ask me what kind of question I want."

Nathan thumbed through the pages. "Yeah, yeah. Truth or dare?"

"Truth," she answered, the excitement visible on her face.

"Let's see..." Nathan paused to scan the choices. "This should be a good one: what was the most embarrassing moment of your life?"

"Oh!" Lauren squealed. "Wait! I gotta think."

Vivien shot an uncertain glance in Declan's direction. This game had all sorts of unpleasant possibilities. She'd played it before at slumber parties. With a bunch of girls only. Mixed company changed things immensely.

Declan responded with an exaggerated shrug, as if the current proceedings were out of his hands.

"I think it's a tie between two painful memories," Lauren began. "One was when I made this homemade valentine—with those big heart doilies?—for a certain boy I had a crush on in fifth grade." She looked over at Vivien. "Zach Goldman?"

Vivien acknowledged this with a nod.

"He was the hottest guy in our grade," Lauren explained. "Anyway, like I said, I made him a valentine, but I wrote, 'Will you be my valentime?', 'cause for my whole life, I always thought it was Valentime's Day. T-I-M-E-S," she said for emphasis. "I saw him showing it to his friends and laughing. It was humiliating!"

Nathan patted her on the shoulder. "Aw, so sad."

Lauren brushed him off. "The second traumatic event," she continued, more loudly than before, "had to be when I got my period in school and it leaked all over my skirt. I didn't notice and nobody told me until the end of the day. I wanted to die." She shot Vivien a look. "Remember that?"

Vivien nodded once more. The room jiggled slightly.

"Gross. Lauren perioded all over herself," Nathan said with a grin. "Who's next? _Vivs_? Ladies first."

Without the warm-up cocktail, Vivien would have been completely horrified. But the two glasses of red wine had done their trick, and at the moment she felt loose and uninhibited. What was the big deal about sharing your deepest, darkest secrets among friends (and so-called friends)? she mused illogically. Nothing _that_ bad could happen. "Go ahead," she told him.

"Truth...or dare?"

"Truth."

"Interesting," Nathan replied. "Are you sure that's the best choice, Vivs?"

She straightened in her chair. "Wait. Um, I changed my mind. I'll take a dare."

"Tsk, tsk." Nathan shook his head. "I think the rules are you can't change your mind."

"What?"

"Yeah, so here we go." He paused and looked around the table, milking the moment for all it was worth. Vivien gripped her thighs until she was sure she had punctured her jeans. He wouldn't dare break their agreement. Not here. Would he?

"Has anyone ever seen you completely naked?" she heard him say. "And if so, who?"

She sagged visibly with relief. "No," she said quickly.

Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Good to know."

"Fuck off, dude," Declan said.

"Give me that now," Lauren said, grabbing the notebook. "Here." She passed it across to Vivien. "You do it. Our turn to ask the _gentlemen_."

She opened the notebook. "Nathan. Truth or dare?"

"I'm gonna go with truth, since that's how it's been playing out so far."

She contemplated the choices slowly. "Have you ever...kissed someone of the same sex? And I'm not talking about family."

"Easy," he answered. "No. Fucking. Way."

Vivien was annoyed. She wanted to fluster him, make him look like an idiot, but that seemed unlikely to happen. He always managed to breeze through everything.

"Declan?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Truth," he said, pushing a charred glob of sauce around the plate with his fork.

"What's the one thing you've done that you never, ever want to get caught doing?" she asked.

He laughed. "Why'd I get the hardest one so far?"

Nathan grinned. "Gotta answer, dude."

"Hmmm. I guess, one time when I was about eight or nine, I stole something from a drugstore near my house. Nothing major, it was this Matchbox car I really wanted. I didn't have any money with me. Anyway, I got away with it. But I wouldn't want to get caught stealing. At this point in my life."

"Good answer," Vivien said. "I'm delighted to know that you're a thief." She patted him playfully.

" _Was_ a thief," he corrected.

She held the notebook out for Lauren, but Nathan snatched it out her hands. "Next round. Juicier stuff, people. Please. I'm falling asleep here."

"I'll take a dare, then," Lauren said.

"Excellent." He quickly scanned the choices. "How's this: exchange an item of clothing with the person sitting next to you." He looked her up and down. "And no socks!"

"No socks? It doesn't say that!"

"It does." Nathan smiled. "In the fine print."

"OK, wiseass," Lauren said. "We'll exchange shirts." In the next instant, she'd pulled her skin-tight tee overhead, dropping it into his lap. Underneath she wore a red mesh bra that was completely transparent. "Hurry up! I'm cold."

"I see that," Nathan said, zeroing in on her breasts. "You've got your high beams on." He proceeded to take his time disrobing, pulling one arm out, then the other, at an exaggeratedly slow pace. At last he took the shirt, balled it up, and launched it across the room. "Oops. My bad."

Lauren laughed and gave him a shove. "Very funny, you little shit!"

Vivien's face was frozen, her mouth gaping open as she watched this entertaining little performance. Glancing sideways at Declan, she tried to determine if he too was enjoying the view of Lauren's taut nipples. She couldn't say for sure, but he was definitely looking.

Lauren stood, stomped off, and retrieved Nathan's shirt, slipping it on as she returned to her chair.

"That was awesome," Nathan said, still shirtless.

"Aren't you going to put mine on?" she asked.

He held it up to his chest. "This li'l ol' thang's not gonna fit me." He wrinkled his nose. "Plus it's pink."

"Just stay like that, then," she told him. "I like it."

With all the drama he could muster, Nathan shifted his wicked gaze to Vivien. "Who's next?"

The wine was not enough to make her quite so bold now.

"How 'bout a dare, like your BFF, Lauren?"

She swallowed, then tried for an air of confidence. "Whatever." She eased back in her chair and waited.

"Since it appears that you're fascinated by intimate acts with the same sex," he began, "your task is to kiss someone. In this room. Of the same sex." His voice was perfectly level.

"What?" she cried, once the meaning of his request had sunk in.

"On the lips," he added. "More fine print." He tapped the notebook as proof.

She spun around to look at Declan. His expression was unreadable.

"Nothing to deliberate, Vivs. There's only one other girl here," Nathan announced, and he tipped his head in Lauren's direction—in case it wasn't clear.

Now Vivien turned to Lauren, who simply smiled and shrugged.

Vivien's head was buzzing. What was happening here? Lauren and Declan were just going to sit by and let Nathan do this to her? She was appalled, but then, it could have been worse. A true disaster. And suddenly, one measly kiss didn't seem so bad.

Nathan kept up his barrage. "I'd like to put in a request for tongue. That would be a nice touch."

She saw Declan tense out of the corner of her eye. Whatever. She stood, wobbly but determined. She wasn't about to let Nathan intimidate her. She'd show them all she was no chicken. No baby. She _was_ like them; Christophe was wrong. Her boring geek days were over. "Nathan," she said, slurring his name. "Pay attention and take notes on my technique. It just so happens I know what she likes."

"Ooh, dude!" Nathan cackled at Declan. "Your chick's twisted!"

She couldn't face Declan. What was he thinking right now? Around the table she went as Lauren rose to meet her. Without hesitating, Vivien reached out and laid her arms seductively around Lauren's neck. They looked into each other's eyes. Both smiled as if it were just the two of them in the room and they were playacting like they'd done millions of times as kids.

"Ready?" Vivien whispered.

Lauren nodded, closing her eyes.

Vivien leaned in, her lips touching Lauren's with delicacy. Her eyes closed automatically. The sensation was pleasantly different, Lauren's mouth velvety and small. This must be what it feels like for Declan to kiss her own lips, she found herself thinking. It was...nice.

They stayed molded together for longer than she'd planned. Nathan's request for tongue echoing in her ears caused her to press against Lauren with increasing fervor. At last, for a show-stopping finale, she pulled back and trailed her tongue along Lauren's upper lip, her eyes glued to Nathan the entire time.

The earsplitting sound of a whistle startled her out of her erotic trance and she backed away, slightly horrified, her face ablaze.

"What the hell!" Nathan boomed, slamming his fist down on the table. "What kind of crazy headfuck was that?"

She rushed back to her chair, eyes trained on the floor. When the fire on her cheeks had subsided somewhat, she cast an uncertain glance in Declan's direction. He was staring at her with an incredulous look on his face. If Thomas had appeared out of the blue and presented him with the keys to his Mustang, he could not have looked more stunned.

She looked away in an attempt to hide her smile.

Nathan rose to his feet and cleared his throat as if preparing to deliver an important announcement. "I'm gonna go ahead and say that girl-on-girl teaser will be hard to top. Therefore I vote this meeting adjourned." Stretching his arms overhead, he yawned and rubbed his bare chest. "Time to check the scores." With that, he stalked off in the direction of the TV.

Lauren grabbed her wine from the table and excused herself. "You guys can hang out for as long as you want. Make yourselves at home," she said, then hurried off after Nathan.

The room seemed deafeningly silent with the loss of the other couple. As Vivien and Declan sat wordlessly, she couldn't help but feel she'd somehow won, beating loudmouth Nathan at his own stupid game, and she began nodding in affirmation of her new status. Forgotten was the moment only a short while ago when he'd managed to embarrass her and send Declan into a brooding silence with a few curt remarks. No, he'd think twice before messing with her now, she was sure of it.

"Hey," Declan said at last. "Are you feeling OK?" His voice was a mix of awe and bewilderment.

The question suddenly struck her as hilarious and she struggled against the impulse to howl with laughter. Her life seemed impossibly good, her prospects glowing brighter than the sun. She felt invincible, wild, carefree! She was on top of the world, the front car in a rollercoaster about to make the death-defying plunge. And she wasn't even afraid! The objects in the room jumped around in agreement. Grasping the table edge to steady herself, she exclaimed, "I feel great!" Then she frowned, confused by the question. "Why?"

"You're not acting like any Vivien I know."

She let out a sigh and closed her eyes, crumpling slightly.

"Come on," she heard him say. In an instant his arm was around her waist as he pulled her to her feet. "Let's go sit down somewhere else. You're drunk."

She leaned into him heavily as he led her through a maze of rooms, ending up in a spacious sitting room toward the back of the house. A cream-colored leather sofa, shaped in a horseshoe, faced an expansive wall of windows overlooking scores of slender birches that shimmered in the moonlight.

Vivien sank down into the smooth, plush cushions, her bones no longer solid but a bowl full of Jell-O. After a minute or so of lying still, she sat up again. "The room is spinning," she announced. She tried to focus on the view of the woods, but all that glass made her feel like she was sitting in the middle of a fishbowl. Exposed. The more she thought about it, the more vulnerable she felt. Why didn't they have any shades? Someone could be watching them. Grabbing a sofa pillow, she attempted to hide behind it.

Declan was standing with his back to her, unaware of her bizarre theatrics as he gazed out the window. Then he turned to face her. "Exactly how much wine did you have?"

Her reply came muffled from behind the cushion. "I don't know. Two glasses? Is that a lot?"

Declan walked over and yanked the pillow aside, tossing it onto the floor with just the slightest hint of frustration. "For you? Yes. And all you ate was a few scraps of lettuce."

"Spaghetti is hard to eat in a ladylike manner."

He let out a lengthy sigh, as if she was a child sorely testing his patience, and sat down beside her.

Studying his face, she remembered hazily that they'd had a sort of fight earlier and she wondered if he was still sore. But staying focused on one idea was hopeless. An infinite number of thoughts were flitting through her mind, racing at such a speed as to be impossible to catch. "How come _you_ never had a dare?" she asked suddenly.

He studied her silently. "And what would you have picked for me?"

"Hmmm," she said, "I don't know. I didn't get a chance to read any of the choices."

"No, I don't want something written down by someone else. I want to know what you personally would've chosen."

"Me? You want _my_ dare, huh?" she giggled. He looked so yummy. She wanted to be touching him. Twisting, she climbed clumsily onto his lap and rested her arms around his neck. Yes, she was aware of a weirdness in her body, as though the buzzing in her ears was gradually creeping down her neck and shoulders, into her arms, all the way to her fingertips. She closed her eyes, breathed in his smell, and said exactly what she was thinking. "I dare you to fall madly in love with me." Her eyes remained closed, and over the continuous buzzing she could hear the sound of her heartbeat thumping away inside her chest. All at once a woozy feeling came over her and she began to list off to the side.

Declan placed his hands gently around her ribcage and righted her. She opened her eyes.

"What kind of dare is that?" he said. "A dare is like a challenge, right? It implies that either you think the person is too much of a pussy to take it on, or you're pretty sure they'll accept and you're gonna get to laugh your ass off while they do something monumentally stupid." He watched her to see if she was following. "Neither one of those situations apply when it comes to you."

She couldn't believe he'd actually taken her babbling nonsense seriously. But he had. And now he was telling her something important. Something incredible that, unfortunately, at this precise moment, her brain refused to process. All she could do was wish that she wasn't so crazy dizzy.

In a sluggish attempt to reciprocate his honesty, she grasped at something to say. But her mind rebelled as it wandered the zigzagging, crisscrossing circuitry of her brain. Swiftly it slipped off onto a tangent and stuck there. "You're not a virgin," she slurred. Not a question, yet not a statement either.

"What?"

Yes— _what_? What had she just asked him, point blank?

He studied her face, evidently trying to determine if her question was worthy of a response. Deciding it was, he angled his face away. "No."

Her reaction startled even herself. "Hah!" she barked, the force of expelled air bouncing her vertically off his lap an inch or two. "I knew it!"

He flinched.

"How many?" she demanded with drunken belligerence.

Declan shook his head. "Vivien," he began, "this isn't really—"

But she could feel herself losing steam, her body gradually folding in on itself so that all she could think about was lying down. Declan moved with her as she sagged, and they ended up laying side by side, her arms draped lazily over his shoulders. She closed her eyes.

"Not that many," she heard him say quietly. "Two."

Her eyes snapped open. Two, as in two times? Or two girls? And how was two "not that many?"

Reading her mind he said, "It's not important. It has nothing to do with us." A long sigh escaped his lips. "Why do you find it so hard to believe that you're all I care about?" He gazed fiercely into her eyes. "You don't have to dare me to fall for you; I already have. I thought I'd made that clear on several occasions."

_Fall_ _for_ _you_. Those words echoed in her mind. That was what she wanted. She wanted to fall against his warm body and nestle her head beneath his chin. She wanted him to cradle her and keep telling her sweet nothings that made her smile on the inside.

And the magical thing was she didn't even have to say these things because he saw it all in her eyes. He reached his arms around her and pulled her tight into his warm, spicy embrace. She buried her face in his chest, the wine still coursing sluggishly through her body, making her feel as heavy as stone. She was so very tired. Wouldn't it be nice to just call it a night and fall asleep right here, right now...?

She awoke to a gentle shaking.

"Vivien," Declan said in a loud whisper, "I think I should take you home now."

She raised her head with difficulty. It took several seconds to figure out where in the world she was. She rolled onto her back and moaned. "I have a splitting headache."

"Red wine." He shook his head knowingly.

"What time is it?" she asked, her voice muted as she draped her arm across her face.

"Quarter after three."

This reply alarmed her enough to make her sit up. " _In_ _the_ _morning?_ "

"Yeah."

She rubbed her eyes. "Wow."

"I'm afraid you're going to feel like shit for a while."

She was horrified. A hangover. Only drunks got hangovers. "I am not hung over," she insisted. "I just have a headache."

"That's what a hangover is."

"Oh," she said, realizing he was probably right. What had she been thinking? Worse, than that, what had she done? It all came back to her in an instant.

"Oh no," she said, falling back onto the cushions.

"What?"

"I think I made a fool of myself. That's what."

"No. Not really. You were...less inhibited. Let's just leave it at that."

She moaned again.

"Hey. It wasn't so bad," he said. "Actually, it was pretty awesome. We managed to snag a few good pictures and—"

She leapt to her feet. "Nooooooo...!"

"Kidding, I'm kidding," he laughed.

She scowled at him. "That was just mean."

Declan tried not to smile. "You're right. It was. Sorry." Reaching out to her, he said, "Come back here. Jumping around is only gonna make your head feel worse."

With a pout she returned to the sofa.

"So you have to tell me, what got into you? Why the wine? The shocking behavior?" he teased.

This was a legitimate question. "I'm not sure, really," she answered. "The whole night was just...awkward...and the wine was just... _there_."

"Yeah," he agreed. "The dinner thing was kinda weird, with all that stuff you told me running through my head."

"Besides," she said quickly, hoping not to revisit that topic, "aren't you tired of me being such a nerd? Aren't you bored with me?"

A look of disbelief crossed his face and he began shaking his head. "I feel like I'm still getting to know you. How could I be tired of you already? I'm not looking for something else."

"On second thought," he added, breaking into a sly grin, "I'm willing to make allowances. Like, if you're into being a lesbian now and then, I'm all right with that. As long as I can watch."

She hid her face in her hands. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

He pulled her hands away. "On the contrary, I'm the one who'll never forget. That was...an unexpected bonus for the evening."

"What is it with guys and lesbians?"

"Correction," he said, " _hot_ lesbians. Not the butch-looking ones we have around here at the university." He smiled. "I'm sorry, but two hot girls together is every guy's fantasy."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. _Fantasy_ is the key word there. I'll bet the invitation from good-looking lesbians doesn't roll around that often."

He shook his head. "Sadly, no."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but that's the last time you're going to get anything like that from me." She contemplated this for a minute, then gave him the hint of a smile. "Actually, it wasn't all that bad."

"Ha!" he laughed. "Are you trying to torture me now? Well...never say never." He suddenly looked at her with that nurturing look of his. "How's your head?"

"It's OK."

"I could've let you sleep, but then I thought you might be mad."

"Yeah, I probably would've freaked out. I've never been out this late before."

"Let's get going, then," he said, standing up. "I don't want to be responsible for getting you in trouble."

As they made their way to the front door, they looked around for Nathan and Lauren, but the two were nowhere to be seen. The TV and all the lights were still on, and an open carton of butter pecan ice cream sat melted on the countertop.

"Guess they had a midnight snack," Declan observed.

Outside it was chilly, and Vivien shivered as she and Declan hurried to his car. As she waited for him to unlock the doors, she jittered up and down, glancing around her. Oddly enough, the same blue pickup truck she'd been seeing from her window late at night sat parked across the street. But maybe she was just being paranoid. How many of those trucks were there in this town? Enough to make it an unremarkable coincidence. That was all.

Declan touched her cheek gently, causing her to stir to life. She looked around to see that she was already home. She must have dozed off again.

"Is your mom gonna kill you for coming home this late?" he asked.

She glanced at the clock and closed her eyes again. "I don't know. She's either sleeping or out. If she wakes up, I guess I'll tell her that I fell asleep at Lauren's."

"Do you want me to come up with you? Maybe I can help explain stuff."

She smiled at him. His thoughtfulness never ceased to amaze her. "No. Bad idea. Ramona would not be pleased to meet you for the first time in the middle of the night."

"Well...when _am_ I gonna meet her? Don't you think I should? Sometime soon?"

This was a reasonable request. "Yes. Of course you should. I'll work on it, I promise."

"You haven't even told her about me yet, have you?"

"Don't go getting the wrong idea," she said quickly. "It's not you that concerns me, it's her. I'm sure she will find a way to thoroughly embarrass me in front of you."

"Really. How bad could she be?"

"You'll see," she told him with a sigh. "All right. I'm going."

He leaned over and gave her a tender kiss. "Sweet dreams."

"You too," she told him, opening the car door.

"My dreams will be sweet," he crooned, "'cause I'll be dreaming of you."

"How incredibly cheesy."

"Yeah. But you liked it."

She smiled. Of course he was right.

### Eighteen

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

If you want love to last, stop falling in love; grow into it instead.

"Rose, listen to me," he said.

She was trying, but nothing was going right.

"Passion is an integral part of human nature. You yourself possess all these things inside you at this very minute!" He had stopped pacing to deliver this vital piece of information, but now he resumed his circuit of the tiny room. "I'm not hearing it. You play the notes, yet they lack meaning."

Her shoulders sagged as her hands slipped from the keys. "I know. I don't know what's wrong with me." She stared absently out the window. It was dark. It seemed to be dark all the time now—dark when she left for school, dark when she arrived home. Dark was her mood, of late. She attributed this to a simple case of post-holiday blues. Most of the time she was content, when she was with her friends, and Declan, of course. Their relationship was strong and healthy. And she'd been doing her utmost to ensure it stayed that way: knocking on her wooden bedpost three times before sleeping, crossing her fingers the moment she slid into Declan's front seat before school. Thanks to extreme vigilance she'd found seventeen pennies already; she kept them all in a "lucky" box under her pillow. Unfortunately, the New Year had brought with it no fewer than three Friday the thirteenths! She'd have to come up with some kind of excuse to avoid seeing him on those days.

But when she was alone with her thoughts, she couldn't ignore a consistent nagging that cast a pall over her happiness. And with only minimal effort, the source became obvious. She knew the root of her discontent lay here, with Christophe. Without a doubt, finding her music once again had awakened a part of her she'd thought lost forever. For this, she had Christophe to thank. However, his behavior had slowly changed over the course of their friendship. He was becoming increasingly demanding, pushing her to play at a level she feared, quite frankly, was beyond her. It wasn't so much in the execution of the piece where she floundered, but in capturing what lay beneath. He was constantly prodding and poking inside of her in an attempt to pull out the essence of the music. And the sensation was unsettling, as if he was stripping her bare and then, going a step further, peeling away skin, muscles, and bones until nearly nothing remained that hadn't been taken apart and scrutinized. The more she attempted to create an appropriate distance between the two of them, the tighter grew his clutch.

"You're thinking too much," he told her.

"How is that possible?"

"Wait here." He left the room and returned a moment later with a dark strip of cloth. "Turn around," he commanded.

She twisted away and in an instant, he'd covered her eyes with the cloth, tying it securely behind her head. Reflexively, she let out a small gasp.

"It's for your own good," he said. She felt his touch on her shoulders. His fingertips followed their curves, pressing into her flesh. "Trust me..."

She tried to concentrate. Strange how losing her sight could make her feel so vulnerable.

"Now," he went on, "with the loss of one sense, you are forced to rely on others. Stroke the keys—feel them. Experience the beautiful sounds you produce." His grip on her loosened slightly. "Wagner's masterpiece: longing, yearning, suffering, grief, sorrow, desire." His voice gathered strength with each word. "It's like _magic_!" She sensed him moving, and in an instant he was next to her on the bench. "The emotions are there. Dig. Unearth them. Tell me something you feel, right now. Surely something has moved you recently. What was this yearning?"

Her thoughts raced. She was confused, hyper-alert, alarmed by his intensity, yet her fear of letting him down outweighed all of this. "I've always longed for the perfect love," she said, unsure whether to say this with a sense of humility or pride. She settled for somewhere in between.

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "The perfect love, yes. Why not?" He chuckled. "Man's never-ending quest for 'the one.' How sad, however, that the definition of longing is to desire something _unattainable_. Are we forever destined to be disappointed, then?" She felt him shaking his head in disagreement. "Focus! The story of Tristan and Isolde is just that. The story of two people for whom love is unattainable—in this world." He paused to let those last three words sink in. "Ultimately the lovers are united in the land of darkness."

Where was this land, she wondered? "Are you saying that instead of true love, they longed for... death?"

"They are one and the same," he told her. "The mysterious realm of the night _is_ the domain of love. By day the lovers are bound by duty, their spirits smothered by falsehood. But by night," he breathed into her ear, "their desires are fulfilled. In death they find their ecstasy."

In death. But this made no sense. All along she'd thought man was supposed to be _afraid_ of death. Wasn't that why people chose to believe in heaven? Eternal life and all that stuff. Who in their right mind would choose the angel of death for their lover? The thought made her shiver. Death was evil. Death snuck in and stole the ones you loved right out from under you. If given the chance, Vivien would fight death tooth and nail.

"I don't know," she said.

Very quietly, so that she had to strain to hear, he murmured, "Do you long for such ecstasy, Rose?"

She wanted to remove the blindfold and look into his eyes. Without her sight it was impossible to read the true meaning behind his words. It seemed like a trick question. Was he referring to Declan? Or death?

"I don't—"

She felt him reach across her body for her hand, encircling it tenderly with his own. His touch felt weightless, his skin warm, slightly rough. He pulled her closer and she sensed the moist heat of his breath. He flattened her palm, pressing it to his lips. She remained completely motionless. It seemed as if he was drinking her in, attempting to get a taste not of her skin, but of her very soul. Then at last he released her and placed her hands on the keyboard.

"Begin now," he said. "You hold the key. Become what you play."

And as always, she did as she was told.

### Nineteen

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Jealousy is a natural feeling. Many teens experiencing jealousy keep their feelings hidden for fear of appearing desperate or controlling in the eyes of their loved one. This is unwise. The healthiest way to combat jealousy is to discuss it openly. Although it may be unpleasant, taking time to explain this powerful emotion will only strengthen your relationship.

Curled up on the sofa, a fuzzy blanket draped over her knees, Vivien tapped her pencil impatiently. The pages of her textbook stared up her, daring her to make any sense of them. It was no use; her mind was elsewhere. And not just her mind, her entire being. All she wanted to think about was Declan. Even though he'd forbidden her from calling him perfect, there was no other word to describe him. And you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who'd disagree. Why, just the other week he'd managed to get Dashayla away from the crayons and onto the basketball court. Before Vivien knew it, the once shy girl was dribbling and shooting right along with the boys. She was soaked with sweat by the time they had to go, but the grin on her face was priceless. Now she requested Declan every Wednesday. He was always in high demand. As it was, Vivien was scheming how to get her Declan fix this very minute.

Earlier, after school, the urge to bake something had resulted in a large pan of homemade brownies, complete with a thick layer of gooey chocolate frosting. As she'd stood licking her fingers, she'd decided that this would be the perfect surprise for Declan. Who else loved food like he did? There was only the slight glitch of how to make the delivery.

Lauren picked up on the first ring. "Hey, Vivs, what's up?"

"Not much. Listen. Are you busy right now? I really need a favor."

"What is it?"

She quickly explained her plan. Naturally, Lauren was immediately on board. Anything to do with secret missions and boys and she was there.

"When can you get here?" Vivien asked, eager to get going.

"Give me fifteen minutes."

"Great. I'll be out front."

True to her word, Lauren was at her door fifteen minutes later.

"So what's in the box?" Lauren said as Vivien climbed in the car.

She shrugged, suddenly shy about the corny gesture. "Nothing big. Just some brownies."

"Awww, how sweet." Lauren hit the gas and began speeding down the street. "I love your brownies, they're so amazing."

She smiled despite herself and couldn't help peeking in the box to check that her luscious creation had not been disturbed.

"Hey, I was thinking we should all go out again. This weekend, maybe?" Lauren said.

"Yeah. I guess that'd be OK," she replied, her mind elsewhere.

"Cool. A double date. Saturday night. We should see that show," Lauren suggested. "The musical Eastbrook's doing. What's it called?"

Vivien snapped to attention. " _West_ _Side_ _Story_?" she said, her hopes slowly sinking. She'd intended to see the show with Declan. Alone.

"That's it. Isn't that the one where the Puerto Ricans fight the New Yorkers?"

"I think they're all Americans. That's kinda the whole point. But really it's a love story, just like _Romeo and Juliet_. An impossible love..."

"A what?"

"Never mind."

The girls had just reached Declan's neighborhood and she fell silent, concentrating on the way to his house. "Wait. Slow down here. I think it's coming up on the left."

And there it was in all its splendor. Illuminated in the darkness, it looked even more impressive than she recalled from her previous visits.

Parked directly in front of the door, near the apex of the curved driveway, was a massive, glimmering white SUV. As they continued their approach, she caught a glimpse of a figure exiting the vehicle and recognized Declan's jacket.

A strange feeling suddenly seized her, as if a hand had reached in and arrested her beating heart. "Stop!" she ordered.

Lauren stomped on the brake, glancing over with a bewildered look.

"Pull over. I need to see who he's talking to."

Lauren frowned but complied.

Declan was now in full view, leaning into the open driver's side window, but his body obscured the driver's identity.

"I think I've seen that car before," Lauren said, her voice hushed.

The girls leaned forward, focusing with fierce intensity on this unexpected development. Declan remained at the window for several minutes. Vivien could read his body language, could tell he was laughing. At last he straightened, stepped back, and opened the car door.

A double gasp broke the silence inside the Range Rover as they watched a tall, dark-haired girl emerge. Her entrance was spectacular, like an entertainment channel celebrity clip. Long, skinny-jean legs first. A slender, perfectly proportioned torso followed, clad in a fitted powder-blue ski jacket. A head of shiny brown hair, cascading down to midback, supplied the finale. It was indeed possible to see the flash of her impossibly white teeth as she arched her neck and laughed.

"Who's _that_?" she said.

Lauren leaned forward until her nose practically touched the glass. "Oh...it's what's-her-name—Mariah. Mariah Garofoli. She's, like, part Italian or something." She turned to give Vivien a look. "You know her. She's friends with all those guys."

Vivien shook her head, her eyes trained on the two figures walking side by side. Seconds later they disappeared into the house. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and slumped down into the seat.

"What's he doing with _her_?" Lauren wondered aloud, just as Vivien was having this very same thought.

But this was only the first in a whirlwind of disconcerting thoughts that tore through her head like high-speed train: 1) _The_ _I_ - _told_ - _you_ - _so._ She had to have known this was coming. Declan had finally tired of her and was going back to the original mold—a creature more to his liking. 2) _The_ _jealous_ _rant._ This was so not fair! Stupid Mariah, with her hips and her fake, temptress smile. Declan was only human—not just human, a _guy_ —complete with a set of wholly functional, raging hormones. How could he resist such a perfect ten? 3) _The_ _explosive_ _rage._ That pampered, pseudo-Italian, hair-flipping bitch! Why was she throwing herself at Declan when she knew he was already with someone? She _did_ know that, didn't she? She probably just flirted for sport. 4) _The_ _depths_ _of_ _despair._ Total and absolute defeat engulfed her until she was numb inside. Without Declan there was no point in... _anything_! How could she go on without him?

And before she knew it she was out of the car, leaping hedges and scampering over lawns on a spur-of-the-moment, highly reckless mission to the Mieres' house.

"Vivs!" Lauren called after her. "What the heck are you doing?"

She didn't stop, merely shouted over her shoulder, "I'm...I have to see what's going on!"

In less than a second, Lauren was right behind her. "Well, wait for me! Geez!"

They snuck along, the very opposite of stealth as they dashed madly from tree to tree in an erratic, haphazard route. Upon reaching the base of Declan's driveway they spun full circle, befuddled and, much to their dismay, in plain view.

"Run to the front windows," Lauren said breathlessly. "We'll hide behind the bushes and peek in."

Vivien nodded and soon the girls were crouching uncomfortably on the frosty damp earth.

"What room is this?" Lauren asked, pointing to the windows overhead.

Closing her eyes, Vivien tried to picture the inside of the house. "The living room? I'm not sure." She shook her head in frustration. Obviously, her plan—if one could call it that—appeared to be lacking any sort of common sense whatsoever.

Lauren popped up for a look.

"Can you see anything?"

"No," Lauren answered, retaking her position on the ground. "Curtains are closed."

Vivien rocked back on her heels, lost her balance, and landed soundly on her rear end. "This is stupid."

Lauren hoisted her back up. "It's not." She stared at Vivien. Her mouth twitched and she broke into giggles. "It's fun!"

The giggle fit was nearly contagious, but she caught herself and assumed a solemn look. "Yeah, well, it's not going to be so fun when Declan comes out and finds us squatting in his bushes. Then he'll see his big mistake. His girlfriend's actually certifiably insane!"

"He's not going to find us," Lauren told her. She placed her finger over her lips and was silent, deep in thought. "You should call him," she suggested finally.

"What?"

"Yeah," she said, convinced now that she'd come up with an excellent idea. "Call him and tell him you're coming over to give him something and see what he says."

She contemplated this crazy idea. It was...not half bad. Quickly, she pulled out her cell and dialed. After three or four rings he answered.

"Hey," she whispered, "what's up?"

"Vivien? I can barely hear you."

Suddenly aware she was whispering, she cleared her throat and began again. "I said, what's up?"

"Oh. Um, not much."

She honed in on his voice with ultrasensitive feelers. Was it her imagination or did he sound just a tad guilty? _Um_ , _not_ _much?_ What was that supposed to mean? A stalling tactic. Clearly something was up. He was lying to her. She began to feel dampness in her armpits despite the chilly evening. "So," she began casually, "Lauren and I were just driving around and I was wondering if maybe I could stop by your house for a minute." She hoped her voice was sounding less shaky over the phone. "I have something for you."

He paused. "Like what?"

"You'll see. Are you home right now?" She waited, holding her breath.

"Yeah," he answered. No hesitation. "Stop by. I'm...just a sec." She could hear muffled voices in the background. "Yeah. So...where are you?"

At that precise moment the front door swung open. Instinctively the girls flung themselves in the dirt. Vivien squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling and unable to face possible discovery. She heard the high-pitched double beep as Mariah pressed the remote to unlock the door to the truck.

"That was weird." Declan's voice reached her simultaneously through the small white rectangle pressed to her ear and the open air. "I just heard...it sounded like..."

Her mind scrambled, coherent thoughts failing to make the trip from brain to lips.

"Hel- _lo_?" the voice said. She could hear him speaking from only a few feet away. "Are you still there?"

Beside her, Lauren mouthed something urgent yet unintelligible, finally resorting to a firm elbow to the ribs. This achieved the desired effect of snapping Vivien out of her trance.

And yet words still evaded her. Awkward seconds ticked by. She transferred the phone from one ear to the other, all the while looking helplessly at her friend. A wild sort of pantomiming began as Lauren signaled for her to wrap it up and terminate the call before any other noises gave them away.

"Yes! I'm still here," she said. "We're like...really close. See you in a sec." Without waiting for a reply, she pressed _end_ and hurled the phone away from her as if evil forces bewitched the thing.

Lauren grabbed her arm and pulled her in tight as the monster SUV engine roared to life. Headlights crept forward, piercing mercilessly through the slender gaps in their evergreen hideout, then slid off and away, leaving them clinging to each other in a heap of jitters. They heard the solid ka-thump of the front door closing and both expelled the breathy sound of overwhelming relief.

"That was close," Lauren said, pulling her to her feet. "Grab your phone and let's go."

Standing on the wide brick step, holding the box of brownies under one arm, Vivien placed her finger gingerly over the doorbell but didn't ring it. She was not in the right frame of mind; her generous and thoughtful deed had turned into a snooping expedition, the end result leaving her feeling both guilty and insecure. Seeing Declan with that girl had made her physically ill and she had to strain with all her might to force the image from her mind. But was she overreacting? Hadn't he told her to come, without hesitating? Yes, but only after he'd made sure Mariah was out the door.

Just ring the stupid doorbell, she scolded herself. And before she could gather a sufficient amount of air into her lungs, he was there, looking at her with his beautiful brown eyes and his one-of-a-kind grin—the one that reeled everybody in and made them grateful just to be in his presence.

She smiled weakly. "Hey."

He motioned her inside but suddenly stopped and glanced out front. She followed his gaze to Lauren's Range Rover, still purring in the driveway. "She can come too, you know."

"Oh...that's OK. She's on the phone with Nathan anyway."

He shrugged as she brushed past him into the foyer. Once inside she assumed an awkward stance, eyes darting from the crystal chandelier to the Oriental rug to the turquoise vase that held a bouquet of perfectly arranged blooms, in the perfect range of colors to compliment the walls.

"What's up?" he said finally.

"Here," she said, thrusting the box toward him. She had gone the extra mile and tied a pink ribbon around it in hopes of making the gift more festive. "I made these for you."

With a quizzical look, he stepped forward and reached out his hand. But rather than take the box, he very carefully removed a small evergreen twig from the crown of her head, bringing it close and examining it with a scrutinizing eye.

Her stomach lurched. She watched as Declan, devoid of expression, twirled the thing smoothly between thumb and forefinger. They stood in silence. Then, with a flick of his finger, he sent the incriminating evidence arcing across the room.

"I smell chocolate," he announced with a grin, relieving her of the box. Swiftly he untied the bow, letting the ribbon slip to the floor, and took a peek inside. "What was the inspiration behind this?"

She shrugged self-consciously.

"Well...thanks."

"Sure. I felt like...I don't know. I don't know why I made those for you," she explained, without explaining anything. "I guess I just knew you liked to eat." She groaned inwardly; her brilliant articulation must be bowling him over right now.

"That's true,"' he agreed, giving her an odd look.

Her fantasy of wowing him clearly not coming to fruition, she edged toward the door. "So...that's all, really. I'll let you go now..."

" _Vivien!_ "

She jumped.

"What's going on?"

She turned slowly around and began chewing her lower lip, focusing on an object that was just beyond him. "I was just wondering," she said barely above a whisper, "was she one of them? One of the two?" The question spilled forth unbidden, planting itself firmly and irrevocably in the space between them.

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. " _What_?" he said, after a dead silence.

Willing herself to look him in the eye, she said, "You know. Mariah."

He stood perfectly still, brows creased in bewilderment, until a gradual understanding crept across his face.

"Wait!" she blurted. "Don't answer that."

Declan closed his eyes briefly and began shaking his head. "I thought there was something strange about—"

She held up her hand. "Don't. Don't say anything else."

He stood unmoving, struggling to make sense of everything. " _That's_ what this is all about?" A distinct edge had crept into his voice.

"No!" she insisted. "No. I never—it was an accident. I saw you...with _her_...when we were on our way over. And then..."

"So you think I'm—"

"No! Maybe. I don't know. What was she doing here?"

Declan seemed hesitant to answer. "We're both in charge of this thing we're doing at church."

_Thing_? Was he being vague on purpose to spite her? Or was he scrambling to cover his tracks? She allowed him a slight nod. It could be the truth.

"Our youth group is putting on a health fair. This spring. So we were...throwing around some ideas." He ended this explanation with a look—a "there, are you satisfied?" look.

"Oh," was all she could say.

They stood staring at each other, the elephant in the room still hanging around, undecided whether to stay or go.

"Sorry," she said finally, the single word an effort to apologize for everything, the whole pathetic chain of events—for she was sure he knew everything.

"You don't—"

"You must think—" they both said at once, then laughed awkwardly.

"Come here," he said, at last, setting the box aside and opening his arms.

Her chest heaved as she stumbled forward. His embrace blanketed her, making her feel safe. She pressed her face against his chest.

"Are you ever going to trust me?" he said quietly.

They stayed in each other's arms for a long time. Then he sighed. "My little super-sleuth."

She cringed, burying her face deeper. She felt his body begin to shake, and after a moment she pulled back and scowled at him. "What's so funny?"

He fought to look serious. "Nothing. It's just, no one's ever gone to the trouble of spying on me before. I guess I'm just..." He searched for the word. "Surprised, that's all."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're not laughing at me?"

"I would never."

"You're such a bad liar."

Kissing her lightly on the head, he said, "Isn't your partner in crime waiting for you? You'd better go tell her your cover's been blown."

"Ha!" She pushed him away and headed for the front door. Then she stopped. "You're not gonna tell anyone about this, are you?"

He gave her a funny look. "The girl who keeps secrets strikes again."

"I'm serious," she told him.

"So am I," he replied, his smile slowly fading.

### Twenty

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

_Although_ physically _you may feel ready for sex, sex can have significant_ emotional _consequences. And because no two people are alike, teens should never rely on their friends' opinions when deciding if the time is right. Having sex to impress someone or make your friends happy is bound to make you feel bad about yourself in the long run. Your own personal feelings and values are what matter most! Be true to yourself!!!_

Up ahead, at the end of the hallway, Vivien saw Miranda and Charlie waiting for her at her locker. Something about the look on their faces made her hold back, pretending to be otherwise occupied as she checked the messages on her phone. This delay tactic was only temporary, however, and soon enough she was forced to acknowledge their presence.

"Are you guys waiting for me?" she asked.

"Yes. We're staging an intervention," Miranda informed her.

"A what?"

"An intervention," Charlie repeated. "You know, a little chat to make you aware of your behavior."

She exchanged textbooks and kicked the locker door closed with her foot. "I know what an intervention is; I just don't get how it applies to me."

"The fact is," Miranda said with practiced solemnity, "we never see you anymore. Have you completely dropped us or what?"

She glanced up at the clock and fought the beginnings of an anxiety attack. If she didn't wrap this up quickly, she was going to be late. "I wasn't purposely avoiding you."

"Well, we're _making_ you aware, right?" Charlie glanced at Miranda for approval. "Vivs, come on!" she pleaded. "We miss you."

She felt a guilty twinge. Had she really lost touch with them? One way or another it always ended up being the four of them: Lauren and Nathan, Declan and herself. Now she could suddenly see it from their perspective. "I'm sorry, guys." She reached out to touch Charlie on the shoulder. "I've just been busy lately. I'm sorry if you felt I was ignoring you."

Charlie smiled, but Miranda looked skeptical. "Somehow you always have time for Declan and Lauren."

"Yeah, I know but..." A wave of annoyance washed over her. "Weren't you the one who was pushing me to get together with him in the first place?"

Miranda shrugged. "Obviously a mistake on my part. How was I to know that as soon as you had him you'd instantly ditch us? I never figured you for that kind of girl."

"That is so not fair!"

Rolling her eyes, Miranda started off down the hallway, pulling Charlie along with her. "Whatever."

Vivien quickly followed. "Hey! Wait a minute! What kind of intervention is this, anyway? You two accuse me of stuff and then just give up and walk away? What about the part where you offer me comfort and support? You're supposed to try to help me!"

Miranda stopped and turned to face her. "It just hurts. It hurts that you don't see it. That you didn't even seem to miss us, like, _at_ _all_."

"I said I was sorry." The bell rang for sixth hour. She could hardly stand still. "Tell me what you want me to do."

Miranda hesitated. "I don't know...make time for your friends. Your _other_ friends."

"I will. I promise," she said, backing away. In truth, she was horrified Miranda had called her _that_ _kind_ _of_ _girl_. Had she changed that much? She felt exactly the same as before. Except so much better. She felt happy, and _loved_. How could this be wrong? Why couldn't she just enjoy it, without people like Miranda and Nathan trying to bring her down?

It seemed like no matter what she did, she could never win.

_West Side Story_ was opening to a packed house. Vivien and Declan pushed their way through the crowd of students and parents and settled down in their seats. Lauren and Nathan had yet to arrive.

As she studied the playbill, she noted the names of people she knew and discussed their anticipated level of talent with Declan. Having seen previous performances, she knew that some of the students had virtually professional-caliber voices.

Long before Nathan's bobbing blond head appeared at the end of their row, he could be heard calling out to friends he knew. The couple proceeded to bump their way down the aisle, knocking people's knees and forcing them to leap to their feet. She took a deep breath and tried to quell the early stages of Nathan-hating that seemed to surface whenever he showed up.

"'Sup?" Nathan mumbled once he'd reached them. In his effort to high-five Declan, his jacket zipper slapped Vivien square in the face. "Vivs," he said, completely oblivious.

She gritted her teeth. Why did he insist on calling her that?

"Wait!" Lauren called out. "Switch with me, Nathan! I want to sit next to Vivien."

The auditorium lights flickered, indicating the show was about to begin.

"Sit down!" someone called from behind.

"Eff off!" Nathan said. He took Lauren's place, settling his feet comfortably on the seat back in front of him. The occupant turned and gave him a dirty look but said nothing.

"Hey, Vivs!" Lauren whispered breathily. Her eyes seemed exceptionally large and her smile stayed glued to her lips. The aroma of beer and bubblegum wafted past Vivien's nose. "You guys are coming to Nathan's after, right?"

"Um..."

The lights dimmed for good this time as the curtain slowly rose and she shifted in her seat, leaning as close to Declan as she could.

He grabbed her hand and placed his mouth over her ear. "Hope this doesn't suck."

As it turned out, the production was impressive, from the singing right down to the costume design. At intermission the four of them stood up and stretched.

"Well. That was...interesting," Nathan commented. He turned around to glare at his seat. "My ass is killing me. This seat's a piece of crap."

Lauren yawned. "I'm sleepy," she announced. "I'm gonna go grab a Diet Coke."

"Get me something, will ya?" Nathan said.

"I'll come with," Declan said, sliding past Vivien.

Before she knew what was happening, she and Nathan were alone. He took a step toward her and fell back lazily into Lauren's vacant spot. "Take a load off, Vivs," he told her, gesturing toward the seat beside him.

She said nothing and remained where she was.

Nathan shrugged. "Enjoying the show?"

"Sure. It's good."

"Be a lot less of a snooze if Tony and Maria would loosen up and get it on. Who _is_ that chick playing Maria? She's hot."

"Abby Scott. She was Ariel in _The Little Mermaid_ last year."

But Nathan wasn't listening. "So tell me...how're you gettin' along?" he asked. "You know, with our little arrangement?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean have you given up on your delusions? About what went on at Riley's?"

Her mouth fell open as she searched for a stinging comeback. "Have you? I'd have to say you're just as delusional."

"Is that so?" He smiled. "Say what you want, but I'm a man of my word."

His coolness was unnatural. She, on the other hand, was starting to sweat. She moved cautiously onto the edge of the seat and said, "I have a great idea. Let's just forget the whole thing."

He looked at her with surprise. "Now why would we do that?"

"Because. It's stupid. This whole thing is just...stupid. It makes no sense."

Nathan said nothing.

"It was a big misunderstanding," she went on. "That's all."

He thought about this. "I'm confused. Are we talking about you? Or me?"

"Both," she told him, hoping to put an end to it once and for all.

He paused again. "I'm not so sure."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not so sure you're right. About the 'big misunderstanding' part."

She tried to speak but her mouth was dry.

"You see, while you pretend to be looking out for your friend, _I_ truly am. Declan's my bro. It's my job to make sure you don't screw him over. Not to mention I know a little something about human nature, and..."

She waited for him to go on. Waited an exasperatingly long time. "And what?"

"You and Frenchie have something going on."

She gasped despite herself. Nathan grinned. "He's sitting right behind you, ya know. Over there." He pointed.

Unable to stop herself, she turned to look. Lo and behold, there was Christophe, roughly ten rows behind, sandwiched between two teachers from the foreign language department.

"He keeps looking over here. At _you_."

"He does not."

He shook his head in amusement. "Man, are you in denial, or what?"

"I—"

"I've got your number. That's all there is to it." His expression changed. "Hey, I almost forgot." Arching his back, he reached into his pocket. "Brought you something." He took her hand, pressing a small square package into her palm. "Hope you're being careful. It's always a good idea to have protection handy."

She looked down and sucked in a breath when she saw what his gift actually was. Panicked, she checked around to see if anyone had seen and shoved the thing into her jeans.

"Wait. Hold up," Nathan said, shaking his head. "That was mine." Fishing around once again, he handed her what looked to be a tube of lipstick. "Pepper spray," he explained. "I think you're gonna need it."

Anger and humiliation bubbled up inside of her. She opened her mouth, but now Lauren and Declan were making their way back down the aisle. With no other alternative, she dumped the pepper spray in her purse and pretended to be lost in the playbill.

Declan slid past her and handed her a box of peanut M&M's. "Gotcha these if you're hungry."

She took the box, noticing a slight tremor in her hand. "Thanks."

The second half of the musical was even better than the first and Vivien found herself temporarily transported to the streets of New York City, to the world of the Jets and the Sharks and the more intimate space of Tony and Maria's love, nearly tearing up when Tony was murdered on the playground.

"That was so sad," she said, once the lights were back on. The story reminded her of her sessions with Christophe. She snuck a look behind to see what he was doing (had he really been staring at her?), but the seat was empty and he was nowhere to be seen.

Nathan intruded on her thoughts, thrusting his face between Declan and her, saying, "So dude, if you wanna stop by, that's cool. The 'rents are out tonight."

Declan shot a cautious look in her direction before answering. "Yeah...uh, we'll see you there in a few."

Nathan patted her roughly on the shoulder. "Stellar idea for a Saturday night, Vivs." Then he and Lauren headed off down the aisle.

"Ready?" Declan said. He stood waiting, her trusty bomber jacket held out for her.

"Yeah. Super. Let's go to Nathan's."

They held hands as they walked through the parking lot. Once inside the car, Declan cranked up the heat and rubbed his hands together. "Cold," he said.

"Uh huh," she agreed through chattering teeth.

After they'd been on the road a few minutes she turned to Declan. "So...what'd you think? Did you like it?"

"I liked it." He nodded reassuringly. "It doesn't really matter what I do, though. As long as I'm with you."

She laughed. "Who prepped you for the dating scene with all the corny lines? Patrick?"

"Nah." He grinned. "I come up with these gems all on my own. What's the matter? You don't like 'em?"

"On the contrary. I love them."

He smiled again. "Stop giving me shit, then."

She gazed out her window as they waited at the red light. The Lakeview strip mall was still hopping. Several clusters of Eastbrook students were scurrying out of their cars into China Delight for a post-musical snack. Next door a girl was locking up at Summer Glow, the local tanning/piercing parlor.

"Do you think love can be more...more intense, in a different kind of place?" she asked, out of the blue. Christophe's seductive talk about death and ecstasy was finally getting to her.

Declan looked over at her, perplexed. "I'm not sure I get the question."

"Like _Romeo_ _and_ _Juliet_. Like how they have this love that's amazing but not possible...on earth as we know it. Their only chance at eternal love is to find it in another world." She paused. "In death."

He was quiet for a moment. " _Romeo_ _and_ _Juliet_ is a tragedy, Vivien. Do you know what a tragedy is?"

"Of course I know what a tragedy is."

"A tragedy," he went on nonetheless, "is an expression of human suffering. The lead character usually makes a bunch of really bad decisions that lead to disaster in the end." He checked to see if she was listening. "So please tell me how a disaster—like being _dead_ , for instance—could possibly make love better?"

"Aren't _you_ the expert," she said. He shrugged. "But you're missing the point."

"Enlighten me, please."

She sighed. "In art, nothing is black and white. The lines are blurred. And sometimes you can see a certain beauty in something that would otherwise be not so beautiful."

He frowned. "So now death is beautiful."

"No, see, you're doing it right now. You're labeling things in black and white. Death can be...seductive, alluring, mysterious...a whole bunch of things. We don't really know, do we?"

"I think I do. How about bad, scary, painful...?"

"Yes. Yes. That too."

"I don't know," he said slowly. "When I read _Romeo and Juliet,_ I was pretty much thinking they acted like a bunch of idiots in the end. They totally blew any chance of being happy together."

She was silent. Then she said, "You don't think maybe their love was... _consummated_...in death?"

He gave her a strange look. "As in _sex_?"

She was thankful the low light in the car hid her blush. "...yeah, kind of. They were able, finally, to be...complete. The idea is so romantic! Only in death can their desires be fulfilled," she murmured.

"Where's all this coming from?"

The question snapped her out of her trance. She laughed nervously. "An opera, _Tristan und Isolde_. I read it."

"You're reading operas in your spare time?" He waited. "I'm sorry, but no matter how you try and spin it, dying just plain _sucks_!"

"Believe me," she answered quietly, "I know that already."

"Shit! That didn't come out the way I—"

"It's OK. I get what you were trying to say. I guess I was just feeling...it was dumb."

"It wasn't dumb. But I'm not planning on waiting 'til I die to experience eternal love."

His words hung in silence.

"Hey, Declan," she said suddenly, "let's not go to Nathan's. My mom's out tonight. There's no one there."

He lifted his gaze from the road ahead, staring at her intently for such a length of time as to make her nervous for their safety. "You're sure?" he said finally.

She nodded, chewing on her lower lip.

He continued to study her as he signaled left and altered directions. "Guess Lauren and Nate'll have to fend for themselves tonight."

"What're you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Vivien replied. "I'm lighting the fire. I thought we could hang out here in the family room. It'll be more cozy."

Declan nodded, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it on the sofa. "OK. A fire sounds good."

She cranked the knob to the left and instantly the bright orange and yellow flames leapt to life.

"You're not actually lighting it, you know. You're turning it on. I'll bet you have absolutely no idea how to build a fire, am I right?" He walked over and stood next to her. "It requires these long brown objects one can find outdoors. I believe they call them logs."

"Very funny. I'll have you know we have bonfires every summer. At Miranda's lake house. So...so I've _watched_ someone build a fire."

"Right."

"I suppose you know how, though?"

"Sure. It's easy."

"You say that about everything."

"Yeah, well..." He shrugged.

"Easy for you, maybe," she muttered, throwing a blanket and two sofa pillows on the floor. She patted the space beside her. "Make yourself comfortable. You want anything to drink?" She ticked off the choices on her fingers. "Diet ginger ale, diet cola, reduced-sodium tomato juice, and coconut water." Declan made a face. "Don't ask me. My mother swears the coconut water burns calories or something."

"I'll pass, thanks." He lowered himself down beside her, wrapping his arms around his knees. "I like this."

"Tell me more about your brothers," she said after a moment. "Your stories are so funny."

"Like what?"

"What it was it like being the youngest in such a big family?" She'd always wanted to be part of a big family. More brothers and sisters meant you'd never be alone.

"I got the shit kicked out of me on a regular basis, that's what it was like," he told her. But after a moment of proper reflection he managed to come up with several entertaining stories about his youth. Like the time his brothers took him to the county fair but forgot to bring him home (he did get to ride in a police cruiser, though, which elevated him to supercool status among all the other seven-year-olds in the neighborhood). Or the time Patrick and his friends bet him ten bucks he couldn't eat a stick of butter (which he promptly threw up, but won the cash anyway). Or the time he and his brothers snuck away from the dinner table at the country club, deciding on the spur of the moment to construct an obstacle course in the lobby. "You don't have to be a genius to recognize that scenario wasn't going to end well," he chuckled.

"What happened?"

"Well, I was actually winning—at least that's how I remember it—'cause I was small enough to crawl under all the chairs and stuff. But then at the end of the course, we had to jump off the highest point on the stairs, over two footstools and some tree-like plant...and, well, let's just say the tree was my downfall."

"Wow. I can't believe your older brothers made you do that."

"Oh yeah, they thought it was hilarious. Until I got up and my arm was bent in the wrong direction. Needless to say, our parents were not pleased."

She half gasped, half smiled. "You sure were an accident-prone kid. How many different times were you in a cast?"

"I don't know." He did some mental calculations. "At least five."

" _Boys_ ," she said.

He shrugged innocently. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Any good accidents as a kid?"

"Good?"

"Yeah, you know...ass-kicking...wicked awesome _._ That kind."

"Well, I got stitches. Twice. Once on the back of my head"—she spun away and pointed—"when Marty McCullen ran into me on the playground. With his teeth."

"And just why exactly did this Marty kid sink his teeth into the back of your head? Was he part vampire or something?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "He was running and yelling at the same time, I guess. And he wasn't looking where he was going. He never even said he was sorry."

"Stupid Marty McCullen."

"Stupid Marty," she agreed. "The second time, Charlie and I were jumping back and forth between her twin beds. I missed and hit my eyebrow. See?" She tapped over her eye. "I've got a scar. There's no hair there." She checked his expression for approval. Her face fell slightly. "Not quite ass-kicking, are they?"

"Nah," he agreed. "But they're cute."

"Cute?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "In a girly kind of way."

"You!" She gave him a shove. He pretended to fall onto his back as she spun around and straddled him, sitting smugly directly over his groin.

"Ugh," he choked. "Could you maybe scoot down an inch or two?"

She readjusted. "Better?"

"Much. Whew!" He flopped his arms to the sides in mock submission. "I never knew you were so quick. So tough."

"Oh, I am," she boasted. "Keep that in mind the next time you want to call me _girly_."

"But you are a girl, right?" He reached up and grabbed her hands, sandwiching them firmly between his own. "God, I hope so, or..."

"Or what?" She fought against him, attempting to push his arms down, but they wouldn't budge.

"Or I'll have to execute you," he said determinedly. "I must defend my honor. I'm a man's man, in case you hadn't noticed. I can't have that kind of thing getting around."

Their little wrestling match continued. "Oooh, I was hoping you were secure enough in your manhood to cross the line now and then. I like a guy who's not afraid to wear pink. A guy who watches Olympic figure skating—and _likes_ it." She raised an eyebrow. "No?"

He suddenly slipped out from beneath her, toppling her and pinning her arms to the floor. "Not a chance."

She looked up in surprise.

"Now make me some food, woman. I'm hungry."

His face was serious. And he did look hungry. But she suspected it wasn't for food. They were both breathing quickly. At last she smiled. "Are you really?"

He relaxed his hold. "Well...what've you got besides coconut water?"

"Veggie burgers? Melba toast? Carrots and hummus?"

He looked at her as if she'd just rattled off a list of toxic ingredients.

"How about a sandwich?" she said. "We have some turkey and lettuce and stuff."

" _Real_ turkey?"

She grinned. "Yes. Real turkey. Now if you're finished with your testosterone show, could you kindly get off? I can't breathe."

He jumped to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Don't act like you weren't impressed. You never saw it coming."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not clueless. I took a self-defense class at the Y."

He looked her up and down. "Really. What do you weigh—ninety? Ninety-five pounds?"

"Never ask a girl how much she weighs."

"My point is," he said, suddenly serious, "it doesn't matter how many classes you take. You'll never be a badass."

She tried to reply, but he spoke over her. "I mean it. Any dude who's got a pair could have his way with you in less than a second." The thought made him scowl. "Stop walking alone at night. Get yourself some pepper spray."

She stared back at him, her mouth falling open.

"What?" he said.

She tried to laugh it off. "It's nothing." She reached for his hand. "Come on. Let's get you something to eat."

In the kitchen Vivien laid out the ingredients and Declan got busy creating a triple-decker masterpiece. Taking a seat on the countertop, she watched him eat in wonderment.

"What are you looking at?" he mumbled, standing in the middle of the kitchen, chewing. A chunk of tomato landed on his lower lip and he wiped it away with his sleeve.

"Do you ever sit when you eat?"

"Not often."

"I read somewhere that if you're eating, like, a piece of meat, you're supposed to chew it around forty times before swallowing."

"Forty? Come on."

"I'm serious. If you don't chew your food properly, the stomach can't digest it. And then it has to produce more gastric acid in order to dissolve it. Which leads to burping and, um, passing gas..." She grinned. "All avoidable if you just sat at a table and chewed."

"Are you implying that the way I eat makes me full of gas?" he said midbite.

"Maybe. You connect the dots."

Tossing his crusts in the sink, he brushed off his hands and rested them on his hips. "I don't care for your tone, Miss Allen."

She giggled as he walked over and leaned into the counter, pressing himself snugly between her legs. "Now I'm in the mood for dessert. Something sweet."

"Uh-oh," she said. "I sense another cheesy one-liner coming up."

Declan ignored her and began to sing, " _She put that sugar on my tongue, she's gonna gimme gimme some, she put it right there on my tongue_..."

"Lovely. I hate to tell you this, but you might want to add singing to your 'things-I-cannot-do' list."

This made him laugh. "But seriously, got anything good? Cookies? Ice cream?"

"Mother doesn't do sugar," she answered. "But I happen to know she's only human, and her greatest weakness is Marshmallow Fluff." She tapped the cupboard behind her. "Check in there, behind the coffee cups."

Declan opened the cupboard and pushed aside several rows of mugs. "Aha! Found it." He set the jar down beside her, looking pensive.

"What?"

"What am I supposed to put it on?"

"Just grab a spoon and eat. That's what I catch my mom doing when she thinks no one's looking."

All at once he gave her a devilish look. "I have an idea."

"Do you?"

He lifted a hand to tug gently on the hem of her shirt. With a sideways glance he said, "Why don't you take this off?"

She wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. "What?"

"Your shirt," he said, with more authority this time. "Take it off."

"I can't do _that_!"

His eyes searched hers, that look of hunger burning once again. "Do me a favor. Don't say no. Tonight you'll only say yes." His fingers began working on the top button. "No one's here," he said softly.

She held her breath.

Two buttons.

He paused. Their eyes locked. "Just you...and me." His voice was barely above a whisper. The fingers recommenced. Lower and lower they crept, her shirt parting above until at last it hung loosely, revealing the delicate pink ribbon in the center of her bra.

Again he paused. Warm hands slid beneath the fabric and over her shoulders. Light as tissue paper, the shirt dropped to the countertop.

Her heart was beating so violently she was sure he could hear it. His hand moved once more to hover over the satin bow. "This too," he said.

"No" pounded on the door, then tried the windows. She pressed her lips together firmly, thwarting its escape.

His light touch tickled her as it crept around her ribcage. No fumbling. It was done in an instant, bra joining shirt in the discard pile.

Goosebumps erupted as a tremor ran through her. Instinctively her arms flew up to cover her chest in a scarcely adequate X. "Turn off the lights," she said.

He shook his head, coaxing her arms away. "I need to see. I've decided how I want to eat my dessert."

Her eyes widened as she grasped his plan. "N—"

"Shhh." His finger touched her lips. "Not allowed, remember?"

"Don't worry. We'll start here." He tapped the delicate protuberance of her collarbone. "Just... _let_ me..."

How he'd managed to get her half-naked, pinned against the kitchen cupboards, was beyond her. She'd never done anything like this before. But for once she wasn't going to freak out. Without a word, she let out a sigh and closed her eyes.

"You and me. Just us," she heard him say again.

Her body tensed with his touch and she began to shake. His warm hands steadied her as he gripped her shoulders. She wanted to focus on the sensation of his touch, but at the same time she had the inexplicable urge to run and hide. His lips brushed against hers, back and forth, then descended slowly down her throat.

After a while he lifted his head. "Is this OK?"

She opened her eyes. Her cheeks steamed, her feelings far too complicated to put into words. It was all she could do to simply nod her head. "You forgot to turn off the lights," she whispered, pointing to the ceiling.

"I didn't forget."

She frowned slightly but let this go.

"Now," he said, "I'm not finished." She swallowed. He dipped two fingers into the jar of fluff, coming away with a sizable glob.

"Where are you going to put that?" she asked, her voice cracking midquestion.

"Close your eyes," he instructed, his tone serious. "I'll do all the work."

With mild trepidation she obeyed. This time he was not so restrained and went straight for the main attraction(s). She couldn't help squirming beneath his exploratory maneuvers. The mere thought of his tongue sliding over her skin made her begin to pant. Gradually, she gave herself permission to relax and enjoy the peculiar (and not _un_ pleasant) sensations of his highly skilled mouth.

At last he came up for air. Pressing his forehead to hers, his warm, sugar-coated breath washed over her. "You're killing me," he groaned.

She smiled self-consciously.

"Want to move back to the fire?"

She nodded, even though she felt anxious about what he'd want to try next.

"What are you thinking right now?" he said, uniquely tuned in to her. As usual.

"I'm thinking—"

"Liar."

"But I didn't even say anything!"

"That's my point." He took a step back. "Fine," he said, when she offered nothing further. "If you don't want to share, I will. I was just thinking how much better you've made my life. How I can't imagine my last year at Eastbrook without you. As long as I can remember, my Grandpa was always telling me luck was my shadow, that it would follow me wherever I went." His eyes shone as he smiled. "He was right."

She did her best to hold his gaze, but it went too deep. She faltered and looked away. "No," she said. "It's me. I'm the lucky one."

They lay on the blanket, arms and legs entwined. He had removed his shirt—only to be fair—and the light from the fire gave their skin a warm, iridescent glow.

"Are you cold?" he asked. "You're shivering."

"I'm not cold."

His finger traced her lips as he stared into her eyes. He bent to kiss her, and his hands began to move more assertively over her body. Her nerves hummed like high tension wires.

Stealthily, craftily, his fingers meandered. Numbed by kisses, it was several minutes before she realized he'd managed to unfasten her jeans. And now he was sliding them down, down, down to her ankles.

And off.

Almost at once, the mood was broken by the crackling sound of a plastic wrapper.

With a gasp, she bolted upright. Declan knelt at her feet, his shape a dark silhouette against the fire. In his hand was the condom.

"That's not mine!" she blurted, pointing an accusatory finger at the tiny square.

Silence followed. Declan said nothing, but his fingers worked nonstop, flipping the package over, end upon end.

Her eyes remained glued to him, waiting for a reaction. She was acutely aware of her nakedness and tried to yank the blanket up from underneath her.

"Whose is it, then?" he said finally.

She pulled the blanket more tightly around her. "It's...it's Nathan's."

He frowned. "Nathan's."

At once she realized how ridiculous this must sound. "It's a long story."

More silence. "For once I wish you'd tell me the truth."

A nervous laugh escaped her throat. Tell the truth? But she had. She'd told him everything that mattered. They were doing just fine, weren't they? She loved Declan. She was really and truly in love with him. "Declan, I swear. It's not mine—"

"All right! It's not yours." His shoulders heaved as he sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm just...I'm confused." He paused long enough for her to count ten pounding heartbeats. Then he said, "Whenever I feel like I'm getting close to you, you pull this...this..." He shook his head in frustration. "And all of a sudden I'm right back where I started. We can't...I can't keep doing this, you know? Tell me, what are we doing here?"

She dropped her head in her hands, but she could feel him watching her.

He groaned loudly and chucked the condom across the room.

She flinched. She felt suddenly nauseous. She was losing it. Losing him. And for what? For Christophe? Something _was_ wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong! The real question was not what were they doing, but what had she done? Her throat tightened and her eyes welled up. She leapt to her feet. "I have to go," she said.

She scooped up her jeans and began hunting frantically for her bra only to remember that the rest of her clothing was still sitting on the kitchen counter. " _Crap!_ "

"Are you all right?" His voice was thin, uncertain.

"I have to pee," she said, slightly hysterical. "Just gimme a sec, OK? _Sorry!_ " Swiftly, she disappeared into the kitchen. She grabbed her things, not bothering to put them on, and spun around, remarking absently on the presence of her mother's purse hanging over the back of a chair. Skittering down the hallway to the safety of her own room, she retreated even farther within, slamming the bathroom door soundly behind her.

Once inside, she turned the lock, tossing her clothing on the toilet seat. Her hands shook as she gripped the rim of the sink and stared at her reflection in the mirror. "Get a grip," she muttered to herself like a mantra. It appeared to have some effect. After several minutes she managed to get her breathing under control.

_Who was this girl in the mirror?_ she wondered. It had seemed the right decision to change her ways, to embrace adventure. But what kind of idiot sets her sights on the expert trail with no experience whatsoever?

Tiny patches of blue fuzz appeared where the blanket had stuck to the sugar-glue residue on her chest. She pivoted this way and that, appraising her breasts in an attempt to see them as Declan would. He'd wanted her. The desire was plain in his eyes. And they weren't half-bad, she allowed, even if the left was noticeably larger than the right. But she'd ruined it. Maybe forever. She covered her face with her hands. Then spread her fingers, peeking through. "Help," she said aloud.

All at once she found herself wishing rather fervently that she was someone else. Someone who wasn't constantly screwing things up. A carefree spirit. And the image of Lauren's million-dollar smile popped into her head. "Unbelievable," she muttered. And it was. For hadn't it been only a short time ago that she'd been looking at Lauren with pity for falling for a jerk like Nathan Dorsette?

But here, quite possibly, she'd made an unforgivable error. Lauren might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but at least she wasn't cracked.

Why, oh why had she ever wormed her way into Christophe's life? She'd been desperate, greedy. And incredibly stupid.

_Christophe_. With the flitting apparition of his face in her mind, the strangest, most unsettling feeling overcame her. As if she'd been granted access to a different dimension and she could smell—she was almost certain—that specific blend of cologne and cigarettes that was unique to him and him alone. Her jaw went slack, and with a quick intake of breath, the hair on her arms levitated. Standing motionless, she eyed with suspicion the soft waves of the shower curtain as reflected in the mirror—a sandy seascape she had selected in the doldrums of winter. Was there—could there be the hint of a shadow behind it?

She laughed nervously, shrugging it off. All the same, she quickly redressed and then stood glaring indecisively at the curtain, listening for the sound of breathing but hearing only an intermittent drip from the showerhead. She wanted to throw it open and expose the stranger who lurked behind—Norman Bates? Immediately she reconsidered. In the end, her innate chicken instincts won out and she fled the bathroom without looking back.

Marching purposefully down the hallway, she was determined: from now on she'd be somebody different, somebody better. She'd been living life backwards, using all her energy to protect a relationship that made her feel bad. She was ashamed of sneaking around, weary of Christophe's demands, and worst of all, appalled by what she had done to Declan.

Yet as she passed Ramona's door, a faint alarm bell went off in her head. Doing a double-take she stopped dead in her tracks.

The purse.

She'd spied her mother's purse as she tore from the kitchen in the grips of a panic attack. At the time it hadn't seemed out of place. But now? It most definitely did. If Ramona was out, the purse would be out with her.

And the door. Why was the door closed? It was never closed (unless she was in there) because this made the room excessively cold. _Unless_ _she_ _was_ _in_ _there_. Had Vivien been messing around with Declan—yikes! Nearly _naked_?—while her mother was actually here on the premises, only a hop, skip, and a jump away?

A second, equally disturbing thought occurred to her. Maybe Ramona was in there...not alone. She and what's-his-face were having their own intimate moment. Ugh! The thought made her stomach turn. If this was true, she needed to warn Declan. They needed to get the heck out of here.

She began marching down the hall again.

Wait. Shouldn't they be making some kind noise? Talking, laughing, grunting at least? Why was the place eerily silent?

She spun around and headed back, placing her ear to the door and listening. She heard talking. She jumped back, ready to bolt. But then she reconsidered and listened once more. The sound was the TV, not live voices.

Without quite knowing why, she extended her hand and turned the knob.

The news was on. An attractive platinum-blonde correspondent was in the midst of delivering a sober commentary on the rise in violent crimes in small town America, rattling off a string of statistics to support this breaking news story. The (other) blonde anchor was doing an excellent job of looking alarmed. _All_ Americans should be alarmed, she was saying. "Our children are not safe," yet another blonde chimed in.

She took several steps farther inside. A mummified shape lay on the king-sized bed, illuminated on and off and on again in the flickering light of the television. She crept closer. "Mother?" she said.

The figure didn't stir.

Alarm bells rang out once more, louder, with greater insistence. "Mom!"

Silence.

Terror set in. She rushed to the bed, grabbed her by the shoulder, and shook. "Wake up! What's going on?" Ramona's head lolled about her neck like a rag doll, her jaw slack, skin the color of ash.

Vivien recoiled in horror as one long, bloodcurdling wail rose from the depths _. "Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no—_ "

"Vivien?"

She turned. Declan stood in the doorway, his arms spread wide in a gesture of both helplessness and readiness.

Yes, thank God, he was still here. She'd nearly forgotten about him. But it was all too awful to put into words, and rather than speak, she covered her face with both hands.

His eyes darted from her to the bed and instantly he seemed to comprehend. He began to move. He was coming, yet he was not. Her vision blurred, the picture closing in on itself until two lone pinpricks remained.

And then everything went black.

### Twenty-One

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Life is full of ups and downs and sadness is a natural emotion. But depression is more than feeling blue from time to time. Depression is an intense mood, producing feelings of despair and hopelessness that can last weeks or several months. Depression clouds judgment, as if everything is seen through a filter and the person cannot think clearly. Be on the lookout if you or someone you know exhibits signs of withdrawal, low energy, irritability, loss of appetite, or a general sense of worthlessness. Depression can be cured through proper counseling. Seek help immediately!!!

"I have no idea, I'm not...she was like this when I found her and... _what_?" Someone was speaking. Vivien heard a rustling sound, then the voice resumed. "Xanax. The bottle says Xanax. And there's... _fuck_!" Glass clattered against the nightstand. "There's an empty wine glass, too." Silence. A drawer opened, bottles jumbled. "There's...there's like a whole pharmacy in here!" Silence again. "OK...all right...yes."

She pushed herself to sitting. Her head stung. Gingerly she touched her forehead and her fingers came away with blood.

The voice again. Declan. He stood nearby, his back to her as he hovered over the motionless lump on the bed.

"No, she's breathing, but she's blue around the lips and her skin's all clammy. I don't—" He spun around midsentence. "And my girlfriend, she's—" He broke off as their eyes linked. "You're bleeding."

Her lips parted soundlessly.

"What?" He returned the phone to his mouth. "No, _she's_ not bleeding, it's my...yes. I rolled her on her side. When will they be here? I think they'd better...yeah, I'll stay on the line but I gotta..." He crouched down by Vivien's side to examine the wound. "Shit! It's sliced clean open." Then he was up and back in a flash, grasping a balled-up towel. He pressed it firmly against her forehead. "Here. Can you hold this?"

She nodded and took his place with a shaky hand.

He stood, his attention back to the phone, but she called out to him, "Declan..." When he turned to face her she noted he was nude from the waist up, and all at once the scene seemed surreal. She waited, anticipating something even more extraordinary to happen. The room would suddenly start to shake, then lift into the air, and she'd look out the window like Dorothy on her way to Oz.

But there her mother lay, still motionless on the bed. She wanted this part of the dream to go away. "Is she...?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "She's breathing, but..." His eyes spoke the rest of the sentence.

She looked away, eyes burning.

And then they arrived. A darkly clad unit, issuing commands, taking control in a no-nonsense whirlwind of activity. They swept through the room, collecting Ramona, a plastic bag full of pill bottles, and finally Vivien herself.

She hardly remembered riding in the ambulance with Declan holding her hand in a vice-like grip. They'd strapped her to a bed and wheeled her out just like her mother, even though it seemed ridiculous to her at the time and she vaguely recalled putting up a fuss.

Twenty-four stitches above her left temple, that particular number ringing a bell in the far recesses of her mind. Who else...? She felt foggy, disjointed. Had they given her something for the pain? For the trauma? Yes, of course they had. She was tired. So very tired...

"Hey there. You're awake."

Was she? She couldn't tell if her eyes were open or not.

His beautiful face moved into her line of vision. "How's your head?"

What was the matter with her head?

"Your mom's OK," he said, his eyes soft pools of compassion. "She's gonna be OK."

And then it all came flooding back to her. "Oh! It really happened." She reached up, running her fingers over the bandages on her head. Her eyes went wide with fear. "It was real; it really happened," she repeated.

Declan gripped her hand tightly.

"Why?" she croaked. "Why would she do that? How could she?"

"Look, we don't know how it happened. It could've been an accident," he assured her. "We have to wait until she's feeling better. Then you can talk to her."

She let him console her. She didn't have energy to spare right now.

They spent the next few hours talking about anything but what had just happened. Declan assumed control of the remote, surfing the TV channels for something mindless to watch. "Let's see...what are our options on a Sunday morning? We've got church, of course."

She eyed the TV suspiciously as a middle-aged man, sweating profusely through his pancake makeup, paced the stage belting out what he claimed was "the truth." The congregation seemed transfixed by his words, and every now and then a member of the choir would nod and murmur amen. Repentance, he was saying, is a term often misunderstood. It is not "turning from sin," as many would believe, but in fact, quite simply, the changing of one's mind. And thus a change in behavior. The preacher paused for effect before he went on to tell his followers that unless one has _truly_ and _completely_ changed one's mind, there will be no transformation. No repentance.

She began to feel a sense of unease. That same sinking feeling she always got when something bad had just happened and she believed herself to be the cause. In her world, things didn't just happen; they happened for a reason. Good acts begot goodness. Bad acts begot evil. Now she had wrought evil upon those she loved. Her mother had come dangerously close to dying last night.

Yes, she had "changed her mind," as the preacher said. Last night was somewhat of a blur, but she did recall marching down the hallway and making just such a decision. But was it too late? She couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out.

"Um, could you change the channel?" she said.

"Wish I could find an episode of _Full_ _House_ for you. Where are Michelle and the gang when you need them?"

Animal Planet proved to be the most amenable selection. A fascinating program on the top twenty most peculiar animal mating habits was playing.

"Huh," Declan remarked, engrossed in the show. "Who knew a four-hundred-pound white back gorilla was equipped with only a one-and-a-half-inch penis?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't seem to matter, see?" she pointed out. "Look at all the females he has doting on him—there must be at least thirty of them." She paused, then added, "I guess size doesn't matter after all."

The program was interrupted by food service. Declan stood and meandered over to the tray. "Yum, breakfast." He lifted the heavy blue plastic lid, revealing a wet-looking medley the color of paste. "Check that out. Those eggs look awesome." He frowned slightly. "Those are eggs, aren't they?"

She poked around with her fork. "Either that or oatmeal is my guess." She pushed the tray away. "You have it."

Declan pushed it back. "You're the patient. You have to eat something. Eat the toast; they can't really mess up toast, can they?" He helped her fold back the foil on the tiny packages of butter and grape jelly and spread them meticulously over the cardboard-like triangles. "Mmm," he said, holding a slice up to her mouth.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Geez, are you a pain."

A soft rapping could be heard on the door and a slim Asian woman dressed in professional attire and heels entered cautiously. "Vivien Allen?"

"Yes?"

She held out her hand and smiled. "I'm Corrine. I'm a psychiatric nurse who is working with Doctor Russell. He's going to be assisting in the care of your mother."

Vivien shook the outstretched hand. It was cold and limp. "How is she? Can I see her?"

"Soon," Corrine assured her. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions, if that's OK?"

"Um, sure."

Corinne appeared set to begin, but then glanced questioningly at Declan.

"It's OK," Vivien said. "I want him here." She squeezed Declan's hand. "He's the one who...saved my mother's life."

Corinne looked surprised. "All right. I'm just trying to get an accurate picture of your mother leading up to the, uh, accident. Do you think she may have been feeling depressed? Were you aware of any change in her behavior in the course of the last few months—that is, was she different from what you were used to?"

Vivien's mind drew a blank. Depressed? Who knew? Ramona was always so cynical, so critical, her Teflon exterior making it impossible to see what was really going on inside. Was that a new thing or the way she'd always been since her father moved out? Since Ashton's death?

The questions kept coming in a never-ending assault, like arrows zinging through the air with Vivien as their target: How long had Ramona been taking Xanax? Had there been any previous attempts at suicide? Was she under the care of a physician? A psychiatrist? Had she observed any form of substance abuse in the last few months? Was Ramona able to function reasonably well on a day-to-day basis? Was she having difficulties at work? In her personal life?

Desperate to shield herself from the pain, Vivien ducked her head beneath her arms. Could it be true she and her mother hardly ever spoke to each other except to disagree and bicker? The idea that she didn't really know her mother at all made her head pound and her lips tremble.

"That's enough," Declan said. "Can't you see this is upsetting her?"

Corinne ceased the inquisition rather reluctantly and excused herself for the time being.

"Everything's such a mess," Vivien squeaked, tears streaming down her cheeks as she sank back onto her pile of antiseptic-smelling pillows. How had this happened? No matter what, it seemed she couldn't do anything right.

"I know it seems that way right now," Declan said, trying to comfort her. "Like you've hit rock bottom. But it will get better. I know it will."

True, it hardly seemed possible for things to get any worse. She rubbed her eyes. Declan handed her a tissue. She smiled half-heartedly. "Thanks." Then sniffled. "I don't want anyone to know about this, you know? Everyone at school...I couldn't take it, having people stare at me like, _There's_ _the_ _girl_ _whose_ _crazy_ _mom_ _tried_ _to_ _kill_ _herself_."

"No one's going to say that."

"Well, that's what they'll be thinking."

"Who cares? Those aren't the ones who matter."

She closed her eyes and sensed him climbing up onto the bed. In a moment his arms wrapped around her, cradling her securely in his warmth. Before her thoughts could torture her any further, she drifted off to sleep.

Seated nervously in a cold imitation-leather recliner, Vivien stared at her mother—or the woman who used to be her mother. Who was this pale, sunken corpse stretched out on the hospital bed?

Ramona turned to her daughter and attempted a smile.

"Hi, Mom. You look..."

"I know how I look," Ramona replied in a thin voice.

They sat in silence, watching each other carefully.

"What did you do to your head?" Ramona asked finally.

Vivien touched her bandage, once again verifying that the unfolding drama was real. She couldn't stop the glimmer of hope that perhaps the hair and makeup people had done a bang-up job and they were all simply actors in a silly daytime soap opera. The set was certainly right: tearful hospital scene complete with tense dialogue and true-to-life bleeps and alarms sounding-off in the background. Soon the unbelievably gorgeous young doctor would come in, followed by the nurse who was married to his identical twin brother and with whom he was having an affair. Later that day she would tell him she was pregnant, which would complicate things considerably since it was common knowledge his twin was unable to father children as the result of a childhood mishap.

"I hit the nightstand," she said. "I guess I passed out or something when I...when I found you."

Ramona pressed her lips together and looked up at the ceiling.

"Mom..."

Slowly Ramona lowered her gaze.

"Was it...it was an accident, right? You never meant to—"

"No," Ramona said. "I don't know how it happened. I think I just...I overdid it, that's all."

A long breath escaped and Vivien blinked back a new set of tears that was threatening to fall. "I thought you were dead. When I saw you on the bed. You wouldn't answer—"

"I'm sorry," Ramona cut her off again. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

"I didn't even know you were taking those pills—what the heck is Xanax, anyway?" A white-hot current of anger ripped through her now. "They keep asking me and I just...I can't answer one freaking thing! I'm supposed to be your daughter. I feel like an idiot."

Ramona lifted her hand and examined the IV tube secured there by excessive amounts of white tape. "I started taking it at night to help me sleep. And then I needed some during the day too. It calmed me down. I never thought..." She locked eyes with Vivien. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I had no right to do that to you, after all you've been through. But I hope you believe me when I say that it was never my intention to...leave you."

No longer able to hold it together, she let out a sob and rushed to the bedside, snatching her mother's hand in her own. She fell to her knees, pressing their hands to her cheek. "You can't leave me," she choked out between the tears. "Don't you ever...If you did, I...I couldn't take it."

Ramona patted her gently on the head. When she'd collected herself somewhat, her mother lifted her by the chin. "It's not your fault, you know."

She shook her head, not understanding.

"Ashton's accident. I know you think it's your fault. You two had an argument before he left for the concert with Max."

"How did you know that?"

"I've been listening to you talk in your sleep for years. I know a lot of things you're not aware of."

She blushed just thinking about this possibility.

"He was an adult, darling. He made his own decisions. Nothing you could've said or done would have changed that day."

Sensing another breakdown on the horizon, she bit down hard on her lip. "But I can't help feeling so bad about the way we left things. The last words we said to each other were..." She shook her head miserably. "Why can't I ever do anything right?"

Ramona reached out and stroked her cheek gently. "Stop reliving the past, sweetheart. You're young. You have your whole life ahead of you."

Vivien nodded, then looked at her curiously. "You know, the same could be said for you. The past has changed you. Sometimes I feel like...maybe I don't know you at all."

Ramona blinked several times. She twisted the slender gold band on her finger, her original wedding ring which she had yet to give up.

"We aren't close anymore," Vivien went on. But had there been a time when they were? Or was her mind simply creating false memories? "It seems like after dad, and then the accident, you just...went someplace else. Someplace where no one could reach you—not even me."

Her words were met with silence.

The door opened a crack and Declan poked his head in, searching the room for Vivien. She stood and motioned him inside. "Mom, I have someone I want you to meet." Declan walked around the foot of the bed and stood by Vivien's side. "This is Declan. He's the one who really saved your life."

Declan nodded. "Nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Allen. I hope you're feeling better now."

Ramona barked out a small, tight laugh. "Better than last night." She gave him a long look. "Well, I don't quite know what so say. Thank you for having a clear head. I'm...I'm...it's all so embarrassing."

"I've been wanting to introduce him to you for a long time," Vivien told her mother. "There just never seemed to be the right opportunity. But he's someone very special to me, and I want you guys to..." She wasn't sure how to complete that sentence: Bond? Be best buddies? These suggestions seemed rather presumptuous at the present moment.

"I see," Ramona said. "So you two have been dating for a while now?" Her voice betrayed ever so slightly her injury at being left out of the loop.

"Sort of."

Declan jumped in to the rescue. "Vivien talks about you a lot," he said. "Your job at the law firm and your..." Unfortunately his attempt fizzled.

"Oh, save it. Everyone in this room knows what a crap mother I've been."

Declan cleared his throat. His hand crept out to Vivien's and held on tight.

"But that's about to change, isn't it, honey?" Her gaze darted to her daughter. "Enough is enough. It's never too late to start over. And all those other worthless clichés, eh? We're going to set things straight. One step at a time," she added with a snigger.

Vivien tried to return her look of confidence, but already the doubt was seeping through. Even at crucial time like this, her mother was making jokes, covering up her true feelings with empty phrases.

A soft knocking sounded at the door. "May I come in?" A tall, broad-chested man stepped into the room, his tanned skin complemented by a lime-green button-down shirt. He halted a healthy distance away, brushing his dark, boyishly long hair aside in a repetitive nervous motion.

"Ricardo," Ramona murmured. "Oh! This is..." She attempted to hide beneath the sheet. "I don't want you to see me like this."

He advanced cautiously to the opposite side of the bed, a breeze of heavy cologne in his wake. "Nonsense. You look beautiful, as always." He gave Vivien a quick wink, then gently brushed a stray hair from Ramona's face. "I wanted to fill the room with flowers to match your exquisiteness, but then I remembered how you're always scolding me for taking things too far."

"Smooth talker," Ramona replied, but looked pleased nonetheless.

"Er...Ricardo, this is Declan," Vivien said, gesturing beside her.

Declan offered his hand, which Ricardo shook enthusiastically. "A pleasure to meet you, son. Ricardo Vargas."

Ramona studied the sea of faces surrounding her. "My, isn't this cozy?"

Ricardo leaned down and whispered something long and complicated into Ramona's ear while the other two pretended not to hear. Then he straightened. "And here I was thinking you stood me up last night," he announced with a flash of white teeth. Vivien thought she saw her mother blush.

Abruptly, Ricardo's affection was replaced by machismo. "Who's in charge here?" he bellowed, glancing around as if the demand might prod the guilty party out of hiding.

Ramona shrugged lazily. "They want to keep me another day or so. Doctor Russell has his heart set on locking me up in the loony bin. Imagine—what fun! You could all come to see me pace my four-by-four cell like a caged animal, with my ass hanging out of my fetching blue hospital gown."

"Where is this Russell fellow?" Ricardo said. "I'll have a word with him."

"You stay out of it," Ramona warned. "I know exactly how you deal with things, and I can assure you it's not going to help me here."

Ricardo looked chagrined. Declan interrupted. "Um, if it's all right, I was thinking Vivien could stay with me. Until you're discharged, that is. My parents...they know what happened and they're more than happy to help in any way they can."

Ramona studied him carefully, as if seeing him in a new light. "Wonderful," she muttered at last. "The word is out."

"Not at all," Declan said. "They're keeping it strictly confidential, of course."

Ramona looked dubious. "Fine. Yes, certainly, if your parents are willing...please express my gratitude." But then a look settled on Ramona's face that appeared less than gracious. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she closed her eyes. "Well, folks, that's the end of show. Tune in next time for even more fun family entertainment." Her eyes flew open and she gave a tinny laugh. "I hate to be rude but I could use some rest. I'm...not at my best, as you're all well aware."

The three visitors exchanged looks, bid their farewells, and headed for the door. Once outside, Ricardo hesitated, the look on his face clearly indicating he had something on his mind. "Do you have a moment?" he asked Vivien.

She nodded and he ushered the two of them off to the side, out of the way of the hustle and bustle of the hospital corridor.

"A few weeks ago," he began, "when your mother and I went away for the weekend, I asked her...I asked her to marry me." He looked intently into Vivien's eyes for any signs that she'd been aware of this, but her shocked expression clearly showed otherwise.

"I was hoping that perhaps she'd discussed this with you, but I see that this is not the case."

Seeing him so visibly crushed, she opened her mouth to speak. She felt she should comfort him in some way, but here again was another example of Ramona deliberately shutting her out. It was like a wallop to the gut that hit her so swiftly she lost her balance.

Declan reached out to steady her, his face full of concern. "Maybe I should hunt down a wheelchair."

She brushed him off with a wave of her hand. "Ricardo, listen, just because she didn't mention it doesn't mean she wasn't considering your...your..." She couldn't bring herself to say the word _proposal_. It sounded too heavy. Too...life-changing. It was hard to believe he'd actually gone and done such a thing in the first place. Wasn't it a tad early to be talking marriage?

"Yes, well...you see...I'm just hoping," he said slowly, "that it didn't upset her. That I didn't inadvertently cause..." He lifted his arm and gestured bleakly at their surroundings. " _This_."

Vivien looked horrified. "Oh, no! I'm sure that had nothing to do with it." But even as she categorically dismissed this, she recognized that, in fact, she knew no such thing. Ramona's flippant explanation of "just feeling stressed" now seemed all the more likely to be another half-truth.

"I think," Declan offered, "she looked genuinely happy to see you. Obviously, you must mean a lot to her."

Ricardo gave him a grateful look. "I hope you're right, son. I hope you're right. I certainly can't imagine my life without that woman. She is..." He raised an eyebrow. "How shall I put it? One of a kind." He reached out, grasping Vivien's hands in his own. "I hope to get to know you better, my dear. Your mother, she would always change the subject whenever I suggested the three of us get together. But now...I think we could all use each other. For support."

She smiled weakly but could think of nothing further to say. The idea of the two of them hanging out together was more than she was ready for at the moment.

Ricardo held onto her for longer than necessary, staring at her but not really seeing her, his mind obviously meandering within some other realm. With a start, he returned to the present and released her in a hurried, somewhat embarrassed gesture. "Thank you," he said, brushing off an imaginary speck of lint from his sports jacket. "Thanks for your time. I know this must be difficult." With that, he ducked off, muttering something about the gift shop, leaving Declan and Vivien alone.

They looked at each other in silence. "Wow," Declan said at last.

"Yeah. Wow," she agreed. "I can't believe he asked her to marry him. Things just keep getting weirder and weirder. I feel like we're in an episode of _The_ _Twilight_ _Zone_."

"His big news did manage to turn you white as a ghost. Are you sure you don't want me to wheel you out of here?"

"I'm fine," she insisted.

He took her arm and began steering her toward the elevators. "So tell me. How do you really feel about staying at my house? If it makes you uncomfortable, I can figure out something else instead."

"Does it make _you_ uncomfortable?" As things currently stood between the two of them, the invitation had been more than little unexpected.

He didn't bother to answer, just grinned his crooked smile.

"What about your parents?" she persisted as they stepped inside the elevator. "They seriously want me there?"

Declan pushed the button for the lobby and nodded. "My mom's already got Patrick's room all made up for you. And right now, at this very minute, I'll bet she's cooking up a storm. Nothing relieves stress better than food."

She felt grateful, excited even, to be a guest at the Mieres' residence. But at the same time, she had the uncomfortable sensation of drifting along, unanchored. She wanted familiarity right now, her room, her bed, her things. "That sounds great. But Declan, I don't have any of my stuff, I can't—"

He silenced her with a finger to her lips, then gripped her arm once more as he led her through the lobby and out the doors.

Fiona sat ready and waiting in the patient drop-off lane. A few frozen-looking individuals loitered near the entrance, shaking the cold from their feet as they blew streams of smoke into the air under the _No_ _Smoking_ sign. The smell brought with it memories of Christophe.

Declan helped her into the front passenger seat so gingerly she felt like she'd just given birth. "It's all taken care of," he said, once behind the wheel.

"How? Did you go through my room?" In horror, she pictured him folding her underpants into neat little piles.

"No. I had Lauren do it."

" _Lauren?_ " she nearly shouted. "Oh, great! So much for people not knowing."

He rested a hand on her knee and squeezed. "She just wanted to help. She won't say anything. She promised. You were gonna tell her anyway, right? You guys are friends."

She heaved a breath. They were friends, weren't they? Nathan or no Nathan. And friends shared things with one another. Good _and_ bad. It was only a matter of time before Charlie and Miranda found out as well. "Thanks," she said at last. And she meant it. Sitting right here next to her was her best friend, she realized. The most caring, considerate person ever—the one good thing she could count on.

"Oh my gosh. Mrs. Mieres, that was so good," Vivien moaned as she leaned back from the table with a hand over her belly. She had been fearful of insulting Mrs. Mieres, as the stress of the past twenty-four hours had left her with little appetite. Yet—no surprise—the dinner had been mouthwateringly impossible to refuse.

"I'm so glad, sweetheart. It was my pleasure." Declan's mother beamed as she rose and began stacking the dishes. "You go on upstairs and get some rest. Anything you need, just ask. I want you to feel completely at home here." Turning to Declan, she gave him a stern look. "And you. You give the girl some space, you hear? She's been through quite an ordeal and she might need some time to herself."

Vivien smiled at Mrs. Mieres' natural protective instincts. She'd been nervous about discussing things with Declan's parents. However, as it turned out, Dr. Mieres had been called into work minutes after her arrival, and Mrs. Mieres was so up front and open about everything, it just seemed natural to have the same approach. Not that they'd discussed anything in detail over dinner, but the subject wasn't uncomfortably taboo, either.

"Mom. _Please,_ " Declan retorted as he helped gather dishes. "I'll be up in a few minutes," he told Vivien. "I'll be good." This he directed toward his mother under his breath.

She meandered up the stairs, lingering once again over the ridiculously attractive and athletic Mieres family montage along the wall. The photos seemed to capture every possible shining moment in the family's fairytale history. But she didn't feel sad or jealous or hopeless as she ascended the long, curved staircase. Instead she felt incredibly fortunate to be included in such a family. It wasn't as difficult as she'd feared to feel at home here.

Her room (Patrick's room) was spotless and smelled like cinnamon-apple air freshener. The bed had been made up hotel-style, with a fluffy plaid down comforter that matched the drapes. A sterile feel permeated the room as it had been emptied of personal effects, save a built-in bookcase full of old textbooks. A few photos lined the shelves: Patrick with his lacrosse team, Patrick and his senior prom date, Patrick and a velveteen miniature Cocoa cradled in his arms. Her gaze dropped to the floor where, sitting smack dab in the center of the plush beige carpet, was her overnight duffle bag.

She carried the bag to the bed and began to rummage through it, wondering what on earth Lauren would have selected to put in there. But of course, Lauren knew her well. Inside she found her favorite sweats along with several choices of t-shirts, her most flattering pair of jeans, a pink sweater, all necessary undergarments, and her UGG slippers. At the bottom of the bag she found a note. Setting the bag aside, she lay down on the bed to read it:

Dear Vivs,

I'm not going to pretend that I know what you're going through right now, but I want you to know that no matter what, I will always be your friend and I'm here for you if you want to talk. Or just hang out and not talk. Or shop. Or eat. Or whatever!!! You mean so much to me and even though you have Declan now (and I have Nathan—can you believe it???), it's so important that we have each other too. Us girls have to stick together, am I right?

So, basically, that's all I wanted to say. I hope you're feeling better and of course your mom, too. When you're ready, I'll be here.

XXOO,

Lauren

P.S. So weird, I ran into Monsieur Way-Too-Hot-To-Be-A-French-Teacher when I was leaving your apartment. He looked totally surprised to see me. Does he live in your building? OMG???!!!

P.P.S. Nathan let it slip about the two of you. PLEASE DON'T BE MAD!!! A sexy older man...what gives? You absolutely have to share!

Vivien felt her pulse racing as she refolded the note and laid it on the bed beside her. What exactly had Nathan told Lauren? And what if she told Charlie, or worse, Miranda, the one person you could count on to blab to entire school?

"Hey." Declan's voice broke into her worries. She glanced up to see him hanging back at the open door. "You found your room, I see."

She sat up and tried to smile calmly. It was too late now; she was going to have to trust that Lauren would keep her secret. "Yeah. I can tell already this bed is super-comfy. Your mom's the best." She suddenly yawned.

"You look really tired," he observed. After a moment he added, "I have orders to leave you alone. Is that what you want?"

She gave this a second's thought. "Not necessarily."

"Come in my room, then," he urged, his pleasure obvious. "I've gotta do some homework, but you can hang out and keep me company."

Sliding the note beneath the covers, she fought another yawn and rose from the bed with effort, following Declan down the hallway and into his bedroom. This time, she noted, it was not so clean.

"I've been busy," Declan apologized, clearing a space for her on his bed. He then took a seat at his desk and began swiveling back and forth in the chair. "Too bad you don't take Spanish. I'm supposed to write a composition tonight and I'm only halfway through the book."

"Is that because of me?" she said with dismay.

"Nah, it's totally my fault. The book sucks. Most of the time I have absolutely no idea what's going on 'cause I've gotta look up every other word." He pushed off with his foot, spinning full circle, and began typing away on his laptop, muttering and grumbling every few minutes.

She closed her eyes, content with listening to the sounds of him working. She must have drifted off because when she opened her eyes, Declan's computer was closed and he was just emerging from the bathroom, a toothbrush angling out from the corner of his mouth.

"Did I fall asleep?" she said groggily.

"Yep. You talked a lot, too," he told her, toothpaste dribbling.

"Did not."

He left to spit and rinse, then returned and sat beside her. "You told me all your deepest, darkest secrets."

"Cut it out," she said, but her entire body tensed.

Declan watched her with interest. At last he said, "I'm just teasing you. But you did seem upset. You said 'no' a bunch of times and your face looked sad."

She shrugged and looked away in an effort to mask her relief. "Hmmm."

Declan continued to watch her. "How's your head? You want any painkillers? My dad's got a ton of stuff in his medicine cabinet downstairs." He smiled. "One of the perks of living with a doctor."

She touched her bandages lightly. "I think I'm OK. Maybe before I go to sleep."

"You should sleep all day tomorrow. My mom said she'd be in and out, but I'm sure she'll totally spoil you. We can head over to the hospital when I get home. Maybe there'll be word on when they're gonna let your mom leave." He reached for her hand and slid his fingers between hers. "I wish I could skip tomorrow."

"No." She shook her head emphatically. "I don't want you to keep worrying about me. I've been nothing but...trouble."

Declan appeared about to say something, but changed his mind. They sat in silence for a bit. A jumble of incomplete thoughts bounced around her head. It was obvious a badly needed conversation hovered over them.

In the end, Declan got things moving by politely, tentatively bringing up the subject of Ramona. "So...um, did you and your mom have a chance to clear the air? Did she explain what happened?"

"I'm not sure. She's...not the easiest person to talk to. I think we were both trying pretty hard, though."

Declan let out a sigh and lay back on the bed, patting the spot next to him.

She settled back and stared up at the ceiling. Movement caught her eye and she watched as a spider dashed to the corner in a rush to ensnare an unlucky victim in its web.

"Even though we aren't exactly close, she's all I have, you know? I can't have...nobody." Her voice quivered with this last word.

"Since when do you have _nobody_?"

She blinked several times. Tears were threatening. Again. She couldn't think clearly, bogged down by self-pity. "I don't know. I don't, I guess. It just feels like it sometimes."

He was quiet for a moment. At last he said, "You can't have it both ways, Vivien. You don't want to be alone, yet you won't let people in."

His frank analysis hit home. Once again he was thinking in terms of black and white. But was it really so simple? It didn't seem that way to her. For her, life at the moment seemed impossibly complicated—so complicated she could think of no adequate response to explain herself.

Declan tried a new tack. "What do you really think? Do you think your mom was trying to kill herself?"

She turned to look at him uncertainly. "I don't know. I wish I could be sure. Of course she said she wasn't. That it was just a stupid mistake. She told me she was taking those pills to help with stress or something. But I already know that even if she did do it on purpose, she would never tell me, so what's the point?"

"The point is you need to trust each other. Without that..." He let his thoughts trail off, shaking his head. Then, after another bit of silence, he said carefully, "Last night...why did you suddenly get up and leave? I know now's not the best time to bring this up, with everything that's happened. But it's important to me. I can't seem to let it go."

She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. Should she go ahead and tell him everything? He was right; she couldn't have it both ways. But if she kept quiet one last time, she could save them both a whole heap of unnecessary pain. Granted, she should have ended it with Christophe long ago, at the point when she'd come to realize just how much Declan meant to her. She knew that now.

"Vivien," she heard him say, the need apparent in his voice. "Give me something."

She opened her eyes. He was so close, so warm, so trusting. All at once desperation gripped her, her confession catching deep in her throat. And she knew: without a doubt, if she told him the truth, it would be over. The lies had gone on far too long. "I...I got scared," she stuttered. "That's all."

He stared at her. Hard. As if his eyes could penetrate her skull. After a moment he looked away with barely concealed disappointment. "Scared of what?" he said, his voice gone dead.

"I don't know," she replied, scrambling to give him what he wanted but keep what she needed. "I was thinking you might want to...you know."

"I would never pressure you," he answered, his gaze still averted. "And might I point out that _you_ were the one with the condom. Not me."

Ugh! The stupid condom. Nathan, leading her blindly into a trap. This was all his fault. "I know," she rushed. "It's just..." She sighed loudly in exasperation. "I can't explain it. All of a sudden, I had this feeling—"

" _Why?_ " His face looked distorted, as if the skin might actually burst. "I don't buy it, what you're saying. Feelings don't just come out of nowhere."

His icy tone startled her and she shrank away. "I just said: I...I..." She paused, gathering her thoughts, which somehow resisted any direct manipulation, darting off into dangerous territory, the very heart of her insecurities. Fear and resentment simmered inside of her, hot and messy. "You know what? Maybe it's my turn to point out that I'm not...I'm just not like you. You and Nathan and... and _Mariah_ ," she spat the name with particular venom. "You say you don't care, but you so obviously do! How dare you sit there and accuse me when I was the one who tried to tell you this—over and over again?" She gave a soft snort. "I'm not some dopey charity project you can mold to your liking. The truth is you never really accepted me for who I am."

Her words appeared to knock the wind right out of him, his mouth dropping open in stunned silence. All at once his jaw clamped shut and he rolled away, crossing his arms over his chest. She could hear his breath coming unevenly in the heavy silence.

Nothing could stop the tears now. They rolled soundlessly down her cheeks, splashing into her ears and wetting the sheets beneath.

Minutes passed. Declan spoke, directing his words at the ceiling. "My mistake. You're tired and...and...It was mistake," he repeated, his voice crackling, snapping in two.

"Ughh!" she moaned. "Declan. I didn't mean that." She tried to wipe away any trace of tears before he could notice. "You're right; I am tired. I should go to bed." She sat up and immediately her head began to throb. She pressed her fingertips against her temples, making tiny, rapid circles. "Do you think I could have some of those painkillers now? The hospital gave me some Tylenol, but I don't think that's going to cut it."

Declan propelled himself up and out of the bed in one swift motion but was unable to look her in the eye. "Yeah. No problem. You're OK, though, right?"

"Just a headache," she said, grimacing as a second wave of pain shot through her. It felt as though someone was taking a hammer to her head.

Looking guilt-ridden, Declan left the room in haste, calling out, "Be right back."

She sat very still on the edge of the bed, avoiding any sudden movements. Everything her eyes settled upon filled her with emotion: posters and CDs; photos and trophies; dirty laundry scattered across the floor (Oh, how she loved him in that green striped shirt!); even the unmade bed itself, with its warm, pungent-smelling sheets. Could she be any more in love with this person? He was exceptional. Original. Irreplaceable.

Declan returned in an instant with a glass of water in one hand, pills in the other. "There weren't any directions, but I think you can take two," he told her.

The pain in her head was snaking its way down to her stomach, bringing on brief but powerful spasms of nausea. She scooped both pills from the palm of his hand and flung them down her throat, chasing them quickly with big gulps of water. She stood abruptly. Too abruptly. The room began a counterclockwise rotation.

"Whoa." Declan grabbed her as she stumbled forward. "Slow down." Cautiously, he led her in baby steps down the hall and into her room.

"Hey!" he scolded, glancing toward the bed where Cocoa lay curled in a ball. "Get down!" The dog raised her head and gave him a look. She rose laboriously to her feet and hopped down, eyeing the pair sullenly on her way out.

Vivien vaguely remembered there was something here in this room she didn't want Declan to see, but as her eyes roamed about she saw nothing to jog her memory. Feeling as if her legs might collapse beneath her, she stumbled forward onto the bed and began to wrap the comforter around her body.

"Wait! Um, you're sure you want to wear all that to bed?" Declan asked.

She looked down at her lower half, still in jeans and a wide leather belt, but all energy had left her. "Forget it. I'm good." Already her mind felt clogged and fuzzy from the painkillers. She flopped her arms heavily to either side and mumbled, "Whatever."

With a shrug, Declan swung her legs out, then tucked them under the comforter, smoothing the bulges down neatly and securing it under her chin. When he'd finished, he took a step back, standing in silence, a look of uncertainty plain on his face.

Completely oblivious, she smiled a dreamy smile. She felt good now. And he was so frickin' hot. She nearly announced this out loud, but instead said, "How about a kiss goodnight?"

The request caught him off guard and he hesitated a good thirty seconds before complying. Slowly he leaned down, hovering an inch above her face. "Goodnight," he said, his voice tinged with regret. Their lips met in a feather-light kiss.

At the door, he turned once again to watch her.

Her eyelids, heavy as a sack of potatoes, fell halfway. _"Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess,_ " she sang softly. " _It's a love story, baby, just say yes..._ "

Declan cocked his head with a frown. "Did you say something?"

Lids lowering, succumbing at last, the woozy smile remained on her lips. " _Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone. I keep waiting for you but you never come..._ "

### Twenty-Two

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Self-defense begins in your head. Karate kicks may work in the movies, but in real life your best line of defense is to avoid dangerous situations altogether. If possible, try to get away before the attacker has a chance to get his hands on you. Use your intuition and common sense to keep yourself out of trouble. Never walk alone, especially at night. Stick to populated, well-lit areas. Never approach a stranger's car or place of residence, even if they ask for your help. Make sure friends and family know where you are at all times. Show confidence in your body language. And be sure to carry a cell phone!

The dark hours of the night were filled with the most vivid dreams that piggybacked off one another, each one stranger than the next. At first she was Isolde, the Irish princess betrothed to a king but in love with his devoted soldier. She and her lover kept scurrying off to private corners in hopes of an intimate moment, yet each time she attempted to glimpse his face, he would turn away and she was left with the feeling of not knowing his true identity. And then, suddenly, her men were dueling, mirroring each other's moves perfectly in a dance of death. Weary with fatigue, one hooded figure faltered, stepping clumsily to the side. Capitalizing on this error, his opponent lunged forward and with a powerful thrust sank the blade deep into his chest. She cried out. She fell to her knees and crawled to the fallen man, cupping him by the chin and lifting his hood ever so slowly so she could see his face. But when she looked, there was no face at all, only sheets of music that fluttered away in the breeze.

Next she dreamt she was sleeping in her own bed but was awakened by a clinking sound at her window. She arose, waited, and soon enough another pebble smacked the glass. On the street below stood Ashton. He motioned for her to come down. He had something important to show her. Once outside she searched and searched but could find no trace of him save an empty guitar case full of loose change and crumpled Snickers wrappers. She called his name repeatedly. One by one the cats arrived. From all directions they ran to her, rubbing their coarse, filthy fur against her bare legs, so many they nearly knocked her off balance. Much to her dismay, upon closer look she could see that most had been cruelly abused in one way or another. Tails butchered, tongues removed, eye sockets emptied. Others had been gutted, salmon-pink entrails spilling out of swollen bodies. And all around her the signs whispered, _Missing_ _cat_ , _please_ _help!_

She awoke with a start. A noise at her window. Ashton?

No. Rain. A steady spray pitter-pattered against the panes of glass. Not her window. Not her bed. Where was she? It took half a minute to remember.

Tossing the covers to the side, she swung her legs around and planted her feet on the plush carpet. She stretched her arms overhead, curling her spine like a cat. She yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. And then she sat still. She did not feel her best. In fact, she felt exceptionally groggy.

Slowly she got to her feet, throwing a puzzled glance at her choice of sleepwear. The house was quiet. So quiet she could hear the meticulous ticking of the grandfather clock echoing up from the foyer downstairs. She padded down the hall to Declan's room, her eyes searching his bed, his desk, the bathroom. Empty. The vacant feeling made her sigh in disappointment.

Down the stairs she went, but the emptiness followed. In the kitchen she found Cocoa asleep under the table. She gave her a warm greeting and checked the clock. Ten twenty-eight. She hadn't slept this late in years.

On the kitchen counter she found a note from Mrs. Mieres listing in detail all the various foods she could have for breakfast. But she wasn't hungry. All she wanted was a large cup of coffee with milk and lots of sugar to wake her from this fog. She found the stainless-steel coffee pot and was pleased to find that it was still half full.

In search of a mug, she opened cupboards absently, her mind wandering until it snagged on a disconcerting fragment: coffee; Christophe. They were supposed to have met yesterday afternoon. But of course she hadn't shown up, hadn't called. Would he have been worried? She had to find a way to see him. Today it would finally be over.

Taking her cup to the table, she leafed through the morning paper someone had kindly left out for her benefit. Snow was predicted by early evening. Six to twelve inches. She groaned. Cocoa lifted her head, ears pricked.

"Sorry, Cocoa, old girl. That was just me, complaining. Did I disturb your beauty sleep?"

But Cocoa had scurried out from under the table and was eyeing the door to the garage. Then Vivien heard it too, a soft rapping. She got to her feet and paused just before the door, listening. Another faint knock and this time the dog let out a terse bark. Cautiously she opened the door a crack and peered through.

"Oh!" she gasped.

Christophe stood on the other side, his hair and jacket slick with rain. Opening the door wider, she stood gaping at him. Cocoa sniffed once and stiffened.

He smiled at her, managing to cast a suspicious eye in the dog's direction at the same time. "May I come in?" he asked.

Unsure of the proper protocol, a reply evaded her. This was not her house. This was her _boyfriend's_ house. It hardly seemed wise to let him in. Not to mention the fact that she looked like crap. "Um..." she stalled.

Ignoring her hesitation, Christophe pushed inside, simultaneously shooing the dog back with a broad sweep of his arm.

"She won't bite or anything. Cocoa's a sweetheart," she added in baby talk, ruffling the dog's neck.

"Yes. Well." He looked unimpressed. "I'm not overly fond of dogs. Or cats, for that matter."

The word "cats" set off a ripple of unease and she frowned in an effort to recall the significance.

Christophe was watching her closely. His eyes zeroed in on the bandage. "Are you in pain?" He made a movement toward her but then held back. "What happened to you?"

"This?" She laughed self-consciously as she pointed to her eyebrow. "It's kind of a long story. But I ended up with twenty-four stitches, just like you! Can you believe it?" Her smile faded to a look of curiosity. "How did you know I was here?"

"I heard about your mother—the unfortunate _accident_ ," he explained, placing a peculiar emphasis on that last word, as if they both knew it to be a farce. "And I was concerned about you."

"But—"

"You look exhausted. Whatever gave you the idea to stay here?" he demanded with an air of disapproval. "Surely someone else could have looked after you better?"

His tone caught her by surprise. "Well—"

"But of course, this is none of my business." The air of displeasure remained.

"I'm—"

"I came here," he spoke over her, "to steal you away. If you're up for it, that is." His eyes twinkled mysteriously.

She frowned. She had no idea what to say.

"Yesterday...I'd planned a little surprise for you. But when you never showed up..."

"I—"

"Rose," he urged, sensing her hesitation.

The name, spoken aloud, caused her to cringe. Not here, she wanted to tell him. Not in this house. It hit her ears like nails on a chalkboard: raw, objectionable. Undeniable evidence of her duplicity.

She chewed her bottom lip. Truth be told, she wasn't prepared for him just yet. She felt fuzzy and slightly out of sorts, having been interrupted before she could get sufficiently caffeinated. But now that he was here, she took it as a sign. No more delaying the inevitable. "I suppose I could. But do I have time to change?" She really wanted a shower, but decided to forgo freshness for duty.

"Yes. Of course," he replied, relief slipping into a hint of impatience. "But if you could, not too long; we need to head out before the roads get slippery."

"Oh. Right." Yet for some reason she stayed put, an intangible sensation holding her in place. As if a third presence had entered the room, an unknown entity she could not identify. The sudden urge to retreat upstairs, not to dress but to undress overcame her, to nestle down in the warm and cozy bed Mrs. Mieres had made for her. There she would stay safe and sound, waiting for Declan to come home to her.

But no. She'd made a decision. As much as she wanted to drag her feet, the situation had reached an impasse. Her relationship with Declan was on shaky ground. She must take action this very minute. Christophe was waiting.

Upstairs she went directly to the bathroom and washed her face with cold water in an attempt to reduce the puffiness. She brushed her teeth and swished around a capful of mouthwash. Searching the cabinet below, she found talcum powder and dusted her hair lightly to soak up excess oil. She hesitated in front of the mirror, debating whether or not to take the time to put on mascara and add some color to her cheeks, but decided this was a waste of time. The bandage over her eye nixed anything remotely attractive about her face. The surrounding area had begun to turn an ugly shade of purple.

In the bedroom she peeled off her clothes, sniffed her armpits, and applied a fresh coating of cool cucumber deodorant. Sporting a clean pair of jeans and her pale pink cashmere sweater, she headed out but stopped short when she spied Lauren's note lying just under the bed. Hurriedly she stuffed it on top of the dirty clothes in her duffle and zipped the bag closed.

As she entered the kitchen, Christophe was drying his hands at the kitchen sink. He heard her approach and spun around, all smiles.

"Did you make friends with Cocoa?" she asked as she scanned the kitchen for the old Lab. The dog was nowhere to be seen.

Christophe gave her a cryptic look and began moving toward the door. "We reached an understanding of sorts."

"There it is," she exclaimed, darting to grab her purse, which was resting on the kitchen table. "I swear I put this somewhere else, but..." She shook her head. "My head's really in the clouds today." Out of habit, she began rummaging inside in search of her phone. It had suddenly occurred to her that Declan might have left her a message.

"Off we go," Christophe intervened, taking her by the arm and guiding her efficiently out the door. "We really must hurry."

Outside the sky looked ominous indeed. Massive dark clouds pressed down on the sprawling homes and tree-lined streets. A faint musical sound could be heard intermittently as droplets of ice plinked against branches, rooftops, and cars.

They'd made it midway through the garage before her step faltered. The weather was bad. It seemed like a terrible idea. To leave. To be getting on the roads right now.

Christophe ignored her apprehension, urging her along as he said, "This way. Here we go," in a singsong voice. His thumb dug into her upper arm as they moved.

She winced but allowed herself to be led, their feet skating along the concrete, the thump of the crutch prompting the initiation of every step. They had only just cleared the garage door when a second, equally troubling observation occurred to her. "Wait. So this was open when you arrived?" It seemed unlikely that Mrs. Mieres would leave her sleeping the day away in an unlocked house.

Christophe stopped and stared at her. Ice-cold droplets pelted them as they stood in a tight silence. "Funny; it was," he said at last. Abruptly, he abandoned her, backtracking to the keypad mounted on the side of the garage. "These things can malfunction sometimes," he called out, his fingers flying over numbers and symbols. Seconds later the door was closing. "You can reset them easily enough," he told her, back at her side, easing her forward. His breathing seemed slightly irregular. "I myself was surprised to find you all alone when I knocked, but..." He shook his head, frowning in disapproval, as if the Mieres family had clearly failed in looking after her.

She could think of no rebuttal, despite a nagging intuition that something was not right. And as she reached the truck, raising a foot to place it cautiously on the slick running board, she paused for a third and final time. How curious, she mused, that this happened to be the kind of car Christophe drove. In her mind, he was much better suited for an elegant luxury sedan, a shiny black Mercedes. Yet here he was in this pickup truck—this _blue_ pickup truck—

"It's not locked." The words came at her from the other side, sharp, hurried.

An episode of _Without a Trace_ flashed through her mind. "Our suspect struck here," the lead detective was saying, his finger tapping out the location on a map of the city, "where he managed to subdue the victim and move her to another location." The female officer twisted her mouth in distaste. "Never let 'em take you to a second location."

Her gaze darted to Christophe, who, like her, stood as if frozen, half in, half out of the truck. He wore a look of impatience.

But she had put things off long enough. The time had come to make things right. With a reassuring smile, as much for her own benefit as Christophe's, she ducked inside.

Be strong, she chided herself.

And she would. She was doing this for Declan.

### Twenty-Three

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Dishonesty is the beginning of the end in a relationship. If you suspect your significant other of lying, here are a few tips to keep in mind. 1) Be certain of the facts. Don't go throwing accusations around before you've done your homework. 2) Do not overreact. Choose a calm time to approach him/her. Try to refrain from raising your voice. 3) Present evidence to support your claims. This will allow you to make your case on stronger footing. 4) Keep the conversation focused. Now is not the time to dredge up past transgressions. 5) Determine, together, how to fix the problem. 6) Make a conscious effort to move forward. While the past does play a role in relationships, your greatest hope of happiness lies in the future.

Declan fought to manage his emotions as he pulled into his garage. So much had happened in the last forty-eight hours that, as much as he hated to admit it, a return to the ordinary routine of school had been a welcome relief.

And yet the hours away had only served to intensify his focus on Vivien. Never before had he felt this way about someone. Everything she said, everything she did fascinated him. When he wasn't with her, she was the first person he called to share the details of his day. He imagined teaching her how to ski, how to drive a car, how to catch a ball without closing her eyes. Spring Break, he'd already made plans for them to visit Patrick at Notre Dame. And this summer he was looking forward to taking her out on the Sunfishes they kept at the lake.

At the same time, she literally drove him crazy. Nothing came easily. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't penetrate the walls she'd built around herself. After all their time together there remained a part of her she'd never let him touch. And this ate away at him. Drove him mad with frustration.

And now, as he headed into the house, he found himself dragging his feet, wondering which Vivien would be there to greet him. The goofy, affectionate one? Or the guarded stranger?

Inside he dumped his backpack on the kitchen floor and went to the refrigerator, grabbing a half-gallon of orange juice and chugging it straight from the carton. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and let out a long sigh.

The house was completely silent. He figured she was upstairs sleeping. That pain medication had gone straight to her head last night. Being such a lightweight and all, he probably should've given her just the one. He bet she'd felt pretty groggy when she woke up this morning.

Last night. The memory drew forth a scowl. When he'd tried to get close to her, she'd pushed him away. Again. Hurled the worst insults she could think of. Afterward, her apology had seemed false. Words only. What she'd said would stay with him forever. And then she'd been in such pain. He never should have forced the issue. The timing was all wrong. Guilt racked him. He needed to let loose and beat the shit out of something. Maybe he'd sneak down to the basement and have a go at his punching bag. That usually did the trick.

But first he'd go check on her. If she was sleeping, he'd give her an hour or so before waking her. Then they could head over to the hospital to see her mom.

Upstairs he checked his room first to see if everything was as he left it. He could totally picture her snooping around in there and then denying it. Not that he had anything to hide. What you see was what you got. But the room looked unchanged. Sloppy as usual.

He headed down to Patrick's room. The door was open just a crack. Peering inside, the first thing he saw was her bag, smack dab in the center of the room. It looked as though she had everything packed and ready to go, and he wondered if she was dying to get the hell out. Pushing the door farther open, he stepped inside and turned toward the bed. The covers lay smooth. And empty.

OK. Where was everybody? Was she out somewhere with his mom? Maybe they'd gone shopping or grabbed some lunch. But it was nearly four o'clock, a little late for that.

As he spun around, something caught his eye. Something sticking out of her bag, caught in the zipper. A closer look revealed a slip of paper. That made sense. She'd probably left it there for him, explaining where she'd gone. Upon careful extraction, he unfolded the note and began to read.

He nearly stopped when he realized it was not, in fact, meant for him. Never one to stick his nose in other people's business, he steered clear of gossip and nasty rumors. Plus reading private, personal messages was just plain dishonest. But something caught his attention near the bottom of the page, those two pesky words: _French_ _teacher_. He found himself forging ahead, quickly scanning Lauren's loopy doodles. The last few lines were a direct blow to the gut: _the two of you having_ _a thing_...blah, blah, blah... _sexy_ _older_ _man_...

What the hell?

He read it again. And again.

Dropping the letter, he tore from the room and down the stairs. Back in the kitchen, he yanked his cell from his backpack. Breathing hard and feeling slightly light-headed, he pushed speed dial. His hand trembled as he waited for the sound of her voice.

It rang. Once. Twice. The third time he heard it: the ring, duplicated, louder. Coming from somewhere nearby. He let his own phone dangle at his side as he strained to identify the source of the ringing. He circled the table. No phone. He scanned the room for her purse. Nothing. Puzzled, he squatted to the floor, searching beneath the chairs. The ringing stopped, the call lost to voicemail.

" _Shit!_ " He redialed and listened once again. He walked around the kitchen, trailing his hand along the countertop. He stopped abruptly at the hand-painted canisters his parents had brought back from Portugal. They held the flour, sugars, and various other mysterious baking essentials his mother used to whip up her masterpieces. Another muffled ring sounded off and Declan pounced on the largest cylinder. Bingo! He extracted the dusty white phone with his thumb and forefinger. It rang once more before the room was silent.

Declan stood frozen. What was this? What logical explanation could there be for leaving your phone in the flour? Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong.

Immediately he placed a second call.

"Hi, Dec," his mother answered. "How are things going? The roads are absolutely terrible! I hope you took extra care driving home from school."

" _Mom,_ " he droned, her unnecessary concern only adding to his agitated state. "I'm always careful. Listen, can I talk to Vivien? She left her cell here."

There was a pause. "Vivien? She's not with me. I'm at the dry cleaner's. Then I'm stopping at the market to stock up before the blizzard hits." Another pause. "She wasn't there when you got home?"

Declan took a deep breath. "No. Nobody's here. And we're not having a blizzard, by the way. Last I heard they were calling for six inches."

"No, no. It's at least twelve, hon. They just said so on the radio." He could hear her thanking the cashier at the drycleaners. Then she was back. "I haven't talked with Vivien today. I was afraid if I called I'd wake her up. The girl has been through quite an ordeal." As an afterthought she added, "Maybe she's visiting with friends."

"Yeah. Maybe." All at once he didn't feel like talking anymore. "Never mind. I'll see you later." He hung up and began pacing the room. Vivien was missing. Something was wrong. What should he do?

He should call the police. "Yes," he said aloud. He pressed nine—one...his finger hovered over the final one. He ended the call.

Wait a second. The possibility that his mom was right crossed his mind. One of her friends could've swung by and taken her somewhere. Like the hospital. Maybe she'd needed to get there sooner than they'd planned. Maybe Mrs. Allen had taken a turn for the worse.

All he knew was that he had no intention of just sitting around. He had to move. He had to something.

Grabbing his keys and jacket, he flew out the door. Once he was on the road, he'd get his thoughts in order. He had to keep his head on straight. He had to find her.

It took Declan nearly an hour to get where he wanted to go. Surprisingly, the roads were in good condition thanks to the salt trucks. The same could not be said for the quality of driving he witnessed on the main routes through town. He did his best to remain calm, but by the fourth traffic jam, he felt on the verge of serious road rage. At last he could take it no longer, swerving around an exceptionally long traffic jam, riding the shoulder until he could make the right turn that would take him to the hospital.

Ditching the car in a dubious parking spot, he jogged through the main entrance at a fast clip, searching the faces around him as he went. No sign of Vivien. He punched the _up_ button with his fist and stood fidgeting while he waited.

As he approached Mrs. Allen's room, he was disappointed to see the door was closed. Now he would have to knock and go in, rather than getting a feel for the situation first from a safe distance.

He did one last scan for Vivien before he raised his hand and rapped hesitantly on the door. After a moment he thought he heard a muffled reply, and with a deep breath he let himself in. He saw at once that she was alone and he wondered what exactly he was going to say to her.

If Ramona was surprised to see him, she showed no sign of it. Her expression was welcoming in a queenly sort of way, as if she was pleased he'd come to pay his respects. She smiled and fussed over the bed linens, smoothing them repeatedly with her perfectly manicured nails as he came to a halt a polite distance away. "Why, Declan! How sweet of you to come," she said, tilting her head coyly. "Is it bad out there? They keep interrupting my program with severe weather bulletins."

"Nah. The freezing rain has pretty much stopped. I think the snow's supposed to start in about an hour."

She shivered. "Snow. Who needs it?" Then she lay back on her mound of pillows, looking at him expectantly.

"I'm not sure," he found himself answering, followed by a long spell of silence. "So..." He rubbed his hands together, then began to fidget with his zipper. There seemed to be no good place to put his hands so he ended up shoving them in his pockets. "Any word on when you're getting out of here?"

"I get a different answer every time someone comes in here," she said irritably. At once she jerked her head, making a point of looking as if a thought had just occurred to her. "The name—Mieres. I've heard that before somewhere. Isn't your father one of the top surgeons here?"

"Yeah, that's right. Over in the neurosurgery department."

"Yes. I remember now. Channel four did a piece on him. Some groundbreaking technique he came up with last year." She gave him an appraising look. "Quite the big cheese, isn't he? How nice."

Declan shrugged uncomfortably and veered the conversation in another direction. "You look...like you got some sleep last night." She did look pretty good, all things considered. For someone her age, she'd managed to hang on to her looks and seemed to know instinctively all the right moves to get a man's attention. Just as Vivien had remarked when she'd first met his parents, he could see the traits shared by mother and daughter: the petite figure, and something he couldn't put his finger on, something around the mouth. But there was a callousness to Ramona, the way she set her jaw, the way she stared straight through you like most of what you said was inconsequential. This had yet to touch her daughter. Yet. He felt a sudden protective urge to get Vivien away from this woman.

"I know Vivien's anxious to have you home again," he said. "To have everything back to normal. She's—"

"And where is my lovely daughter?"

His mouth snapped shut. "I'm not..." He stopped, then began again. "She wasn't here earlier, was she?"

Ramona gave him a funny look. "Here? Not today. Of course, Ricardo came by—there's absolutely no keeping him away—but he was my only visitor."

A look of consternation crossed Declan's face.

"Declan, darling, I'm confused. I was under the impression that Vivien was staying at your house."

"She is," he assured her quickly. "But I had to go to class today so I...she slept in. She was beat. I didn't get a chance to talk to her this morning. I'm thinking she might be with Miranda or Lauren. We probably just crossed paths or something."

She studied him closely. "How are things going?"

He looked at her in uncertainty.

"With the two of you. Is everything all right?"

"Sure." He smiled. "Everything's great. We're...great."

She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. "Great," she repeated, managing to change the meaning of the word with the inflection of her voice. She took a long sip of ice water and then bestowed another regal smile in his direction. "I'm going to share something with you."

Without knowing how, he was certain he wasn't going to like what was coming. But it seemed as though he had no alternative but to stand there and listen.

After another lengthy sip, Ramona began. "Vivien is damn lucky to have someone like you. I've had my fair share of boyfriends—modesty's so overrated, isn't it?—and I can spot a catch when I see one. It's obvious you are well bred and have your act together. Not to mention you happen to be an exceptionally good-looking young man."

Declan nearly choked. Well bred? Was she kidding? Her choice of words made him sound like a champion racehorse. "That's nice of you to say, Mrs. Allen."

"Nice has nothing to do with it." She paused for effect, eyeing him openly as if she was about to put a wad of cash down on a new car. "Listen," she resumed, "by now, I'm sure you're well aware that my daughter..." Here she hesitated, searching for the right words. "She's rather restrained, I would say."

"I think—"

"Granted, she had a somewhat difficult childhood," Ramona went on, "with her father turning out to be such a colossal disappointment. All the same, despite my best efforts, she's turned out much too conservative, I'm afraid. I'll be the first to admit I had my doubts as to what kind of boy would ever be interested in her. Not that she's unattractive..." Here she smiled slyly as if the two of them were sharing a juicy secret. "But we all know boys like a girl who's up for a little fun now and then. Am I right?"

He couldn't be sure, but he thought Mrs. Allen winked at him. He shifted his weight, contemplating his response. Was she actually waiting for confirmation that he preferred girls who put out?

"Perhaps you are just the one to bring her out of her shell," she answered for him.

"I don't know...I think she's doing all right," he replied. In truth, he didn't know what to think. Ever since he'd read the note, he'd done nothing but replay the scenes of their relationship over and over again in his mind. Had the whole thing been nothing but a lie? He found himself wondering if, in fact, Vivien had them all fooled, posing as some kind of goody-goody when all along she was into something crude. Dirty. Like getting it on with a teacher. Even more disturbing: a French dude.

Did he really believe this? He wished she hadn't suddenly gone MIA so he could have the chance to confront her. If there was one thing that totally pissed him off, it was inaction.

"Did you know she could've been somebody?"

Mrs. Allen's words snapped him out of his own private hell. He gave her a puzzled look.

"It's true. A real star. She's gifted—musically, that is. She started playing the piano when she was four." She began nodding vehemently. "Right away I knew. I knew she was different from all those other little brats. It was absolute agony listening to them pound away on the keys. And the parents," she groaned, "videotaping their precious protégés. Clapping and grinning like a bunch of imbeciles. Vivien, she had finesse."

"No. I didn't know," he lied.

"We hired the best instructors for her. She was playing in concert halls by the time she was seven or eight. Chicago, she played Chicago!" Ramona said this as if the city were the pinnacle of musical talent. "And then suddenly it was over. She refused to play anymore. No explanation." Ramona frowned deeply. "Nothing I said or did would change her mind." She paused, and it took several minutes of studying her rich-ruby-painted nails before she could go on. "It's obvious what it was, though." She looked up at Declan as if she expected him to proffer a guess and looked disappointed when he chose to remain silent. "That asshole ex-husband of mine put her up to it," she declared with palpable venom. "I don't know how he did it, but he did. He wanted to hurt me, to send me over the edge. And he used her to do it." She shook her head in disbelief, then laughed. "Goddamn father of the year."

Declan was at a loss for words. The room felt uncomfortably warm. All he wanted was to get the hell out of there. At the same time he wanted to scream at this woman. This selfish, clueless woman who had no idea who her own daughter really was. _She could have been somebody._ What kind of parent said that about their kid? Wasn't Vivien somebody already?

"I'm sorry," he told her.

Ramona blew a puff of air in his direction, dismissing him, her daughter, Alan Allen, and the whole sordid affair.

"Look, it was great seeing you," he said, edging toward the door. "I'm glad you're feeling better. But I really gotta run."

She appeared not to acknowledge his words, still adrift in the bitter memories of all the ways she had been wronged. Abruptly she snapped out of it. "Why didn't you bring your friend along, too?

The strangeness of the inquiry halted him midescape. "Excuse me?"

She looked at him as if he was dense. "Your friend? The other nice-looking young man who helped save my life?"

Declan shook his head. "Mrs. Allen, I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about. Vivien and I were the only ones in the apartment that night."

A distant look settled on her face. "No," she insisted. "There was someone else. I remember. He came to me when I was lying in bed. I was so exhausted I couldn't move and he said something to me."

"What?" Declan asked. "What did he say?"

She made a face, trying to recall his exact words. "Well, now this is peculiar, but I recall him saying that I had exquisite hands. Like mother, like daughter, he kept repeating. I don't know. I can't be sure. But he...he—at one point I could barely breathe..."

Without a doubt, her story sounded like a freaked-out hallucination, a direct effect of the dicey assortment of drugs she'd taken that night. "Huh." Declan shrugged. "I don't know what to say. Like I said, I never saw anyone else there." But he was careful not to show his disbelief. "EMS was in the room, of course. Maybe that's who you're thinking of, you just have the timeline a little messed up."

She looked at him and began to nod hesitantly, like she didn't really agree with his suggestion but was making a show of pretending she did.

"I'm sorry," he found himself apologizing once more. "I've really got to go."

Appearing to have recovered, she smiled demurely at him. "Of course, dear. I wouldn't dream of keeping you from your business." Then, quick as a fox, she dropped the smile and replaced it with a wistful look. "Thank you for taking the time to see me. It's dreadful in here, if you must know. Your visit was the unexpected highlight of my day. I very much enjoyed our little chat."

That makes one of us, he thought to himself.

Declan exited the hospital in a fog, nearly walking into the automatic sliding glass doors before they had opened a sufficient distance. Slamming the door to the car, he sat motionless for several minutes. At length a security guard tapping on his window, motioning for him to move his vehicle out of the Emergency Only lane, startled him. He pulled out, scanning his phone messages as he drove. Almost too late he slammed on the brakes, barely avoiding a man guiding an elderly woman across the crosswalk. The man glared at him through the windshield, boldly flashing the middle finger as he passed. Declan looked away in embarrassment. Once they were out of sight, he punched the steering wheel in frustration. " _Fuck!_ " he shouted.

There'd been nothing. Not a word from Vivien when he'd checked. And he'd nearly taken down two people in the process. He needed to calm down. Think clearly. As he moved forward at a cautious crawl, his mind began to work, gathering known data, placing question marks where information was missing.

With careful attention, he arrived at step one: it was time to have a talk with Nathan.

He waited in the car, across the street from the small brown bungalow, watching for any sign of life. Behind the overgrown hedges, the house stood dark and sinister. What a shithole, he observed. Five minutes later, Nathan's red Saab pulled up behind him.

Declan got out and waited, leaning against the Volvo with his arms crossed.

Nathan sauntered over. "You found it," he said.

Declan's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the house once more. So this was where she'd been meeting him. Coming here how often? And doing what, exactly? All the while keeping it a nice little secret. "Yep," he said.

"Well, I had Lauren call around to see if Vivs was hangin' with her friends, but no one's seen her today." He waited, then said, "So what's the plan?"

Declan gave him a steady look. "Nobody's home. The plan is, we let ourselves in and have a look."

Nathan nodded, a smile growing on his lips. "Awesome. Let's go." He made a move, but Declan grabbed his arm.

"Hold on. We're not gonna do anything stupid, right?" He held Nathan's gaze.

Nathan broke loose, grinning. " _Dude!_ Hey, this is your show. I'm just the backup."

Declan stood silent for a moment, then nodded, and the two boys crossed the street toward the Frenchman's house.

"Let's head around back," Declan advised.

It was early evening and the light had faded, allowing the boys to trespass without calling significant attention to themselves. Declan kept his hands in his pockets as he crept close to the foliage on the perimeter. The ground was slick from the freezing rain and he could see the fog of his breath as he exhaled into the darkness. As he crossed the backyard toward the patio, he tripped on a large, unidentifiable object in the grass—a cinderblock, he soon discovered. He cursed quietly and rubbed his shin, positive it had left him with a nice gash.

Reaching the back door, he gave it tug. It didn't budge. Upon closer examination, the door looked as though it had been painted shut. Clearly the thing hadn't been opened in years.

The boys separated, feeling along the back of the house for any play in the windows. But these also had been sealed shut with a thick coat of brown paint.

They regrouped and headed back toward the front. Having no other option, they mounted the porch steps and hesitated at the front door. Nathan shrugged and pushed the handle with his thumb. With a clean click, the door eased open.

"Well, what do you know?" Nathan remarked. "Our good pal Chris didn't bother to lock up."

Declan shook his head in disbelief, looked over his shoulder once, and entered the house. Inside the boys paused in the front hallway, listening for any sounds and taking stock of their surroundings. Nathan veered off to the left into the living room, while Declan moved quietly down the hall to the kitchen.

In the dim light Declan could make out a sink piled high with dirty dishes. The kitchen table was littered with cigarettes stubbed out in a wide assortment of saucers and plates. Walking over to the refrigerator, he opened the door, revealing its sparse contents: a case of beer—Milwaukee's finest, nearly empty; a large block of smelly cheese; and a few slices of meat exhibiting an odd iridescent sheen. He shut the door and turned around, staring absently out the back window. What was he looking for?

Nathan's voice reached him from the other room, "Dude, you gotta see this."

Declan found him in the living room, standing before several large display cases. Resting his hands atop the glass, he leaned in with a scowl. "What is this?"

"Some kind of weird collection. Look." Nathan pointed. "That metal thing with the chain goes around your neck, I think. And check out those cuffs."

Declan strolled beside each case, studying the various oddities on display. Strangely, the four cases were mostly empty. He could see plainly where items had formerly sat by the faint indentations in the plush red velvet.

"Maybe he likes it rough," Nathan chuckled, then stopped abruptly when he realized the implications.

Without commenting, Declan gave him a somber look and wandered away down a short hallway, pausing to peek into the first room. A bedroom. A dresser sat against the far wall, every drawer wide open. He crossed to have a closer look. Empty, save a single black sock and an old sweatshirt. Crumpled cigarette packets lay strewn about the bare futon in the middle of the floor. Over in one corner was a complete set of weights, push-up handles, and a jump rope. Declan frowned. How exactly did the dude jump rope on one leg?

He left the room quickly and moved on to the next. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the complete lack of light. He felt along the wall and flipped the switch. The centerpiece of the cramped room was a piano. He studied it silently for a long time before he approached, a terrible sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. A pair of wine glasses sat atop the upright, thick crimson residue still pooled at the bottom. Declan lifted a glass with care, twirling the stem in his fingers as he took in the shimmering pink lip prints congregated along the rim. He replaced it and moved his attention to the pages of music spread out on the music rest. " _Tristan_ _und_ _Isolde_ , 'Prelude,'" he read silently.

Abruptly he turned on his heel and fled the room.

Across the hall he found Nathan diligently snooping around what appeared to be an office.

"Computer's gone," he informed Declan, "but check this out." He opened a folder and tapped on the top piece of paper. "He's been doing research."

Declan came up alongside and began reading. "Alan Allen: A Frank Talk with One of East Lake Pines' Most Successful Professionals." He skimmed the article, then flipped through the rest of the stack, revealing a large number of pieces dedicated to the illustrious attorney. At the bottom of the pile was a newspaper clipping featuring East Lake Pines' own child prodigy, Vivien Allen. A photograph of the seven-year-old on stage graced the top half of the page, her expression that doe-eyed mix of defiance and uncertainty Declan knew so well. The caption read: _Vivien Allen performs Anton Bilotti's "Firefly" before a captivated audience._

"What's he doing with all this?" he thought, inadvertently voicing his puzzlement out loud.

"This folder here's all about her brother," Nathan announced. "Listen to this: 'Local Youth Killed in Two-Vehicle Highway Collision. Max Collins, 21, and Ashton Allen, 20, of East Lake Pines, died Saturday at the scene of the 11:56 a.m. crash near mile marker 66 on the northbound expressway. "High traffic volume and a series of dangerous curves make this a notoriously hazardous section of the highway," confirmed Sgt. Frank McPherson, a state police spokesman. Collins was behind the wheel at the time the van swerved into the right lane, hitting an 18-wheeler travelling in the same direction. The impact caused the van to veer out of control, overturning several times as it tumbled down an embankment. The driver of the semi, Wallace Petoskey, 43, sustained minor injuries and was taken to the local hospital.'"

Declan frowned.

"There's also a bunch of shit here about his band." Nathan looked up to meet Declan's scowl. "What the hell? It's like the freak's stalking her or something. This is fucked up, man."

_Fucked_ _up._ Declan found himself reaching the same conclusion. He and Nathan stared at each other silently. "Do you think," Declan said slowly, "they're like, having an affair?" The word "affair" sounded silly as it sprang from his lips, but he wasn't sure how else to put it. "His bedroom's all cleared out," he added. "It's like he left in a hurry with no plans to return."

Nathan came over and patted him gently on the shoulder. "I should've said something before," he said solemnly. "I caught her. I saw her leaving this house and I was like, _damn,_ she's two-timing my best bud. I'm sorry, dude." Suddenly he smiled. "But we can have the pervert arrested. The teacher-student thing's definitely illegal. With her being jailbait and all."

Declan turned to him with a look of repulsion. This couldn't be real. Obviously she'd been monkeying around on the piano for him. This much he knew from being in that horrible little room. He'd felt as though he could actually smell her presence as he'd stood there with his heart pounding, his fists clenched.

What kind of twisted game was she playing? All that crap she'd unloaded on him about not performing anymore, about punishing her parents. And the whole time she'd been hanging out here, chugging glasses of wine and playing demented operas about passion and death for _him_ —of all people! It made no sense.

When she was finished, did she let him drag her to the bedroom for fun and games with handcuffs? He felt sick.

He looked up to find Nathan watching him and struggled to get control of himself.

"So what's the next move, Sherlock?" Nathan said. "It's your call." He took the pile of papers he'd been looking over and dumped them ceremoniously in the trash, keeping his eyes on Declan the entire time.

Declan looked away, his thoughts in a jumble. He didn't know what he wanted to do. But he couldn't help the feeling that something needed to be done. That they were somehow a step behind and time was running out. He turned back to Nathan. "What's your gut feeling? They're together, right?" He ran his fingers through his hair. "I mean, she's missing and so is he. Is that a coincidence?"

"It's looking bad," Nathan admitted. After a moment he added, "But where would they go?"

Declan glanced around the room once more and shrugged. "I have no idea. Does Frenchie even own a car?" He pictured Christophe limping around the school in his GQ clothes with that pompous look he always wore. For some reason it was nearly impossible to imagine him manly enough to drive a car.

"I've seen a pickup parked here before. A blue one. Could be his."

Declan nodded. At first this seemed like helpful information. But the more he studied Nathan, the more peculiar the statement became. And the lines from Lauren's note came back to haunt him: _Nathan let it slip_...Slowly, ever so steadily, something inside of him was unraveling. There was nothing he could do to stop it. "That's great, Nate. Thanks for the tip. Tell me, exactly how many times have you been here, _observing_?"

He waited for an answer. Yet, in truth, an exact number was hardly necessary. Once was enough. And Nathan had known. All along. "What the hell?" he said, his anger and injury exploding to the surface. "Who's the original Sherlock fucking Holmes here? You must've had good reason to keep this house under surveillance."

"What? I didn't," Nathan said, then appeared to change his mind. "Look, hold up." He walked around the desk and began fiddling with a stapler, avoiding Declan's look of wrath. "Yeah. So maybe I followed her. Once. Twice. No more than three times at the most, dude. I swear."

Declan's look of wrath intensified.

"Only because she was goin' all ape shit about Lauren and me!" he said in a rush. "She somehow got it in her head that I... _took_ _advantage_ of Lauren that night at Riley's." He laughed at the sheer absurdity of this idea. "So what if she was wasted? We both were. I never forced her to go upstairs!" His face was the picture perfect image of incredulity. "And your uptight little girlfriend was gonna blab that lie to all her BFFs—and who the fuck knows who else?" He dropped the stapler and began to pace the room. "I let that go and the next thing you know I've got cops at my door informing me I need to take a ride down to the station for a little chat."

Declan did recall having this very conversation with Vivien in his car, before Lauren's imitation dinner party. It had hit a nerve and he'd immediately dismissed the idea. Nathan was his friend. Now he studied him carefully, trying to decide if there was something he wasn't saying. "OK," he allowed. "You were pissed off, so you followed her. Then what?"

Nathan looked uncomfortable, like maybe he'd said too much already. "Then we talked. I told her to shut up about Riley's and I said I'd do the same about what's-his-face—the teacher she obviously had the hots for." He stopped pacing, checking Declan's expression and shrugging apologetically. "I know. It probably wasn't the best idea I've ever had."

Declan closed his eyes and dropped his head in his hands. He almost felt like laughing, the whole thing was so absurd. " _Probably_? Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

"I don't know, man," Nathan said quickly. "I guess I thought there wasn't anything really juicy going on. I mean, please...it's Vivs we're talking about here. I was just messin' with her."

So even Nathan doubted she would cross that line. Which was why this whole thing stunk more than that block of moldy cheese in Frenchie's fridge. There had to be more clues here. He turned and pulled out the top drawer to a filing cabinet. Thumbing through folders he said, "Keep looking. There's something we're not seeing. I can feel it."

Nathan complied and they worked silently, scanning anything and everything they could get their hands on.

"Hey. What's this?" Nathan said at last, holding up a brochure. Declan came to his side and yanked it from his hands. " _Whispering_ _Pines_ , _Where_ _Beauty_ _Meets_ _Affordability_ ," he read.

"And here's a realtor's card attached to..." Nathan held up more papers, "a map, and a letter:

_Greetings Mr. Laval,_ " he read, " _Thank you for your interest in our Evergreen Cottage community. We currently have several cabins that fit your specifications."_ He paused, speeding silently along until he reached the end. " _I have enclosed a map and corresponding layout of our development. Vacant properties are highlighted in yellow. I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience._ " He looked up at Declan and their eyes locked.

"A cabin. In Whispering Pines," Declan repeated, working the implications.

"You know it?"

"Sure. I've stopped there to take a piss once or twice. Not much to it."

They were quiet for a minute. Then Nathan said, "What if he took her there?"

The suggestion came at him without warning. The words _took_ _her_ balling up like twine in his gut. "We have to call the police," Declan said.

Nathan frowned. "Call the cops? What would we say? We've got nothing to back this up."

Declan shook his head. "We don't need any real evidence. Something bad's happened. This..." He gestured around him. "Isn't right."

Nathan was quiet. Then he said, "We can't call the cops. We just broke into the dude's house."

An excellent point. "What about an anonymous call?"

Nathan shrugged.

"We'll call and say Vivien's missing...and then we'll give them this address. When they get here they'll see his creepy collection and...and everything else." He dashed over to retrieve the newspaper articles Nathan had dumped in the trash, laying them out neatly atop the desk. "They'll have to see what kind of crazy fuck this guy is. Right?"

Nathan shrugged again. They stood in silence.

"Fine," Nathan said finally. "We'll call and then we'll go. You and me. How far is it?"

Declan jerked his head up. "How far is what?"

"The place, Whispering Pines. An hour? More?"

"You're serious?"

"Why not?"

"You think we should hit the road—with a snowstorm about to hit, by the way—and drive over a hundred and fifty miles to hunt down some obscure cottage on a lake?"

Nathan regarded him calmly. "Dude, now that you put it that way..." He broke into a wide grin. "Hell, yeah!"

Declan shared the laugh as he shook his head in disbelief. "You're insane."

"Not at all," Nathan insisted. "You want to figure this out. You want to find her. Preferably, soon."

It was madness, to be sure. But Nathan had underlined one important point: if they were going to do this, they needed to act. Now.

Holding Nathan's gaze with a steady eye, a smile gradually crept across his lips. "Who's driving?"

### Twenty-Four

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Bullying and sexual harassment are an unfortunate part of adolescence. If a behavior or interaction makes you uncomfortable or upset, then it qualifies as harassment. Whatever you do, don't blame yourself. Nobody "asks for it." Although all situations are different, you can start by disclosing your uneasiness and telling the person to stop. If s/he refuses, take up the issue with an adult. It can be embarrassing at first, but most schools have policies in place to help you.

The sinking feeling had begun long before they'd left the outskirts of East Lake Pines. And yet, she'd held her tongue, forcing herself to believe that all was well. Now, the passage of time only highlighted her folly. Outside her window, snow blasted in a horizontal direction across the desolate two-lane highway. They may as well be on a grand expedition somewhere in the Arctic Circle, she thought miserably. If she were to leave, where would she go? And, more importantly, what would happen if she tried?

The outing had begun innocently enough. She and Christophe chatted about the approaching storm, about some thriller bestseller everybody and their brother was reading, about several popular restaurants they passed by on their way across town, about nothing in particular.

Lulled by the benign conversation, she was scarcely paying attention as Christophe signaled onto the highway ramp at the edge of town. Glistening fields and painted red barns flew past her window, giving way to woods, then row upon row of dense pines as they sped north.

A good hour and a half had passed by the time she'd worked up the nerve to inquire after his plans for them. He'd smiled and given her an odd look, a look that had silenced any further inquiries on her part. In truth, her ignorance was a farce. On some level she'd known, the minute she'd heard the knock and opened the door to find Christophe on the other side.

They'd stopped for gas and snacks at a Quick Mart just off the highway. He left her to wait in the truck, taking the keys and disappearing inside. She watched him head straight for the bathrooms in the rear of the store. Her foot brushed against the purse at her feet and a thought occurred to her. Slowly, cautiously, she inched the bag up onto her lap. Feigning interest in a shivering gas station attendant, she began sorting blindly through her belongings: wallet, keys, tissue travel pack, lip gloss, sunglasses. Where had it gone? Her heart racing, she bent over, hastily scanning the interior, tossing the contents around in a mad jumble. No cell phone.

However, an object of interest caught her eye. What she'd initially mistaken for lip gloss was in fact the small canister of pepper spray Nathan had given her the night of the musical. Seizing the tube, she let her purse drop to the floor. But her hands were trembling so that it slipped from her grasp. She cried out, fumbling to catch it before it rolled under the seat. In an instant it was gone.

She'd panicked then, pumping the handle on the door in an attempt to slide below the seat for a better view. But something was wrong. No matter how hard she pushed, the door wouldn't budge. She looked up in time to see him watching her as he paid for his merchandise at the front of the store.

Back behind the wheel, he'd offered her a bottle of water and a Snickers bar. "Your favorite," he'd said.

She'd thanked him but set the items carefully aside, her appetite gone. As if the missing phone wasn't alarming enough, she'd watched Christophe exit the Quick Mart, cross the parking lot, and climb into the truck...no crutch. Not even the slightest hint of a limp.

The first flurries had appeared as they reentered the highway. Christophe said nothing, pleasant chitchat a thing of the past. She'd stared straight ahead and tried not to think about crashing. Driving on the highway, never mind in terrible weather, was another one of her phobias, ever since Max and Ashton. After a while the dancing snowflakes lulled her into a kind of stupor and she closed her eyes, a fitful sleep overtaking her.

Her eyes opened to blinding white. She jerked upright in her seat, grasping both armrests as she looked this way and that. While the truck seemed to have no trouble handling the slick pavement, she herself was gripped by the unsettling sensation of slipping and sliding across a sheet of ice. For the first time the bleakness of her situation truly sank in. And she was afraid.

"Our exit," she heard him say.

At the stop sign he turned right. Moments later the headlights illuminated a sign in the shape of a Christmas tree: Whispering Pines, population 347. They crept on, crawling through snow-covered streets to the center of town. A dated-looking supermarket, a Hardee's, and several taverns surrounded the lone traffic light. The place looked completely deserted, like some old Western town, except rather than clouds of dust there happened to be a blizzard.

Christophe pulled into the Hardee's parking lot. He hopped out without a word, then appeared suddenly at her door, giving her a good startle. He seemed to have no trouble whatsoever opening her door (from the _other_ side).

"Coffee break," he said. "Stretch your legs."

The air outside felt absolutely frigid, but his tone led her to believe that to decline this generous offer would be unwise. He helped her down, hugging her firmly around the shoulders as they hustled toward the front entrance. The wind whipped past her ears. Snowflakes swirled in mad spirals, colliding with her exposed skin, stealing down the neck of her thin pink sweater. She wore no coat; he'd rushed her out the door before she'd had the chance to grab one.

Inside she stomped the snow from her feet as she pried wet strands of hair from her eyes. Arm in arm they made their way up to the counter. A heavily made-up girl roughly her age waited at the register, wearing a look of extreme boredom. The girl eyed the two and only customers with interest, as if trying to pin down the exact relationship.

"You guys must be seriously starving to be out in this weather," she remarked, snapping her gum. "What can I get ya?"

"Just a large coffee, please," Christophe replied.

"Will that be all?" She looked disappointed.

He nodded curtly.

"Nothing for the Mrs.?" the girl said, her eyes traveling to Vivien and back.

The question seemed to catch him off guard. He turned to Vivien, and raised an eyebrow. " _Darling?_ "

She opened her mouth, swaying away from him slightly.

He returned his attention to the girl, a look of enjoyment on his face. "It appears not."

"Okey-dokey," the girl replied, smiling herself as if she was in on the joke. She snapped the plastic lid on the coffee and pushed it toward him. "Cream and sugar? Just a guess, but I feel like you're a guy with a wicked sweet tooth." Her eyes grew seductively wide as she dropped the change into the palm of his hand.

Christophe returned the look, his hand closing briefly around hers. Then he released her, raising his cup in a gesture of farewell.

Vivien eyed the sign for the ladies' room with longing. Already they were leaving and he wasn't going to let her leave his side. She'd allowed herself the sliver of hope of sneaking off to scratch a message on the bathroom wall, maybe even escape out a back window.

But any such hope was promptly extinguished as Christophe reined her in tighter, his grip verging on painful as he maneuvered her toward the exit.

"Take care!" the girl called out. "You've got trouble there. I mean, with the storm and all."

Christophe acknowledged this premonition with a thin smile, and the couple swiftly departed.

Inside the truck, Vivien sat shivering while Christophe circled outside, clearing the snow from the windows. She focused on what she was going to say to him when he returned. She would ask him why he'd brought her here, so many miles away, without so much as a word of explanation. But even as the questions took shape, she knew she'd lose her nerve. For the Christophe she thought she knew had vanished. _This is bad_ was all she could think. It was going to end badly.

They exited the parking lot in silence, turning westward, and soon passed another sign announcing the beginnings of the Lincoln County Forest Preserve. At once the road began to wind through majestic snowcapped evergreens, their rich scent joining the warm air that blew in through the vents.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?"

His comment left an opening and she grasped at it, tiptoeing forward with delicacy. "It's beautiful. You've been here before?"

"I have a place on the lake." He gestured vaguely down the road. "Nothing fancy."

"And that's where we're going?"

He gave a slight nod.

She waited several minutes before she said quietly, "Why didn't you tell me? Before?"

He looked straight ahead and spoke with equal softness, "Would you have come?"

She swallowed and turned her face away.

Eventually they left the road, turning down a narrow drive, tires crunching over freshly fallen snow. He seemed to know the way by heart, anticipating the sharp curves before they appeared. At last they came to a halt before the vague outline of a cabin.

"Wait here," he said, hopping out. She watched him jog across the beam of the headlights, then vanish.

Eyeing the keys as they dangled from the ignition, a burst of adrenaline ran through her. What was to stop her from sliding over and throwing the car into reverse? She envisioned her escape: pedal pushed to the floor as the truck fishtailed its way up the long drive to Forest Road. If only she knew how to drive.

She'd driven once. With Declan. And now she wondered about him. What was he doing right now? Was he looking for her? Or had her foolishness finally driven him away once and for all?

A light pierced the darkness and she turned toward it, seeing for the first time the small, box-shaped log cabin. The front door stood ajar and Christophe soon emerged. He'd changed his clothes, this final transformation erasing the old Christophe with brusque finality. His look was solemn, his gait purposeful.

Leaning into the car, he cut the lights, the engine, and pocketed the keys. He walked around to her side, opened the door and said, "Come with me."

Inside the cabin, she stood hesitantly, a mere step past the doorframe, forcing him to physically pick her up and set her aside in order to close the door. She remained in this new spot, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, shivering uncontrollably.

He strode ahead of her into the main living area where she could see a faded plaid sofa and two chairs arranged before a generous hearth. He pulled a thick wool blanket from the back of the sofa and tossed it at her. "Use this. Until I get the fire going."

She mumbled her thanks and wrapped herself snugly, getting a strong whiff of mothballs and cigarettes in the process.

Christophe began poking around in the fireplace. A few minutes later he stood and turned, looking at her in a slightly irritated fashion for she was still hanging back like a child unsure of her surroundings. "Sit," he said, gesturing toward the sofa. "I'm going for wood." With that, he breezed past her and slammed the door.

Lowering herself stiffly, she mouthed his last word: _wo-od_. Two syllables, not one. Where had the French accent gone? All at once he was sounding as if he originated not from the rolling hills of the French countryside but from the backwaters of the Deep South. She frowned. It was all coming together now, bit by bit. The farther they'd driven from home, the more she'd noticed a changing of the skin—like a reptile—and her trembling recommenced with increased strength.

The sound of the door followed by heavy footsteps spurred her to sink deeper inside the scratchy cocoon. Peering over the edge, she watched him unload the logs and arrange them teepee-fashion before lighting the brushwood beneath. As the warmth spread, her thoughts shifted to Declan once again, to the teasing he'd given her the night they lay before the fire in her apartment. The night had held such promise, only to end in disaster. With bitter irony she recalled how Declan had assured her things could only get better. On that—finally—he'd been dead wrong.

The wood began to crackle. Christophe stepped back and admired his work. Brushing his hands against his pant legs, he turned to look at her. Apparently satisfied she'd remain where he wanted her, he crossed the room and disappeared. The sound of running water and the echo of rattling glass filtered in through the blanket. She watched his return in silence, remarking on the bottle of beer that dangled by his side.

He stood before her, staring. "Warm now?" he said at last.

_Wa-arm na-ow_? The unfamiliar twang tore through her heart like an arrow, splitting to shreds every intimacy they'd shared in their faux friendship. She felt humiliated, betrayed, but above all, terrified. In a dry throat, her voice rose, barely above a whisper, " _Who_ _are_ _you?_ "

Getting out of town was hell.

The snow had begun in earnest as they pulled away from the old brown bungalow. Traffic speed was down to a crawl. Behind the wheel of the Saab, Nathan cursed nonstop, switching lanes with such frequency Declan was beginning to get whiplash. In a last-ditch effort to outfox the snarl, Nathan pulled off the main road, cutting through a string of interconnected neighborhoods, only to be thwarted by complete deadlock as he attempted to rejoin the road farther ahead.

"Calm down, man," Declan said. "I can't take another two hours of you ranting like a lunatic."

Nathan shrugged. "Sorry, dude. I just want to reach the highway before we blow through a whole tank of gas."

"We will," Declan replied, muttering quietly, "If you don't kill us first." Suddenly his phone buzzed in his back pocket. He checked the number and hesitated a moment before answering. "Hey, Mom." This was the third time she'd called.

"Dec! Thank goodness. Why didn't you pick up your phone? Where are you?"

His mind scrambled to come up with something that would keep her off his back. "I'm with Nathan," he replied, opting to omit further details.

"You're not out on the roads, are you?" came the inevitable response.

"Uh..." Declan grimaced. "We're...we'll be at the Y in a sec, Mom. The roads aren't that bad, anyway," he lied. "Plus traffic's moving extremely slow, so..."

"The Y?" He could almost hear her turning this over. "Just be careful, dear," she said at last, then paused. "Listen." Her tone was suddenly guarded. "I don't want to upset you, but I've looked all over the house and I can't find Cocoa."

Declan frowned, trying to recall if she'd been lying in her usual spot on the kitchen rug when he came home from school. He didn't think she had. "What do you mean?" he said. "You looked everywhere? The front yard, too?" Maybe Cocoa had gotten out and was wandering the neighborhood, freezing her tail off.

"Yes. The house, the yard...I even walked up and down the street calling to her. Do you think she ran off? That's so unlike her."

"I don't know." Declan wished he were there to help look. It _was_ unlike Cocoa to run off. She was old, her days of adventure over. Arthritis and an overzealous appetite had left her craving the comforts of home. "I'm sure she'll show up soon," he said, trying to sound confident, but only half believing this himself. "Look, we're here, so I gotta run. I'll be out late. The guys and I are working on a Spanish dialogue tonight. Don't wait up. And Mom, don't get crazy about the dog, OK?"

"Declan—"

"Love ya. Bye." He hung up.

Nathan turned and gave him a curious look. "What's up?"

He didn't answer immediately. Extraordinary happenings were coming at him with such speed he was having trouble avoiding a head-on collision. "Cocoa. Apparently she's missing."

Nathan, too, seemed to need a moment to digest this latest news. "Hmmm," he said at last. "Interesting." Another pause. "That makes three."

"Three what?"

"Three people missing," Nathan replied. "Well, technically, two people and one canine."

Declan stared at him, open-mouthed, and it dawned on him that Nathan was right. Cocoa was the third thing. Too frickin' weird. "You think it's somehow related?" he said.

Nathan held up his hands.

He began to try to fit the pieces together. "What've we got so far? Vivien's at the house. She's alone. She's not going anywhere, 'cause she doesn't have a car. And she can't drive."

"She can't _drive_?"

Declan scowled. "I told you that already, dipshit. Now shut up. I'm trying to think." He paused, trying to regain his train of thought. "She's in the house. Cocoa too, let's assume. At least, I know she was when I left this morning. Then what?"

"Vivien gets lonely. She calls Frenchie."

Declan flinched. He didn't like it, but went along anyway for the sake of theorizing. "Fine. Maybe she does. But what's the big emergency? She was exhausted last night. She wasn't even feeling well. I had to give her a bunch of painkillers, which totally knocked her out. She probably didn't get out of bed 'til noon." He stopped, perplexed. "She was supposed to take it easy. And we were gonna go to the hospital when I got home." The more he thought about it, the more illogical it seemed. "Why the hell would she just take off with that A-hole, never even seeing her mom at all?" A sudden rage overcame him and he had to stop this line of thinking.

At last, when the anger had subsided somewhat, he was able to resume. "Let's just keep it simple. She calls him. They talk. He blows off his job—"

"Hey, anything for a blow job!" Nathan interrupted, cracking himself up. "Get it? Blows off his job? Blow job?"

Declan shot him a look and his mouth snapped shut.

"He meets her at my house," Declan continued. "They leave." But keeping it simple was beyond his abilities. "Right in the middle of all the shit that's going down, she leaves? Not a word to anyone?" He laughed; the whole thing was unreal. "But hold up! As an afterthought, the happy couple decides to bring the dog along for company?"

Nathan shook his head. "How 'bout this, dude: the dick comes over and, being the giant pussy he is, is afraid of dogs, so Vivs has to hide her in the basement. Did your mom check down there?"

"Nah." Declan dismissed this theory. "She'd bark. She hates the basement." Nothing made sense. "Shit!"

"Ah...freedom at last," Nathan said as he cleared town and accelerated onto the highway.

Some traffic remained, but the majority was heading in the opposite direction. As the lights of East Lake Pines faded, Declan allowed himself the passing awareness that they were now embarking upon a questionable and admittedly rash mission. But then it was gone, and his thoughts moved on to address the challenge ahead.

The Saab settled into a steady speed—a conservative forty-five miles per hour due to the snow—and a careful silence filled the car. Nathan connected his MP3 player and they spent the next hour lost in their own thoughts as the music played on.

Declan was the first to break the spell. Turning to Nathan, he shut the music off and said, "Did I tell you I found her cell stashed away in the flour?"

Nathan shot him a puzzled look.

"Vivien's cell. It was in the flour," he repeated. "You know, in one of those canister things on the kitchen counter. I got home and she wasn't there. And I called her. That's when I found it." He ran his hand through his hair. "Is it just me or is that weird?"

Nathan stared at him. "Definitely weird, dude." For a moment he was silent, then, "So you and Vivs—it's gettin' serious, huh?"

Declan stiffened. Was it? It was hard to say how he felt. They'd certainly left each other in a bad way. He remembered the first time he'd seen her, standing in the gym at Lakewood. She'd been staring at him, he was sure of it, but when he caught her eye, she'd blushed the shade of Nate's Saab and looked away. And then, they'd nearly collided in the office doorway. He'd gotten a good look at her then. She was tiny. And beautiful. And pissed off at him—for some reason he hadn't quite understood. But he'd been drawn to her nonetheless. Not just her looks, all of her. Right then and there, he'd wanted to get her number. He almost did, but having an audience had put him off. He was going to have to get her alone.

Nathan noted the absence of any response and didn't press further. Rather he opened up a new angle. Something they'd both been thinking but had yet to bring out in the open. "Do you really think she's in trouble?" The question hung in the air, heavy and ominous.

"Like, no one knows this guy," Nathan continued. "And I gotta say, he gives off this twisted sort of vibe, you know? Maybe he's got plans for her. And not just an intimate dinner for two."

Declan waited a while before saying, "The thought has crossed my mind."

"Damn!" Nathan exclaimed, slapping his thigh. "We should be packin' heat! I know where my dad keeps his guns. I could've brought one, easy."

Declan's eyes grew wide. Seriously? But then, it wasn't that hard to picture: a gun-toting Nate, hot on the trail of suspense, violence, bloodshed. The image filled him with horror. "We're not about to gun anybody down. _OK_?"

Nathan grunted. After a moment he met Declan's eyes with a look of sympathy. "Hey, relax. It's gonna work out. There's probably a logical explanation for everything."

Declan nodded but said nothing.

With each passing minute, the gusts of snow intensified and Nathan was forced to reduce his speed even further. "This sucks the big one," he muttered, staining to see through the frantic swish of the wipers. "Are we anywhere near the place?"

Declan waited for the next road sign, squinting as he tried to make it out. "I'm guessing another hour at least, at this rate."

"Fuck. I gotta take a leak."

Declan sighed. "Just wait. There's a Hardee's in Whispering Pines, I think." Picturing the fast food chain made him begin to salivate and he realized he was starving. "We'll stop, get food, and then...start hunting for the cabin."

"My man's got a plan," Nathan said, nodding away. "My man's got a plan."

He chose not to answer her at first. Instead he returned to stand before the hearth in silence. After a moment he reached for the fire iron and began to fiddle with the logs. A poke, a swig of beer, a poke again, until every last drop had been drained. He belched and tossed the bottle onto a nearby chair. At last he turned to face her.

"My identity is irrelevant."

She let his words sink in, then sat up abruptly. " _Irrelevant?_ " The outburst amused him and he laughed. She gritted her teeth, looking away. "Obviously you're not French."

His look of amusement remained as he studied her. "A pity. You were fond of Christophe."

It was too much. Clumsily she leapt to her feet and glared at him. Her breath came in rapid gasps. "Is this all one big joke to you?"

His face fell in injury. "Not at all. I'll have you know I'm taking this very seriously."

She puffed her lip. She had no idea what to say to such a remark. So many questions filled her head, yet at the same time a voice inside warned her not to pry too deeply. This man before her seemed unpredictable, on the brink of possible insanity. And she knew without a doubt that her situation was grave. He had her where he wanted her. He could do as he pleased. Not a soul knew she was here, and the nearest cabin was at least a mile away. Could she really afford the slighted girlfriend act? Everything about this place—about him _—_ screamed _No!_

She shifted all of her focus toward breathing evenly. "I'm sorry," she said finally, sinking slowly back down. Her apology appeared to please him and his expression softened. Glancing around the cabin, she tried a different approach. "I like this place. It's so...cozy. How often do you come here?"

"Whenever time permits," he replied. Then with a sigh, he strode purposefully out of the room. Soon she heard the pop and fizz of another bottle. And another. Peering around the corner, he raised the two beers in unison. "Thirsty?"

She shook her head. "How could I forget?" he sneered. "You're a good girl." He took several gulps as he wandered back to her. "Just as well. More for me."

Her body tensed. All at once it became clear that he planned on working toward a soundly drunken state. And this did not bode well for her. "You must be hungry," she pointed out, hoping to delay the inevitable. "You haven't eaten all day."

He swallowed, shaking his head emphatically. "No, no. No food required. I'm in the midst of a crucial fast. A pathway to a higher state."

She watched him nervously. "But I could make you something," she insisted. "We could sit down like we used to. And talk."

"I'm afraid that's no longer possible. It is unfortunate...for you."

Her shoulders sagged as she attempted to make sense of his riddles. _No_ _longer_ _possible._ What did that mean? What had changed? She got the feeling they were simply playing parts in their very own homemade tragedy. Act One appeared to be over, but what happened in Act Two? And how many acts were there? Without more information her chances of survival seemed remote. "How can I play my part if I don't know the rules?" she mused out loud.

He chuckled, slamming the empty bottle on the wooden chest and beginning straight away on the next. "The rules are: I make the rules." After a moment of contemplation he added, "Or perhaps all conventions are out the window from this point forward."

His answers revealed nothing. "I know one thing for sure," she said. "Your performance will suffer if you keep drinking like that. You'll lose your edge."

He paused, bottle midway to mouth. "Eluding the edge is precisely the point, dearest Rose" he replied, his voice suddenly sober.

Hopelessness set in. " _Please_ ," she cried. "Please don't shut me out. I can help. I want to."

He cocked his head, his face clouded in confusion. "There is no relief," he said at last. "It is always present."

She tried to reason with him once more. "No. Listen. Is there any truth in what we had?" She reached out to him, but her hand faltered in the air. "I know what you're feeling," she said. "You're not alone."

To her dismay, her treatise of compassion produced the very opposite effect. His face colored and he spun away from her, removing himself once again to the fire. His entire body shook and twitched in spasms. At length, he spoke. "You know nothing of what I feel. If you did...you'd run like hell."

His words were flat, devoid of emotion, and sent an ominous chill through her bones. She watched him thrust the poker with greater and greater zeal, sending sporadic sprays of orange sparks dancing up the chimney. She shifted uncomfortably on the sunken sofa cushions, recalling her need to use the bathroom. And quite suddenly, the thought of being separated from this insanity by four solid walls and a door—and, if she was lucky, a lock—was extraordinarily compelling.

Cautiously she rose to her feet and began inching toward the hallway on the left, keeping her eyes glued to the back of his head. He appeared to take no notice. Emboldened, she quickened her pace but froze when he made a sudden movement. Without a doubt, he could see her slinking away out of the corner of his eye. He was no fool. Once her pulse was reasonably steady, she cleared her throat softly. "Um...is it all right if I use the bathroom? Just for a second? Is it this way?" She pointed meekly down the darkened hallway.

Slowly he turned to face her, and at that precise moment she caught sight once more of that peculiar third presence, the one that had hung back patiently as he waited for her in—what seemed a lifetime ago—the Miereses' kitchen.

Her alarm registered in his eyes. And she thought she saw in them a hint of regret, so fleeting that by the time she was able to identify it, it had vanished. No reply was given save the slight arching of a single brow, revealing for the first time, she noted, a jagged white scar receding into his hairline.

Electing to interpret this as a sign of consent, she pivoted on the balls of her feet and set off in the direction indicated, holding her breath as she tiptoed along, as if fully aware she had a narrow window of time in which to reach her destination.

And she came so very close, her foot scarcely crossing the corroded metal strip that separated the hardwood from the tiny blue-and-white checked tiles when she heard, then felt the sharp crack against her skull, and the cold hard floor rose up to greet her.

### Twenty-Five

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Eye-opening statistics: One in three teenagers has experienced violence in a dating relationship; Seventy percent of teen girls who report being sexually assaulted were attacked by a friend, boyfriend, or casual acquaintance. One in five teens admit to being emotionally abused in the past year. One in nine teen girls will be forced to have sex.

"You've got to be shittin' me!" Nathan exclaimed as he slammed on the brakes. Declan craned his neck to get a better look. Up ahead the train of vehicles had come to a complete stop, and beyond, a wide arc of flares announced what looked to be a serious accident. No fewer than three patrol cars flanked an ambulance, all four emergency vehicles flashing red bands of light into the swirling snow.

Declan sank down in his seat with a groan.

"Wait. It might not be as bad as it looks," Nathan replied. "Cars could be getting through one at a time."

They sat and waited...and waited, the minutes ticking by as the situation remained unchanged except for a growing trail of traffic behind them.

"To hell with this!" Declan exploded, throwing open the door.

"Dude. Hey! What're you doing?"

"I'm getting the fuck out! I can't sit here anymore. I'm losing it, I really am." Outside, Declan shielded his face from the blowing snow as he trudged along the shoulder toward the patrol cars. One of the officers spied his approach and moved out to intercept him.

"Excuse me! Sir!" the officer called out. "You're gonna have to sit tight and remain in your vehicle."

Declan trudged on until he'd reached the officer. "What's going on?"

"Road's closed." He crossed his arms to emphasize the point.

Declan looked pained. "For how long?"

The officer squinted, stroking his mustache absently. "No telling. Unfortunately, we've got a fatality. Can't bring the chopper in. Another ambulance is on the way. Gonna take a while to clean everything up"—he turned and examined the mess behind him—"in these conditions."

"There's no way we can get off? I'm kind of in a hurry."

The officer studied him carefully. "Not the best night to be in a hurry, son." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder as he said, "See where that mindset got those poor folks?"

Declan followed the gesture in time to see the tail end of a stretcher being loaded into the back of the ambulance. He couldn't make out a body bag, but the scene gave him an odd déjà vu. This was the second ambulance he'd been around in the last forty-eight hours, and both were linked in some way to Vivien.

The officer had a point, however. He really didn't want to end up in there. "Right." A sigh of resignation escaped him. For a split second he had the uneasy feeling he was cursed, as if a network of powerful forces had gathered to conspire against him and were sending him a warning: turn around; go back; give up.

But he wasn't the superstitious kind. That crap was nothing but a cop-out. A way of shifting the blame onto someone else. He was no quitter. No whiner. Didn't bail when the heat turned up.

Glancing around once more at the chaos surrounding him, he began to nod determinedly.

Yeah, most definitely. The heat was up.

It was bleeding through—the rational self.

And this piece of him wanted no part in any cold-blooded killing. The girl's physical presence sickened him—her labored breathing, the sweet smell of her blood following him no matter where he went.

He fled outside, in search of clean air. Along the side of the cabin, a long-handled axe rested in the base of a log. He lunged for it, cradling the metal to his chest, wandering in aimless circles. All at once he howled as he struck the log dead center.

He repeated the act, hacking away for an undetermined amount of time until, exhausted and soaked through with sweat, he collapsed to his knees.

Snowflakes fell softly, dusting his head and neck, and with time a cool and peaceful sensation settled over him.

The fog that had clouded his mind was dissipating, parting to show him the way.

He'd made it. To the now. And the now was everything. Everything he'd been fantasizing about was here, within his grasp. By his design, the fantasy had become reality.

He began to laugh, a low, guttural, half-crazed laugh that rocked him back and forth on his heels. His plan had succeeded with such minimal effort, he could draw no other conclusion than that the human race had fallen into a rut where the dull-witted were breeding at breakneck speed, filling the planet with gullible souls, his for the taking. Anticipation left him panting with excitement.

He rose, eyeing the cabin like a gift yet to be unwrapped.

No need for haste. The gift, he knew, would wait.

**Co-ag-u-late** : to form a soft, semisolid or solid mass. _When blood_ coagulates _it forms a scab._

Vivien's body lay slack, but her mind had recently awakened from its slumber and was meandering in and out of semi-coherent thoughts. For one reason or another, it fixated on word definitions from her ACT vocab list.

**Co-erce** : to dominate or restrain by force. _The stranger used a knife to_ coerce _the girl into doing what he wanted._

She was stuck on the letter C. And, evidently, bleak thoughts.

Her eyes fluttered, then opened. _I could_ _be_ _dead_ was her first fully conscious thought. She lay still, taking stock. She felt pain in her head, and an overwhelming sense of dread that clutched at her heart.

But her heart had not stopped. No, it was very much alive, thumping madly away against her ribcage in an _I'm_ _still_ _here_ , _I'm_ _still_ _here_ rhythm. And yet she had sense enough to understand that soon she might wish she were dead.

Holding her breath, she strained to hear any sounds of _him_. Since he'd ceased to be Christophe, she had no idea what to call him. Yet the only sound to be heard was the wind whistling through the tops of the great pines. Where had he gone? she wondered.

There was no question of her going far. He'd taken care of that with an ancient pair of leg irons. Had he brought along his precious favorites for her benefit? Thankfully, her hands remained free and she used them now to gently probe the back of her head, getting a feel for the extent of damage. It was tender and raw, a gaping wound beneath a mass of blood-encrusted hair. If she had suffered a concussion, her brain cells could be irrevocably destroyed. And those that weren't were now drifting in a dangerously fragile state; this she knew thanks to her father's partner, who specialized in brain injury law. His nauseatingly in-your-face commercials clogged the airwaves almost as frequently as Alan Allen's and she couldn't help but absorb the "cold hard facts." But what did it matter about her brain now? She was as good as dead.

He would kill her.

And all she could think of was Declan. He would never know the most important thing. She would die without having the chance to tell him how much she loved him.

Swinging her legs off the bed, she rose to sitting. Her chest felt abnormally tight and she looked down to see he had removed her clothes. She now wore an old-fashioned white slip. Metal stays lined the bodice. Yellowed lace covered the flowing skirt. She shuddered, thinking of him touching her.

A nightstand stood beside her. She opened the top drawer, hunting for something. A bible and a red felt tip marker, these would suffice. She hoped this God wouldn't mind if she used a small part of his story for her own. Closing her eyes, she said a short prayer of thanks, then set to work. Before it was too late, she would tell Declan everything.

"What do you mean, _floor_ _it_?" Nathan said. "I'm supposed to be the impulsive one."

Declan shook his head. "I'm not saying pull a _Dukes_ _of_ _Hazzard_ or anything. I'm just saying, sneak along the shoulder. Once we're past the hold-up we can gun it to the nearest exit. In a safe and responsible kind of way, of course," he added.

"So...you want me to drive, unnoticed, past a line of cop cars and—"

"Yep."

Nathan snickered. "Little did I know when I woke up this morning that I'd be in for such a treat."

"That's right. You should be thanking me."

"Thanks, bro." Nathan checked his rearview mirror and began to edge the car onto the shoulder. He cruised along slowly, attempting to remain as inconspicuous as possible—easier said than done, due to the Saab's shocking red hue. But as they neared the police blockade, Nathan began to have second thoughts. "I'm not sure 'the sneak' is the best move at this point. I think we better just fly the hell out of here."

Declan tried to judge the distance. "Can you make it?"

"Can I make it?" Nathan repeated. "Dude, do not insult me."

"All right, just don't get caught."

Nathan's eyes gleamed as he gunned the engine and yelled, " _Yippee_ - _ki_ - _yay,_ _motherfucker!_ "

Declan dropped his head in his hands and groaned. What adventure would be complete without a quote from _Die_ _Hard_ , cable network's most beloved late-night feature? He was sure Nathan was channeling Bruce Willis at this precise moment.

As if reading his mind, Nathan accelerated rapidly, throwing Declan against the seat as he skirted the accident scene by a narrow margin. Within seconds they were past and moving quickly ahead. The road was slick and the Saab fishtailed slightly as Nathan merged back onto the paved road. A passing sign notified them the next exit was in two miles.

Checking the mirrors, Nathan grinned. "Mission accomplished. No pigs in sight." He looked smugly at Declan. Yet no sooner had he finished bragging than a set of headlights appeared from behind.

Declan spun around in a panic. The patrol car seemed to be in no hurry. For now. "It's following us, isn't it? Wait. Is it? I can't tell."

Nathan said nothing, his mouth set in a thin line. He stepped on the gas, eyes focused on the road ahead. "Good thing I just had snow tires put on. Steel wheels too. We should be solid at this speed." He caressed the top of the dashboard with affection.

Declan had to smile. If there was one thing Nathan was meticulous about, it was his car.

Initially the patrol car appeared to be keeping back. As Declan watched the distance between the two cars grow, his hopes began to rise. But then, just as swiftly, they crashed and burned as bit by bit the gap closed.

"We're screwed," he announced and prepared himself for the shrill sound of the siren.

But Nathan shook him off, eyeing the last stretch of road with determination. Faster and faster they went, neither one sharing any thoughts on their chances out loud.

Despite their efforts, the cruiser was gaining and looked to be neck and neck in a matter of minutes.

"I don't get it," Declan said. "Why don't they use the lights to pull us over?"

"Dude, you haven't heard? They don't bother pulling people over anymore. They just sneak up, point an automatic in your face, and blow your fucking head off. You'd be surprised how much it saves in paperwork and court fees."

Declan snorted. "Funny." He could see the exit up ahead. But now that he thought about it, what was to stop the police from tailing them once they were off the highway? The exit wasn't really their ticket out of here.

At precisely the same time that Nathan flicked on the blinker, the patrol car reached them. They were close. Close enough to confirm the popular saying about police officers and donuts. But Declan refused to look, expecting a megaphone to blast orders at them any second.

But the orders never came. The two cars moved in tandem, then separated as Nathan veered to the right and the police cruiser stayed its course. Seconds later the sound of the siren pierced the quiet and the boys watched, mouths gaping, the flashing blue and red lights fade into the distance.

The Saab rolled to a stop on a snow covered side road.

"Damn," Nathan said after a long silence.

Declan ran his knuckles over his thighs, not hearing. Finally he cleared his throat. "OK. The plan survives." He checked briefly for confirmation and Nathan nodded. "Two obstacles remain: Where the hell are we, and how do we get to Whispering Pines?"

Stepping through the front door, he paused to test the air. To his relief, the oppressive weight he'd felt earlier had evaporated, along with any sense of foreboding.

He moved down the hallway, stopping at the back bedroom. She lay as he'd left her, face turned to the wall. He took advantage of the moment to admire his handiwork. It'd been difficult to choose between the leg irons and a simple set of cuffs. For weeks he'd had a pair in mind, the Clejuso Adjustable Darby on a long chain (Germany, 1930s—in the field of human torture, the Germans deserved great respect). But in the end, as he was packing, he'd changed his mind, lovingly wrapping one of his favorites—the Romer Leg Iron (USA, late 1880s)—into a thick velvet cloth. And now, as he eyed the girl, he was pleased with this last-minute change in details.

The old slip had struck him rather suddenly as he'd paced the dark rooms of the cabin, and he'd decided a costume would go well with the themes he wished to explore. Once dressed, the likeness to her was unsettling. He'd kept the thing all these years; as much as he despised it, he could not bring himself to get rid of it. Those long nights, after the beatings, a small, slender girl dressed in white would crawl into bed beside him, wrapping her arms gently around his aching body. The cold, glossy fabric kept their secret, held the tears he dared not shed.

Yes, the two women were uncommonly alike: small-boned, porcelain skin, long dark hair. He'd studied her in earnest that night he'd watched through the gap in the shower curtain. Admittedly, he'd been piqued by the sight of her nakedness. But there was more to it than flesh. The true source of excitement had been his uninvited presence. The element of intrusion.

With a thrill equal to no other, he'd recognized the look on her face: fear.

Her body tensed when she heard the sound of footsteps. It took all of her focus to fight her natural instinct to drop from the bed and roll underneath.

A light creaking sounded from the floorboards near the door. She could distinguish the heavy, uneven sound of his breath from the whistle of the wind outside. A damp, wintry scent drifted across the room.

"Look at me," he said.

Slowly she rolled toward him. He looked like someone she didn't know. His face was flushed. He wore only a fitted gray t-shirt that accentuated the sinewy muscles of his arms and chest. In a single dark look, she attempted to convey all that she was feeling—anger, hatred, horror.

He acknowledged her effort with a faint smile.

"Don't touch me," she heard herself say, though she had intended to remain silent.

He studied her, motionless, a moment longer, then abruptly crossed the room to the dresser, where a pack of cigarettes lay on top. He tapped one out, and placing it loosely between his lips, he began to pace the room, stealing glances at the bed every so often.

His silence gnawed away at her. The longer it persisted, the more powerful it became, until at last she could stand it no longer. "What do you want?" she croaked.

The outburst caused a barely observable break in his stride. She whimpered softly and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she found him standing in the center of the room. Their eyes met once more and she tried to look beyond the concentric circles of black and gray. Perhaps there was still a small island of sanity adrift in his sea of madness. She had only to dip in her big toe, test the waters, and swim for her life.

"It's not too late, you know," she told him. "You can stop this. I won't tell anybody; I promise."

He exhaled coolly. The absurdity of her words seemed to amuse him. "I disagree," he replied. "It is unquestionably too late."

She attempted to sit up, wincing as she supported her head and neck against the wall. The leg irons dug into her anklebones. "It was an accident," she tried again. "You didn't mean it."

"Even someone as naive as you could not be so sympathetic," he replied. He'd stopped moving, briefly, but now resumed the incessant pacing, blowing streams of smoke that enveloped him like a cloud.

"But I could," she insisted. "It's me, Rose. You know I can keep a secret." She paused, checking his expression carefully to see if he was listening. But his eyes remained an enigma. "I never told anyone about us. Not even Declan. Even though it was killing me—killing us. _Please._ I just want to go home now." Tears were gathering, the first layer of the dam beginning to crumble. "Listen to me, Christophe—whoever you are—I know what you told me was the truth. I saw your scar. And who could make up such a horrible story? A hurtful thing happened to you and now you're...you're _angry_. That's OK. You have a right to be. I felt that way too, about things that happened to me. I was angry at the world; everything seemed so incredibly unfair. But if you believe that lie for too long, you end up missing life altogether. People see that your heart is black, all shriveled up and dead, and they shy away from you. And then you end up alone. Which only makes you more unhappy. It's a vicious circle.

"You have to realize I'm not the one who hurt you, right?" She nodded enthusiastically in an effort to convince him this was the truth. "I would never. All I wanted was to be your friend. I wanted to be close to you because...because you were different, and thoughtful and...well, honestly, I had a serious crush on you." She waited a moment to see if there was any reaction whatsoever to this confession.

He gave her nothing.

She kept going. "You don't have to feel bad about yourself. Underneath, you're just a regular guy. Maybe a little...confused, that's all."

At the word _confused_ , he came to a standstill. She watched, chewing her lip, wondering if she'd just made a crucial error.

Wordlessly he strode from the room. From the opposite end of the cabin came a commotion: drawers opening, cupboards slamming shut. In an instant he returned, a roll of duct tape in one hand. He unrolled a fat strip and lunged at her, his face a purple mask of fury. She cowered, scrambling awkwardly out of his reach. But he was too quick for her, yanking her back by a fistful of hair. He slapped the tape across her mouth, pressing the ends roughly. Then shoved her backward onto the bed. Panting, glaring, he stood above her.

"There will be _no_... _more_... _talking_."

"OK. Slow down. I think the speed limit's like ten here. I almost got a ticket last time I passed through." Declan squinted and pointed out the window. "There's Hardee's. Make a left at the light."

The parking lot was a vacant stretch of white. Without waiting, Nathan bolted from the car. "Gotta take a leak," he called back, disappearing quickly into the restaurant.

Declan followed him inside, bringing with him a blast of wind that sent crumpled napkins and several straw wrappers dancing in the air. There were no customers. No employees either, for all he could see. He meandered toward the back, stopping dead center before the vacant counter, and began perusing the menu above. In his peripheral vision he detected a figure approaching. It sauntered up to the cash register, snapping gum, the smell of peppermint masking something nasty beneath: cigarettes.

"Can I help you?" the girl said in a disinterested tone. She was busy examining a chip in her black nail polish. But when she finally looked up, she nearly lost her balance.

Declan took in the black eye liner, the platinum hair with dark roots, the pale frosted lips. She had a mole just above the upper lip, like some famous supermodel whose name he couldn't remember. It was a shame she'd painted herself up hooker-style, he thought. She was actually kind of pretty. "Um, yeah. I'll take the bacon cheeseburger, extra-large fries, and a large Coke." He hesitated. "Actually, double that. My buddy's coming out in a sec."

On cue Nathan strolled out of the men's room wearing a gigantic grin. "Dude! Runnin' from the pigs definitely agrees with me. I unleashed a quadruple flusher!"

Declan tipped his head toward the girl in an effort to stop any further details.

Eyeing the girl, Nathan grinned apologetically. "Well. Good evening." He sauntered to the counter and leaned forward to read her nametag. "Crystal."

Crystal answered with a sumptuous smirk of her own. "Your friend just ordered for you." She returned her gaze to Declan. "That gonna be all?"

Declan nodded.

Her face settled into a look of instant boredom as she went about gathering their order. "Twelve fifty-two," she said, clipping the drinks into a cardboard holder. She blew a good-sized bubble, which she then flattened with the underside of her tongue.

Declan handed her the money.

"What a weird night," she volunteered, gesturing out toward the main road. "The weather's crazy so I get, like, zero customers except a bunch of really hot dudes I've never seen before." She presented his change with an engaging twinkle in her eye.

Declan acknowledged the compliment, then on second thought replied, "A bunch?"

She leaned forward on her elbows, offering a generous view of her cleavage. "Uh huh. There was a totally smokin' guy in here earlier. He had his high school sweetheart with him though, so..." She shrugged.

Declan stared, a strange feeling overtaking him as what the girl said finally registered. "An _older_ guy? Midtwenties? And a girl? Was she shorter?" He held his hand at shoulder height. "Did she have a bandage above one eye?"

Crystal looked at him funny. "I guess." She seemed disappointed her string of hot customers was all connected to some other girl. She pushed herself back from the counter, flicking a burnt French fry tip off the front of her uniform. When she removed her hand, the next button down had miraculously come open, revealing the top of her black lace bra. "I was teasing 'em a little, just for fun," she admitted. "It's been such a frickin' boring night. The girl, she looked kinda...I dunno. But he kept grabbin' her arm like...like he was the kind of guy who kept her on a tight leash." She paused a second, then went on. "He tried to make out like they were married or something, but there wasn't no rock on her finger."

Time stood still as Declan stared at her in disbelief. All along, in the back of his mind, he'd been certain they were on nothing more than a wild-goose chase. They'd been grasping at straws, caught up in some kind of testosterone-fueled adrenaline rush that would fizzle out soon enough. Now this girl was actually telling them all their guesswork had been correct. Vivien was here. Somewhere.

"No way!" This exclamation snapped him out of his reverie and he felt Nathan's hand clamp down on his shoulder.

"You didn't happen to see which direction they went, did you?" Declan asked.

"As a matter of fact I did. I watched 'em pull out. They went down Forest Road." She rolled her eyes. "Figures. Rich out-of-towners have cabins along there. Down by the lake."

"What made you think they were rich?" Declan said.

"The guy, he just had the look. Definitely not from around here. But they drove off in a regular old pickup, so maybe I was off."

"A _blue_ pickup?" Declan said, the floor dropping away beneath him.

She gave another shrug of indifference. "Maybe."

"Hot damn!" Nathan said at full volume, then laughed in an attempt to mask his eagerness. "They're here, man! They're actually here!" He tugged Declan's arm as he snatched the bag off the counter. "Let's roll."

_He kept grabbing her...the kind of guy who kept her on a tight leash._ This was real. He could feel his body begin to shake as Nathan dragged him out the door.

"Wait!" Crystal called after them. "You forgot your drinks!"

There was a problem with the girl: he didn't know what exactly he wanted to do to her. Naturally he'd played out numerous scenarios in his fantasies. But now that the moment had arrived, he found himself in a conundrum of sorts.

To begin with, she wouldn't shut up. He'd dealt with that matter handily, but not before she'd good and blabbed about feelings and how it wasn't too late to call the whole thing quits. The bitch was no dummy; she knew what lay ahead for her. She was spewing bullshit by the truckload and now he couldn't shovel it away fast enough.

This problem intertwined with the next in that the girl—and this was quite unfortunate—had turned out to be not just an inanimate object, but the proud owner of a personality, thus causing him to second-guess everything he'd worked so masterfully to achieve. Now he found himself wondering if it had been a mistake to cultivate a victim. Would it have been far easier to simply wait for an opportune stranger to cross his path? Albeit this latter option would have increased the event of capture, but what about the kill itself? Was it now tainted by her humanity? The taste soured by her incessant ramblings and juvenile philosophical observations?

More disturbing was her belief that she knew him. Pieces of him, at least. His carefully crafted personality had drawn her in with obvious success, and yet, in the course of his labor, hints of his true self had seeped out. The girl had seized upon these errant droplets, likening their souls to two kindred spirits, no less.

Disgust washed over him as he watched himself flounder. Here was the big moment. The culmination of all his work. And what had she called him? Confused? The mere implication sent blood vessels streaking across the whites of his eyes like an electrical storm.

Thundering his way to the fridge, he grabbed more than a few beers. Duly armed, he might succeed in driving her out of his head. But what he needed most was the onslaught of sound. The amplified distortion of prolonged guitar solos, dense bass/drum interplays, and hellfire screams. This would take him where he wanted to go. Only the best for tonight: Judas Priest, Jethro Tull, Metallica. The sensory equivalent of war.

Sprawled out on the sofa, he gulped greedily, music going full throttle. He'd chosen to kick off the set with a more modern selection, Death's debut album Scream Bloody Gore (1987)—the first true death metal record. His favorite track was coming up: number three, "Denial of Life," an ironically fitting title for the events lying ahead.

But rather than savor the lyrics, he continued to stew over his current predicament. Was his indecisiveness indicative of deeper problems? Perhaps he was grappling with his identity as a killer. What would they say about him on the evening news? What would be his M.O.? Quick and to the point? Or, long and drawn out? Was he driven by a thirst for blood? Or, no mess at all, preferring to leave the body intact? Would he coin a name for himself? The Boston Strangler had a nice ring, conjuring images of dark alleys, sinister shadows, death by violence. And lately he'd been having visions. Visions of doing (specific) things to the corpse. Was this something he truly desired or merely a craving he'd adopted, unknowingly, from the legends before him?

In the end, a deal was struck: five more songs or five more beers, whichever came first. Then... he would pay the girl a visit.

The music sounded like a subversive method of torture. She'd once seen this technique used by the CIA on an episode of _Sixty Minutes_. Now she wondered if the lunatic in the other room was trying to drive her insane as well. Break her spirit. This was hardly necessary; her line of defense had suffered serious casualties as it was.

Yet wasn't it true that good was stronger than evil? That the meek could outwit the strong, their secret weapons smartly concealed until the last possible moment?

What was her secret weapon? The pepper spray was gone, the one thing she'd had at her disposal to surprise him with. How ironic was it that Nathan, of all people, had been the one to give it to her? Ugh! She didn't want to think about Nathan. His insightfulness only served to highlight her own stupidity.

Obviously she was no match for Christophe physically. What about mentally? Her power of persuasion had previously been tested with less than favorable results. The only thing she'd managed to do was to incense him and seal her doom.

Not to mention the fact that he was something else altogether: a scheming, twisted psychopath. A wily trap had been laid for her—how long ago? And she'd refused to see the signs. She saw them now all right: Caution! Do Not Enter. Limited Sight Distance. Proceed at Your Own Risk. Dangerous Undertow. No Lifeguard On Duty. A succession of dire warnings. She'd been played effortlessly. He must have rolled on the floor in hysterics every time she left his house.

Shakily she rose to her feet, scanning the room for a weapon she could use against him. The dark paneled walls were bare, the only furnishings a double bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. But hidden in the drawers there could be things, useful things, like tools, razor blades, a mirror she could break into shards. Could she risk poking around? She swallowed hard. Could she risk not to?

Slowly, and not without pain, she inched around the bed. The duct tape was moist and sticky against her lips, the edges pulling against her skin. She fought the urge to rip it off, fearing his certain wrath at finding her without it. The dresser was only a few feet away but it might as well have been miles. With each step she stole glances behind her, and each time the sinking feeling that he would be there, watching her, gnawed away at her already frayed nerves.

She tackled the top drawer first, her hand trembling. Its contents proved nondescript: several pairs of thick wool socks; undershirts; plaid boxers; a tube of Icy Hot. Hidden beneath these items, a stack of letters bound together by string. They were addressed to a mister Caleb Melcher from Nicole Melcher Goodwin of Brewton, Alabama. All were unopened. Curiosity tugged at her fingers, goading her to open just one. Could this be his mother, the Nicole of his stories? There'd been so many lies, how was she to know what was real? But there was no time for snooping, no matter how compelling the clues. Quickly, she tucked the letters back into place.

Moving swiftly, she pried open the remaining drawers, careful to avoid any squeaks or bumps—not that he'd be able to hear her over the hoarse screams and electric guitar jams emanating from the main room. Her desperation grew as each drawer failed to turn up anything useful. Long underwear, scratchy wool shirts, a bright orange hunting vest and matching cap. It was in the final bottom drawer that she found what she was looking for. Amongst the leather gloves, ski masks, and various-sized thermoses was a miniature Swiss Army knife.

Her eyes grew wide with the discovery and she fingered the smooth red tool in her hands with awe. Three and half inches of hope. In haste she tested out the various functions—bottle opener, scissors, screwdriver, can opener, toothpick—until she came to the true source of her excitement. The large blade. _Large_ was pushing it. It measured, at most, two inches? Hardly the appropriate knife for inflicting significant injury. But it was better than nothing. And if she played her cards right, it just might win her a chance to escape.

Smiling to herself, she closed the blade. She lifted her left arm and was in the process of tucking it into the snug-fitting bodice when the sound of a voice slithered across the room, weaving its way in and out of the music, coiling around her neck and stopping her breath.

"What do you think you're doing?" it said.

"Could it be any more dark?" Declan griped as Nathan cruised the road blindly, despite the light from his brights. The pine forest stretched endlessly on either side of the twisting road, a dense green mass dipped in white frosting. Every minute or so they passed what he assumed were driveways, although these turn-offs were entirely unmarked. No mailboxes or house numbers visible. _Do the residents not get mail here?_ he wondered in annoyance. As if in reply, they passed a bank of twelve to fifteen mailboxes and he crossed his arms with an hmmpphh.

His frustration was mounting. They had the map they'd found at Frenchie's place. But three different properties had been highlighted. How were they to know which was his? At least they had the general area in hand. Unfortunately, it was going to take some time.

Sensing the tension in the air, Nathan tried to offer suggestions. "I think we might have to turn down some of these. Or, like, all of them."

Declan smacked his fist against the roof in a quick jab. "We're wasting time! We can't be driving up and down dead ends when he's..." The statement was left hanging, the conclusion too unsettling to say out loud. An uneasy look passed between the two.

Unable to help himself, Declan was suffering from a never-ending assault of images. Images of terrible things. All that weird crap he and Nathan had seen back at the teacher's place—cuffs, irons, and whatnot. Equipment for a sick medieval playground. What was it all for? Nothing normal, that was for sure. Torture. And he had her there. Trapped. His emotions soared into a frenzy of rage, plunging the next instant into the pit of despair.

"We gotta start somewhere," Nathan was saying, scanning the snow-covered drives as they passed. But the choices seemed infinite and they rolled on in a jittery silence. Suddenly he made an abrupt stop and threw the Saab into reverse. "Look," he said, pointing to one on the left. "Someone's gone down that way recently. You can see the tracks."

Declan leaned across for a better look. It was true. Despite the steadily falling snow, the faint indentations of tire tracks could be seen leading down the gradual slope of the driveway.

"What do you say we have a look?" Nathan said. "If we come up empty, we'll move on to the next tracks we see." He glanced at Declan and nodded vigorously, trying for a look of confidence. "Don't worry, dude. We're gonna find the perv. I can feel it."

Declan lacked his conviction but agreed that this seemed the best course of action. The only one, really.

The Saab began its descent, tree branches scraping the sides of the car as they eked through the narrow spots, following the twists and turns of the long private road. Nathan cringed and cursed under his breath at the sound of his baby being mauled.

"Hey," he said suddenly, turning to Declan with an impish glimmer to his eye, "you know what the best part is?" Without waiting for an answer he laughed and said, "The best part is the fucker has no idea we're coming."

When the five songs had run their course, he'd gone through the regular routine of dips and push-ups to get his blood pumping, tacking on an additional twenty-five each for good measure.

And it had worked nicely; he'd been wired, jacked, ready for battle. He could go about his business with no further delays. With the girl's big mouth neutralized, he wouldn't have to listen to her bullshit psychobabble anymore. He had other plans for her anyway.

The time spent listening to his music had proved fruitful. He saw how it was going to play out and even had a certain role in mind for her. She would do what he asked. Because he was the master.

And she was nothing.

He'd walked slowly down the hallway and paused at the door, his eyes automatically going to the bed where his prize awaited. But it'd been empty, sending a jolt of panic through him. In half a second he spied her, standing at the dresser, fiddling with something in her hand. And he watched, curiosity getting the best of him. When finally he spoke, she jumped a mile into the air. "What do you think you're doing?" he said.

Eyes wide as saucers, she froze. He could taste her fear on his tongue, like a shot of 151. His breath quickened and he felt a stirring within.

He crossed the room in a few quick strides. She tried to run, tripping clumsily on the chain at her feet. He caught her as she fell, seizing her roughly around the arm and yanking her upright.

"Show me your hands," he demanded. If the little bitch wouldn't cooperate, he'd search her himself. But his efforts came up empty. "What have you done with it?" he snarled, hurling her wisp of a body back onto the bed. With lightning speed he pounced, straddling her as he secured her arms overhead. She writhed beneath, bucking like an untamed horse.

"Easy now," he laughed. "Don't hurt yourself."

She screamed, but the tape muzzled the racket to a sound no louder than a whimper.

"Shut up and listen," he ordered, clamping down on her chin to check her thrashing. "Stop fighting me. We're going to have some fun now—like Simon Says," he told her. "You do what I say and you can go free."

Her eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"Yeah, you're right. You're not going anywhere, but you'll be a lot more comfortable," he told her.

He'd decided he didn't want a lot of blood. What he wanted was to move her around like a doll, experimenting with different positions/scenes. Complete submission was the goal. Then, once he grew tired of playing, he would simple choke the life out of her with his bare hands. He thought that might be nice—to watch it drain slowly away. Not many men had experienced that sense of power. Most were soft.

Later he would see what he wanted to do. To the body.

The knife was completely inaccessible.

She had to get out from under him. He was crushing her and his hot breath on her face was like a noxious poison. The way he stared, bloodshot eyes intense yet remote, scared the living daylights out of her.

If it was a game he wanted, then she would play. Or at least pretend to. Until she could get that knife and sink it into something tender.

She did what he said and stopped struggling.

"That's better," he said.

He stared down at her for a long time without speaking and she wished she knew what he was thinking. What sick and twisted thing was he planning next? At last he climbed off and she sat up slowly, trying to inch away without him noticing. Ever so carefully she felt for the knife. It was still there.

He began to talk. "You seemed to like the story of Tristan and Isolde. I think we should continue your studies. As you know, the storyline follows two of my favorite themes, passion and misery." He'd been wandering around the bed as he spoke and she observed a slight unsteadiness. More drinking had been done while he was away. Quite a bit more.

He stopped dead in his tracks. "Which would you like to try first?"

She shook her head in confusion.

With a cold smile, he refined the question. "The passion? Or the misery?"

" _Shit._ "

"We're stuck, aren't we?" Declan said. He didn't know why he'd bothered to say this out loud. The sickening whir of spinning tires was proof enough. The sound was a knife in his heart.

"Shit," Nathan said again. He tried shifting into reverse. The car lurched backward but went no farther. "What the hell! Nobody uses a fucking plow around here?"

Declan shook his head. "It's been snowing for the last five hours. They're probably waiting for the storm to clear out." He peered out his window at the night, as if he could tell when this might occur. "Everyone here has four-wheel drive anyway," he added gloomily.

Nathan spread his arms wide in indignation. "What do you wanna do?"

Declan shrugged. He was riding the rollercoaster again, his mood at the midway point of a rapid descent. His balled fists were weights, nothing but excess baggage, dragging him down. "Get out, I guess," he replied. "We might as well walk to the end. Maybe we can borrow a shovel. Or a tow truck."

Nathan snorted.

He could see he was taking Nathan down with him and he tried to rally. "Come on," he said with forced cheer. "If we're not moving, we're wasting time."

They trudged along through the snow, their feet going from frosty sponges to solid blocks of ice. Declan's shin hurt and he couldn't figure out why until he remembered crashing into something in Frenchie's backyard. Automatically his jaw clenched. Just thinking about the guy made ice run through his veins. He'd never felt this way before, consumed by hatred.

The narrow drive curved and appeared to stretch on forever. Neither spoke. After what seemed like hours, Declan, sensing a change, looked up at the sky to see that the clouds had finally cleared. High above them the moon shone crisp and white, surrounded by millions of stars. He stopped walking, instantly mesmerized. "Look at that," he said, pointing up to the sky.

"No, dude," Nathan replied. "Look at _that_."

Dropping his gaze, Declan followed Nathan's outstretched arm to see that the end of the drive had magically appeared. And there, parked in front of a small log cabin, was a blue Ford pickup.

### Twenty-Six

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

" _The_ Twilight _effect" can be a dangerous phenomenon for teenage girls. Edward Cullen is mysterious, devastatingly beautiful, charming, and intelligent, and on top of that he could be called a "bad boy" in that he is dangerously close to sucking Bella's blood at all times. Is falling in love with this story healthy for teens? As a fan of the books myself, I give a resounding YES!_ — _with one important caveat. The story is fiction, girls! Edward does not exist in real life. Unrealistic, excessively romantic expectations in relationships will only lead to disappointment. And trouble. Read your books. See your movies. Dream. But keep your heads out of the clouds. If something seems too good to be true, it usually is._

She was on her knees.

She'd refused to choose either one of his absurd themes, but that didn't seem to matter. He'd chosen for her, without the courtesy of divulging the assignment (judging by the arrangement, she was leaning toward misery). Set up in a chair, a throne of sorts, he was now directing her to crawl.

"Keep your head up," he said. "Your eyes are to be on me at all times."

She began to move. The leg irons made terrible scraping noises against the hardwood floor. Her head throbbed and her nose had begun to drip, a steady trickle running over the duct tape and off her chin. All the while the Swiss Army knife whispered to her. "Hush," she murmured, "be patient."

Stalling, she slowed her pace, fearful of what awaited her once she reached his feet.

"Look at me!"

Her head jerked up. She tried to look without seeing. She was almost there. And then she was.

"Kneel."

She obeyed, raising herself eye-level with his chest.

"Give me your hands."

She placed them in his lap. He rotated them palms up and stared. Suddenly he seized her left hand, crushing it savagely against his lips as he inhaled the scent of her skin. His eyes fluttered, then closed.

In the next instant she was fumbling beneath her outstretched arm, fingers plunging deep but coming up empty. The knife slipped farther down and she cried out in anguish. His eyes flew open. Flustered, she attempted to replace her right hand smoothly on his thigh, but he was onto her.

Seconds ticked by. At last, he cast both hands away in disgust. "Turn around."

She remained still, feigning confusion. His face darkened. Seizing her by the shoulders, he spun her, smashing her face-first into the floor. A scream caught in the back of her throat. And then he was on his feet, towering over her, grabbing a handful of hair, which he used to jerk her upright. "I think you heard me." His hands began to pat her down roughly, determinedly.

"What have we here?" she heard him say as he forced the little friend from its hiding place. "Aren't you a clever one, stealing my boyhood treasure to use against me?" He crouched down next to her and tapped the knife on the floor, inches from her face. "I had been leaning toward an alternate scenario, but now that you've introduced this, I think we should include this little fellow in our plans. He brings back such fond memories..."

All fight had left her. In the background the scream of heavy metal played on, effectively adding another dimension to her misery.

There was a brush of cool air as he rose and stepped over her. His voice thundered from a new location. "Get up!"

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her body refused to move.

"Simon says _get_ _up_!" he repeated. Footsteps echoed, followed by the heel of his boot, cuffing her savagely over the ear.

Slowly she forced herself to obey. She was dizzy, near faint from the pain, unable to stagger to her feet without first trembling on all fours. Once up she deflated immediately, stumbling against his chest like the boxer on his last round.

He twirled a quarter turn with her and flattened her against the wall. "Don't move," he said, shimmying her against the dark panels as if she might stick there like a piece of Velcro. And then he disappeared.

She hung in a stupor, gazing vacantly out the window. The snow had finally stopped. A full moon lit up the clearing around the cabin, causing the whitewashed landscape to glisten against the emerald backdrop of majestic pines. So bright was the landscape that it appeared to glow, taking on a surreal cast. She wondered if the final blow to her head had triggered a string of hallucinations.

All at once the weight of her body was far too much for her legs to handle, and they began to buckle. Gradually she melted toward the floor and the fairytale scene on the other side of her nightmare faded. But not before the strangest image appeared in the window: a face—not just any face, a face she'd traced many times with the tips of fingers, every angle and crevice stowed away in her mind and heart—pressing itself up against the glass between two cupped hands, soft Irish eyes in a fierce squint.

Declan backed away from the window and frowned. What was that? Although the room was dimly lit, he'd made out a bed, a dresser. And something else. A silhouette in white, human, directly opposite the window. Slight, sagging. Visible one moment, gone the next.

The creak and decisive thud of a door dragged him back to the present. He looked up to see Nathan approaching, then freezing in his tracks as he too heard the sound. The two raced for the trees, crouching down in the brush and peering out toward the front of the cabin.

At long last they spied him as he rounded the corner. Despite the cold, he was dressed in short sleeves, jeans, no jacket. He moved quickly, his eyes darting in all directions. Suddenly he stopped, running his fingers through his hair, appearing to be deep in thought. His pale skin stood out against the five o'clock shadow that crept across his square jaw.

Nathan nudged Declan with his elbow. "Where's the crutch, man?"

Declan squinted. Yes, where was the crutch? This guy obviously had no handicap. On the contrary, he looked pumped up, juiced, wired...totally freaked out, like he had just polished off a few lines of cocaine.

They watched him stumble forward into motion once again. He moved right past them and around the rear of the cabin.

Declan turned to comment, but in less than a few seconds Frenchie was back again, trotting and looping his head back and forth, talking animatedly as if in the midst of a disagreement with an invisible friend. Swinging loosely in his hand was a long-handled axe. The bizarre spectacle was fleeting, for within seconds he had disappeared from view and the creak of the door could be heard once more, accompanied by the quick blast of exceptionally loud music.

The boys rose as one, staring at the cabin in silence.

Declan was the first to speak. "Why's he bringing the axe _inside_?"

Nathan contemplated the riddle. "The dude's not right," he said at last.

That about summed it up, Declan thought, and a queasy feeling washed over him. He turned to face Nathan. "She's in there."

Nathan's head snapped back. "You saw her?"

The image revisited Declan and her silhouette glowed in a ghostly light. What if she was already dead? His mind latched on to the possibility and ran with it. It was too late; after everything he and Nathan had gone through, they'd arrived at the precise moment her soul departed her body. A shiver rippled through him. He gathered his collar tightly about his neck, following this up with a quick sign of the cross.

"Let's move," he said, his voice hoarse but determined. "Time to go inside."

With the unexpected surfacing of the Swiss Army knife, his plans had changed. A new craving gripped him, body and soul. A craving to cut. Slice. Dice. Chop. To break the skin and watch as life itself poured out. It was a curious thing, life. So cunning and adaptable, and yet so fragile. He didn't want to rush things, however. He would begin with a mere trickle. A dribble here, a sputter there. Then gradually increase the flow. He began to salivate.

Entering the cabin, he made a pit stop at the old chest, grabbing the last bottle of beer and his pack of cigarettes. What was a show without refreshments?

In the bedroom he found her slumped on the floor, virtually lifeless already. And he felt a surge of disappointment. Where was that spunk she'd demonstrated earlier? He'd have to enliven her somehow. A few methods came to mind.

Crossing to the dresser, he set aside the axe and patted his pockets absently. Now where was his lighter? At once he recalled placing the two items together, the lighter and the Swiss Army knife. Had he carried them outside? No, he thought...

Suddenly, warily, he eyed the girl, head bowed, hands tucked conveniently behind her back—a bit too conveniently, he mused—and he took a step toward her. In a surprisingly quick and nimble move, she leapt to her feet and charged, managing to catch him completely off guard. There followed an unfortunate lag between mind and body, and the quick spin move he'd envisioned using to dodge the attack fell short. Too late, it became apparent the steady downing of beers had significantly dulled his reflexes. The feathery, lithe body sprung upon him with ease, and he yelped in agony as a searing hot pain erupted on his left side. The sensation served to expel all remaining traces of sluggishness, and in a fit of rage his hands clamped around her slender waist, lifting her up like a toy and hurling her through the air.

He paused to inspect the damage, grimacing with both pain and outrage. The wound was small but deep, and he debated whether or not to take the time to clean it.

An odd sound interrupted his thoughts. Returning his attention to the girl, his jaw dropped in disbelief as he found her square in the middle of the bed, in the process of setting it on fire. The threadbare sheet caught swiftly. Gathering the makeshift torch in her arms, she attempted to fling the thing in his direction, then scrambled to the head of the bed, where she set to work on the pillows.

So. It seemed she would not disappoint him after all.

It took minimal effort to extinguish her frantic little fire-starting party. The blaze he smothered easily with the aid of the heavy bedspread. And due to an abundance of flame-retardant chemicals, the pillows refused to ignite but rather smoldered instead, emitting small puffs of toxic fumes.

Chaos quelled, he approached the bed, where the girl sat shaking and sullen in the far corner.

"Nicely done," he congratulated her. "I'm impressed. But I'm afraid you've broken the rules...Rose." He circled the end of the bed, slinking along, a seasoned predator. "You moved without my permission. I never said Simon Says." He came to rest beside her, and before she could prepare, pulled her roughly to her feet. In silence he brought the blade up to her throat, resting the tip on the soft flesh under her chin. Cradling her neck with his free hand, he drew her to him, their lips so close they nearly touched. "And, as everybody knows," he whispered, "you break the rules...you pay the price."

The boys were greeted by screams and wails as they made their silent entrance into the cabin.

It sucks you in and spits you out

The power of the flesh is what it's about

Passion a poison fells the weak like a sword

Heed my warning

Love is mourning

Douse the lights, cut the cord...

"Hey!" Nathan shouted in Declan's ear. "Awesome music! I gotta get me a copy of this CD." But behind the bravado there was uncertainty in his eyes. They had entered enemy turf. An unfamiliar and unwelcoming place. Not to mention they were about to come face to face with a deranged man wielding an axe.

Keeping to the wall, nerves taut, they moved slowly. Straight ahead, the living room appeared deserted, the remains of a fire dying in the fireplace. Two large speakers sat on either side and were the source of the deafening noise that filled every inch of the place. Beyond this they could see the kitchen, dark and empty.

To the left a short hallway branched off in an L shape toward the back. Declan guessed Vivien was in one of the rooms back there. He glanced at Nathan and pointed, indicating they should move in that direction. Nathan nodded, but after a step or two stopped abruptly and grabbed Declan's arm. "Hold up. The guy's got an axe, remember?" he said. "I'm not going in there empty-handed."

Declan nodded slowly. Good thinking. Not that he wanted this to turn into a _Rambo_ -style massacre or anything. But to go in there with no means of defending themselves would be sheer stupidity. Retracing their steps, they each made off in the direction of the kitchen, evidently inspired by the same idea: what kitchen didn't have knives?

They found two, dull and slightly rusted, but agreed these would do the trick if need be. Properly armed, they resumed their silent trek toward the rear of the cabin.

Halfway along, Nathan stopped, looking uncertain. "What the hell is that smell?" he said, covering his nose with his arm.

Declan frowned. A caustic haze hovered overhead, trapped in the narrow confines of the hallway. The smell was disconcerting and served only to intensify Declan's unease as he continued to prowl forward.

All at once he froze, sensing company. Signaling for Nathan to hold his position, he advanced the final few paces until he could peer around the edge of the doorframe.

Chilling as his suspicions had been, he was unprepared for the scene that unfolded before him. The room was poorly lit, but right away he could see they were both in there. Christophe stood with his back to the door. A small figure stood facing him, her body pinned against the side of the bed.

Declan gravitated forward and a hiss of breath escaped as he took in the shackled ankles, the taped mouth. From the short distance he could see the tremor in her face, skin glistening with tears. The monster held her firmly in place.

The urge to leap onto his back and snap his neck with a quick twist consumed him. Yet, instinct warned him to move cautiously. One more soundless step brought him farther inside, offering a different vantage point. And that's when he saw it: the glint of metal. The knife, primed to slit her throat.

The blade was knocking, waiting for permission to enter. As much as she'd tried to prepare herself for the pain, she'd finally lost all remnants of control. It was coming, horrible and excruciating pain, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Her body shook with a violent force. Tears streamed down her cheeks. With her mouth taped shut she was finding it difficult to breathe, and she held out hope that at any minute she might lose consciousness and thus escape this madness.

Out of the corner of her eye she sensed movement. Her gaze flickered. Just inside the doorway she saw an impossible sight. She blinked several times, but the image remained. This time she knew it was real. As impossible as it was, he was here. Declan had found her. Their eyes met. He put a finger to his lips. She didn't dare move.

The next instant produced an explosion of noise and confusion. She screwed her eyes shut, too afraid to watch. The claw that clutched her neck fell away and, free to move, she somersaulted backward onto the bed, irons and all, curling into a tight ball. Shouts echoed around her and a second, oddly familiar voice joined the pandemonium. Amidst the scuttle, the sound of a heavy object crashing to the floor arrested her pounding heart midbeat and she shrank back even farther, flattening her body against the wall at the head of the bed.

Grunts, strains, and the sickening thud of bodies colliding—the sounds came at her from all directions. A curse rose above the rumble and someone yelled, "Watch out!"

Through trembling fingers she stole a peek, caught between the urge to hide and the urge to see. Below the bed, Declan and Christophe writhed on the floor, the toppled dresser beside them while Nathan— _Nathan?_ —worked to get in a few swift kicks when the opportunity presented itself. A deep red smear appeared beneath the pair as they rolled this way and that.

But it was nearly impossible to see where the blood was coming from. Their positions reversed themselves in a matter of seconds. Now it was Christophe on top, pinning Declan to the floor, grinding his knee into Declan's chest. A moment later Christophe lunged to the side, groping frantically for something just out of reach. At last he came away victorious, a crazed look in his eyes. In his hand was an axe.

She tried to scream, but the sound died miserably on her lips. She tore the tape from her mouth and a shrill blast of hysteria escaped. When next she looked, the three figures had managed to separate. They now stood panting and glaring at each other.

"Drop the axe, you twisted fuck," Declan said between gasps. "It's over. We called the cops."

"They'll be here any minute now," Nathan added.

Christophe coughed and spat onto the floor. He bent forward, hands on knees, chest heaving. "Is that right?" When he'd caught his breath, he stood glowering. "I'll take my chances."

Nathan glanced quickly at Declan and broke into a sputter of nervous laughter. "What's this?" he said. "Fucking Frenchie's not even French!"

Declan accepted the news without comment. "Two against one," Declan said a moment later, aiming for the voice of reason. "You really want to take that chance?" He waited. "The odds aren't in your favor."

The forewarning brought a thin smile to Christophe's lips. "So it would seem. But the truth is, you've come here under false pretenses."

Declan's eyes shifted, looking past Christophe to Vivien.

Christophe nodded smugly. "That's right. Your girlfriend's nothing but a liar." He paused, testing the waters as his gaze scanned his audience.

The allegation hung in the air and was followed by dead silence. "She's a gifted actress, wouldn't you agree? The picture of innocence." Christophe smiled. "And yet...not."

Declan stood speechless, the muscles in his jaw working furiously.

"Is it finally penetrating that thick skull of yours?" Christophe snickered, watching the emotional struggle with obvious pleasure. "You can't honestly tell me you never had a clue. You could even say it was clear the moment you first saw us together." He shook his head empathetically. "I understand your hesitation, however. Cowardice afflicts the best of us from time to time. A proud, good-looking guy like you would hardly want to advertise the fact that he's been played."

"If anyone's been—"

"And I have to say, I feel badly," Christophe said, raising a quick hand to silence any objections. "No, no, I really do, for the truth can be a cruel beast when it catches you napping. But tell me how it is that I know everything about her? How the pain of her parents' divorce has left her scarred and distrustful. How, ever since the death of her brother, she's been consumed by guilt. How giving up her music—which, by the way, she's found once again, thanks to me—left a hole deep in her soul which nothing could fill. All these things she shared with me, but kept from you." He raised his shoulders in a resigned shrug. "Lies are like weeds: unearth one and up pops another." Ever so slowly, his gaze slid from Declan to the crumpled figure on the bed. "This is who you're prepared to die for?"

Declan's face was sealed in an unreadable expression. His gaze darted once more in Vivien's direction but never quite made it, as if the price of meeting her eye was too great.

Naturally she'd heard everything. And the treachery penetrated her skin, slicing far deeper than any Swiss Army knife ever could. She wanted to cry out that this wasn't true. _It_ _wasn't!_ But then again, it wasn't wholly _un_ true, either. She felt dizzy, weak, incapable of playing her part in this madness for one second longer. But there was nowhere to hide.

The silence seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Then at last she heard Declan speak. "This is bullshit. We're not going anywhere."

Christophe laughed outright, throwing his head back. "I love it!" he barked. "The steady rock, yes! Her knight in shining armor, waiting in the wings to wipe the floor after she's gone and made a good mess. Look at her!" The boys followed his command despite themselves. "Wretched little thing! All along she never had the common decency to give you her trust. If she had, well..." He shrugged, letting the thought speak for itself.

But he was on roll now, unstoppable. "Come on, man, that doesn't bother you?" He advanced a shadow of a step toward Declan. "Everything you had, built on a lie?" His eyes blazed, head bobbling unsteadily atop his neck. "And here she told me," he went on, ducking toward him with an air of confidentiality, "that lies are the one thing you can't stomach."

Vivien's head snapped up, an expression of horror on her face. Christophe's hand flew to his mouth as if he'd just made an unforgivable slip. Yet his acting skills left much to be desired, for the depths of his eyes showed nothing but glee.

"Please forgive me, Rose," he said, his voice thick with sorrow. "Someone had to tell him."

Her obvious distress had the unintended effect of causing Declan to drop his guard, the lapse lasting only a fraction of a second, yet long enough for the killer to make his move. Charging forward, Christophe swung the axe in a wide arc. Declan twisted sideways, dodging the blow, but a hair too late as the axe grazed his left thigh. With a grunt of surprise, he stumbled back against the wall.

Unleashing a string of curses, Nathan went on the attack, wielding the kitchen knife like a madman, attempting to slice any piece of Christophe he could reach. In contrast, Christophe remained eerily composed. Quick and calculated, his knee flew up directly into Nathan's groin. As Nathan crumpled forward Christophe grabbed the back of his head, smashing his face into the handle of the axe. Blood splattered. Nathan sank to his knees, his only weapon spinning wildly across the floor.

In the next instant, Declan had spun to grapple Christophe from behind. Christophe tried in vain to claw at Declan's eyes, but Declan was squeezing with all his might, choking him. Christophe sputtered, thrusting his weight backward, trapping Declan against the wall. Declan squeezed harder. He seized Christophe's arm, smashing his hand repeatedly against the wall, aiming to break his hold on the axe. Christophe snarled, gasping for air, the whites of his eyes bulging.

Vivien stood cowering, her eyes glued to the blade in terror.

Breaking free of Declan's grasp, Christophe turned, winding up for a deadly blow. But his retreat had taken him one step too far. His footing lost, he stumbled backward over the corner of the toppled dresser to land flat on his back, a mere foot away from where Vivien stood.

Their eyes met. Christophe began a frantic scramble in an effort to reverse his vulnerable position. But she was ready this time. Underneath the terror the fighter had remained, scooping up the tiny pocketknife, unnoticed, as the battle raged on. Now she had him where she wanted. With a cry of anguish, she raised her arm and sank the knife deep into his throat.

At once the room plunged into silence.

How long she stayed immobile, stricken by the horror of her actions, she couldn't be sure, but soon she became aware that the sobs she was hearing were her own.

She'd done it. She'd killed him.

She looked up to find Declan beside her. He laid a cautious hand on her arm. "Are you...all right?" he said, his voice shaky.

She nodded, edging away, distancing herself from the body.

Nathan appeared, forearm pressed to nose. Blood soaked his sleeve. He gave Declan a nudge. "Wait. You'd better check him."

Declan hesitated, then bent forward and turned an ear. He straightened with a frown and laid the limp arm out before him, placing his fingers on the inner wrist. "I feel a pulse, I think," he said after a minute. "He's still alive."

The three eyed each other in silence.

Vivien finally spoke, "Let's just go." She looked wildly from the body to the boys and back to the body again. "The police will be here any minute now, right? You said so. Let them handle him."

Declan and Nathan shared a look, but said nothing.

Vivien stared back at them, her expression panicked. "I heard you. I heard you say it."

"Vivien," Declan said, trying to impart a sense of calm. "We said that to rattle the guy. We tried to call again once we got here but..." He stopped, shaking his head.

"No one's coming." Her face began to twitch, then to slowly lose shape so that her mouth had trouble forming words. "No one's coming. No one is going to help me?" Her voice rose higher and higher. She stumbled back another step. "You don't understand. I have to...I have to get out of here." She began to move toward the door, but the flood of tears impeded her vision and she tripped on the chain at her feet, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Sobs racked her body. "Take these off!" she screamed, slamming the irons against the wood. "Somebody help me!"

Declan scanned the room in agitation, hoping beyond all reason he might find the miniature key dangling from a set of neatly labeled hooks: truck, cabin, shed, leg irons. In exasperation he crossed the room in three giant strides and scooped her up, much like a parent quelling a temper tantrum. Hoisting her over his shoulder, he called out: "Let's go. We're leaving. Now." His voice sounded firm but frayed on the edges, as if the smallest of snags could send him over the brink.

"Dude, _what_?" Nathan said, glaring at the motionless figure on the bed and standing his ground.

Declan turned, angry. "He's not our problem anymore. She's been through enough, don't you think?" He began to move. "With any luck we should get reception once we reach the car."

As they exited the cabin, he readjusted her trembling body, cradling her in his arms. "Grab a shovel," he called out behind him. "We're gonna have to dig our way out."

Her eyes remained closed as they trudged up the long, snow-covered drive, the wind finding its way through Declan's arms, through the flimsy white slip, to her skin, chilling her to the bone. Her teeth began to chatter. The pain in the back of her head pulsed in time with the bumping rhythm of their climb. Despite all of this, she felt calmer now that she was out of that dreadful cabin.

She heard Declan curse and opened her eyes to see his face set in tight grimace. He looked down at her, trying to pass it off with a smile that crumpled before achieving much success. "I should have brought a blanket. You're freezing. _Fuck!_ " The echo snapped back at them in the frigid air. "This is a disaster." He tilted his head back, gazing at the branches above, as if beseeching them for help.

"It's OK. I'm not that cold."

The absurdity of her statement only served to quicken his pace.

By the time they reached the Saab, Nathan was already hard at work trying to put a dent in the wall of snow that encased the tires. "I tried again," he said. "No go. We'll have to call from the main road."

Declan nodded dismally, expecting no less. "Go," he told him. "I'll take care of the car." He set her down on her feet and opened the door. "Get in. You need to lie down."

She took a step and wobbled. The evergreens surrounding her quivered in succession.

Declan grabbed her arm, steadying her. "Careful," he urged, easing her onto the backseat.

She curled up on her side and attempted a weak smile. Quickly Declan slipped out of his jacket and laid it over her body. He remained hunched in the open door, staring at her, his face creased with worry. A full minute passed before he worked up the courage to speak. "He didn't—" Abruptly he stopped.

She tried to come to his aid, but before she could, he finished.

"Touch you?"

An uncontrollable urge to laugh seized her. The question was absurd. Oh, he'd touched her all right. Maybe not in the way Declan was thinking, but he'd gotten to her. She was stained. Violated. Shattered into a million pieces. Everything that mattered broken beyond repair. She stared at his beautiful face, committing it to memory. He would never look at her this way again, full of concern and tenderness. The damage had been done.

"It's nothing. He hit me," she replied, a feeble gesture to the back of her head.

He moved onto the seat next to her, closing the door behind him to shut out the cold. "Let me see." Snaking his arm beneath her, he raised her up and cautiously parted her hair, studying the wound. "I don't know. I wish there was better light." Gently he helped her back down. "Do you feel...different?"

Another ridiculous question. She couldn't stop shaking. Her brain rattled around in her head. "I don't know."

He reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingers, as if testing the reality of the situation himself. "You're safe now. I promise."

She nodded, clinging to the conviction in his voice.

He faced the door, preparing to go. "I need to get the car out," he told her. "I need to get you to a hospital."

She acknowledged this with a mumble through chattering teeth and waited. But he made no further effort to leave.

At last he turned to her once more, his face full of anguish. "I'm just—I was losing my mind, looking for you," he said, his voice buckling under the weight of the whole ordeal. His lips parted again, something urgent stalled at the tip of his tongue. "You _are_ worth fighting for. You know that, don't you?"

His words seized her, yanking her from the fog, thawing the slush-like blood in her veins. What was he saying? He did love her? After all? Her body moved to him. "Declan...I—"

"Don't!" His gaze broke free, sliding to the floor. "I mean, I'm sorry...I don't think I can do this right now."

She fell back as if slapped, squeezing her eyes shut and curling into a tight ball. From high to low in an instant. There was a ringing in her ears. Her heart thumped away. Pointlessly.

It wasn't going to happen. It was too late.

"Just go," she said. "It's OK."

He acknowledged her statement with a single nod. Still he stayed and the silence ticked on.

"Who is Rose?" His voice was faint but precise. She flinched, then risked a glance at him. He looked drawn, his mouth set in a queasy grimace.

And what could she say? The request went beyond the simple inquiry. It was in fact _the defining question_ of their relationship. Implied within was suggestion of treachery, of malice. She'd permitted Rose to thrive, while the thing that truly mattered withered. She could do nothing but confess her guilt. She sat up weakly, her eyes downcast. "I know."

The lamest response ever. But what else could she offer? In retrospect, her behavior was a complete mystery. Something she never would have dreamed herself capable of.

And no explanation, no matter how heartfelt, could erase what she'd done to them. To say she'd made a mistake was nothing short of insulting. Not only had she made a mistake, she'd magnified it tenfold and nearly killed them all.

She swayed slightly and her mind drifted, laying out the sad facts at his feet. Christophe, she would begin, I thought he was somebody else. He said all the right things. Saw pieces of me that no one else did—like how empty I was without my music. He seemed so interested. In me! How crazy is that? She'd tell him how all her life, she'd never had that (enough of it, apparently). She'd needed it, the way he made her feel...

But what about me? Declan would ask. What about _us_? His face would fall. Hadn't he given her that too?

Yes! she'd jump in. Of course you did. You did! The worst part is— _Ugh!_ —I wanted it. I wanted it so bad I took it from you. _And_ him. Shame engulfed her. She was coming off like someone familiar. Someone she knew— _oh!_

At once she saw with clarity that she was no better than Alan Allen himself, and the thought made her gag. She covered her mouth and coughed several times, desperate to be rid of the taste. The effort she'd made to distance herself, to be everything her parents were not—all this was for nothing, for in the process, she'd lost sight of who she really was. In the end, all she had left were the traits she despised: lying and plotting like her father; clinging to the past and refusing to change like her mother. The truth was agonizing.

I tried to break free, she'd tell him, plead with him.

But had she tried hard enough?

The scene played on. I'm trying, he would tell her, his look pained, I'm trying to wrap my head around this. It's just, I'm feeling more than a little overwhelmed at the moment.

A nervous bark would spring from her lips: _Ha!_ Totally understandable, she would rush, as she scrambled for control. Maybe if she just kept talking, she could delay the inevitable. Stop him from disappearing out that door.

"Vivien?" The sound of her own name gave her a start.

She forced herself to look at him and was immediately confused. No trace of revulsion claimed his gaze. No look of utter and complete disgust. Why wasn't he shouting at her? Hurling insults? Had he not heard anything she'd said? She was desperate for him to hate her, to just go on and get it over with. She'd been hurting him for far too long.

But something wasn't right. Suddenly she was unsure if she'd spoken any of her thoughts out loud. What was it he'd asked, at the very beginning?

Who is Rose?

"I know," she answered (again?) She tried to say it louder, to own his disappointment, so to speak, but her voice came out flat, already defeated. "And I know that you're...you're upset."

"Upset," he repeated, his face folding into a deep frown. "I don't. Think. You understand."

She sucked in a breath, alarmed by the slow, calculated force behind his words. He sat deadly still and she had the sense of eerie calm that precedes a natural disaster. "Declan, I—"

"No, no...we can call it that, if you like. _Upset_." This time he said the word mockingly, his upper lip curling into a sneer. Something was bubbling to the surface. Something that was causing him to break into a cold sweat. The snow outside the car windows lent his skin a ghastly sheen; he was unearthly, a spook in a wax museum. Closing his eyes, he attempted a calming breath, but when finally he spoke, his voice wavered. "You don't understand. It's taking everything I have not to run back down there and finish him off. I have this terrible hatred inside of me. I want to take his fucking axe and...and—" Her look of shock registered on his face and he checked himself. "I'd do it." His eyes had gone dark. "I nearly did."

Silence descended upon them. As she watched, his strength seemed to fizzle, his body crumpling like a dead leaf, the pieces falling away through her fingers. She wanted to take him in her arms, assume all his pain—pain that she alone had caused—but was afraid to touch him, afraid he would push her away.

"I can't stand it," he went on miserably. "That that freak ever had the chance to get to you. If you'd only told me...I could have..." He broke off, suddenly reinvigorated by pure revulsion. "I screwed up! Don't you see? I'm telling you I could feel it the whole time—the way he looked at you. The way he...put his hands all over you. Like you belonged to him." He shook the vision away. "And I did nothing. I sat on my ass like a coward, ignoring my instincts. Just like he said. I could have stopped this. I could have stopped everything."

Her mouth hung open as her mind tried to play catch-up. He was the one feeling guilty? _Him?_

"That's what I can't handle." His words were ice. He froze her with his pain. Turning his face away, he went on, "It's killing me every time I look at you. How close did you actually come to losing your life? _Seconds!_ " he answered for her, his voice tight, stretched beyond it capabilities.

"No—Declan," she protested. He'd assumed all of the guilt and hoisted it onto his back. But guilt was too heavy a burden; it would crush him just as it had her. Both were in desperate need of forgiveness.

Despite her protests, he seemed not to hear her. They were chasing each other in a mad figure eight. Round and round they went, yet no matter what was said, nothing was resolved. Not only were they failing miserably to understand each other, their words somehow backfired, causing each further pain. Her bad luck had turned infectious, her personal black cloud migrating from her to him, sucking oxygen from his spark until it sputtered and died.

But that wasn't how love was supposed to work. And she loved him. She truly did. She would never feel this way about anyone else. Never ever.

Unlike Romeo and Juliet, or Tristan and Isolde, no insurmountable obstacles stood in their way. No feuding families. No magic potions. No Christophe, not anymore. And although it had nearly happened, they didn't need to die to be together.

All her life she'd longed for this, had lain sleepless, her heart growling like an empty stomach. In the end the only thing holding her back was herself, her fears and insecurities. The time had come to open up and set them free.

She raised her head and their eyes locked. Declan appeared feverish, slightly crazed. And she wondered if she looked the same: unhinged, unwell, burning up inside. The heat had arrived in the form of desire. And it came upon her suddenly, without warning. A faint drumming in her head, gaining strength until the sound drowned out all else. Her desire was a rogue wave, an earthquake, a force to be reckoned with. Here. Now. Of all times and places, she wanted him...needed him...

Words were no longer necessary. He pulled her to him and they set upon each other in fierce desperation. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, her face, her throat, slipping through tangles of hair to clutch the back of her neck, the heat of his palms burning her skin. Their mouths fumbled, seeking contact that was anything but gentle. He stole her breath and filled her with his own. His grip tightened. A shudder ran through her. Sensing her arousal, he abandoned her neck to paw away the jacket that covered her. His fingers roamed, gliding over white satin to follow the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, building a hypnotic rhythm as he murmured her name and rocked her against him.

At long last, with extreme effort, he pulled away. "This is crazy!" he panted, his voice in obvious distress. His gaze fell to the slip, which lay in a puddle below the seat, the stays broken. "We've lost our minds...."

She knew him so well. Knew precisely what he was thinking: the clock was ticking; what exactly were they doing? Things of great importance beckoned. Things that required action, _this_ _very_ _instant!_ He was the responsible one, his eyes pleaded. He had let her down once; he would not do it again.

He eased her off of his lap and back onto the seat, then covered her once again, zipping his jacket all the way up to her chin.

"I have to go now," he said, grasping her hands in his own.

She nodded silently, a lump gathering in the back of her throat. After a moment she spoke. "Declan...I'm sorry." Tears spilled over and down her cheeks. He brushed them away for her, then bowed his head to meet hers. "I'm so, so sorry," she choked. "It was never your fault. How could you ever let me down? Please stop thinking that. You have to know my faith in you was there the whole time." She squeezed her eyes closed. "I just didn't know what to do with it."

When she opened her eyes he was staring at her. The sound of their breath filled the silence, pulling in and moving out in unison.

At last he smiled and said, "It's OK. I'm pretty sure it doesn't come with any instructions."

She laughed weakly.

He continued to study her with care. "You know, I gotta say you look like crap," he said, causing her to frown in surprise. "Hey, you told me to let you know when you did, remember? And right now, you definitely look like crap."

She ducked her head under his chin, resting against his chest and took the insult with pleasure. Who needed good looks? Her glow came from within.

### Twenty-Seven

Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:

Feelings are tricky! Sometimes the most difficult thing about feelings can be the act of sharing them with others. The first step is to figure out what your emotions are. If something is bothering you, write it down, draw a picture, identify when it is you feel this emotion. Then, when you're ready, talk with someone who cares about you.

Keeping your emotions bottled up inside is unhealthy! And in some cases, it can even cause physical harm.

The snow fell soft as fairy dust outside her window. Underneath, bright green blades of grass poked through defiantly.

Her mother had only just left with strict orders to rest. She'd also delivered yet another gift, an oversized stuffed panda holding an equally oversized rainbow-swirl lollipop. Naps and candy; was it possible her mother still thought of her as a pig-tailed, sugar-addicted four-year-old?

The panda was cute, though. Who didn't like pandas?

The irony of the current situation was not lost on her. A few short months before, it had been Ramona's mental health that was in question. Now her mother was forced to assume the role of parent, nursing her daughter back to health. Oddly enough, she appeared to be enjoying it, showering Vivien with gifts and spending nearly every minute at her side (the law firm could live without her; her only daughter could not).

Even now, flowers filled her bedroom, the smell luring all who entered into hopes of an early spring. Her favorite was from Declan, a small bouquet of dried orange blossoms, which smelled heavenly. He'd been apologetic about not giving her the real thing, but maintaining an orange tree in a northern climate had seemed rather impractical.

Gift bags lined the window seat: a pink striped Victoria's Secret bag full of cute and sexy lounge wear (absolutely essential during a convalescence) and five brightly colored thongs (they were on sale, five for twenty-five); a black-and-white Sephora bag full of makeup (because when you're feeling blue, nothing's better than a gold bronzer compact and lip gloss that actually plumps your lips—it did, Ramona attested, she'd sampled one at the store). And the gifts went on and on, spilling over the ledge and onto the paisley recliner that had been delivered by Pottery Barn last week.

Months of recuperating had brought with them a vast library of books, crafts, and CDs. Her bed was littered with every available gossip magazine, and often, in the evenings, Ramona would plop herself down, eager to discuss the ramifications of so-and-so's recent split or a young starlet's unfortunate cellulite bikini photos. Vivien would lie next to her, only half listening but relishing her mother's newfound interest in her. Ever since her little mishap their relationship had been conflict-free, steady—pleasurable even. Of course, she realized part of this was due to her "fragile state," but she liked to believe that this would be a change that would carry on indefinitely.

Change was in the air, in fact, with Ramona's spur-of-the-moment engagement to Ricardo and the hasty departure from the apartment on East Hollow into the giant custom-built house on the outskirts of town. A wedding date had yet to be announced, but Ramona was already pushing for June. In addition, they'd pulled Vivien out of school. She needed to be in a calm environment, and Eastbrook had proven to be anything but.

"The school's standards have dropped considerably," Ramona had declared.

Now Vivien had a tutor and would be homeschooled for the remainder of the year. But her main assignment was making a full recovery. What her exact diagnosis happened to be was currently under debate.

"I am hesitant," the doctor had explained to Ramona and Ricardo, after the initial tests had been run, "to say what her prognosis will be at this juncture. The majority of our patients who suffer mild to moderate head injuries tend to do very well. And of course she has youth on her side, which is always a considerable advantage. What worries me a bit is the rather significant presence of memory loss. This could be due in part to the violent nature of her injury—the psychological aspect of the trauma, if you will. We'll keep her here for observation over the next few days, a week at the most, but I highly recommend beginning a rehabilitation program immediately."

The brief synopsis was that Vivien had sustained a moderate TBI (traumatic brain injury), scoring a 12 on the Glasgow Coma Scale, a number that was just on the border of moderate to mild. Skull and neck x-rays revealed several small linear bone fractures but no spinal instability. A CT scan had been ordered within hours and she was found to have what the doctor referred to as an intracerebral hematoma (bleeding within the brain tissue). Fortunately the collection of blood was not significant and surgical removal was not required.

Ramona had chosen to reveal only the bare minimum to her daughter, keeping the amnesia hidden for fear of upsetting her. Vivien had merely been told that some memory loss was normal after a concussion, and soon enough she'd be back to normal. Of course, they'd had to fabricate a story to explain how the injury had occurred in the first place. In the end they came up with a plausible tale about crossing the street at night. In order to dodge a cyclist, Vivien had mis-stepped, hitting her head on the curb as she fell.

Vivien had accepted this story without question, and although she was aware there were things she could not remember, she did not feel overly anxious about it. Dutifully she attended all her outpatient rehab sessions and never missed a single homework assignment her speech and physical therapists gave her.

Carefully Vivien extricated the lollipop from the panda's paw and scrunched the bear up behind her. Not only was it adorable, it made a pretty comfortable pillow.

She lay back and stared up at the ceiling. No matter how exhausted, she never could fall asleep in the middle of the day. But naps were a good time to think. And lately she'd been doing a lot of thinking.

Three months had passed since her fall. And she had to wonder if she was making any real progress. She was still having headaches, and oftentimes food had a strange taste, or no taste at all. More frightening were the times she felt disoriented and had trouble finding the right words. She bumped into things a lot (way more than her former, klutzy self had) and often dropped objects for no apparent reason. Sometimes she would forget an event that had happened only a half hour ago, and her mother and Ricardo would have to repeat themselves constantly. These episodes made her feel stupid and embarrassed, and she was thankful that she could experience them in private rather than in front of her classmates at Eastbrook.

Thank goodness she had Declan. He was a natural caregiver—whenever Ramona let him come over, that is. Her mother had been vigilant to the extreme at first, allowing no one to see her in the hospital save Ricardo and herself. Even now Ramona was basically keeping her sequestered, save the biweekly trips to the therapist. She'd even changed Vivien's cell phone number and cancelled her Facebook account, all in the name of caring for her mental health.

"The doctors said to ease back into things," Ramona had told her, "And that's exactly what you're going to do. I don't want any of those Eastbrook kids coming around and upsetting you."

Luckily for her, Declan had other plans and he, Nathan, and Lauren would sneak in on a regular basis whenever her mother was out. At first, the visits had been awkward, for Nathan and Lauren especially. They seemed to have trouble knowing just what to say. This had surprised her, for she hardly considered her condition serious. Nathan always had an opinion and she'd grown accustomed to hearing it whether asked for or not. Eventually, however, everybody had loosened up and the conversation flowed more naturally.

She was forced to admit that Nathan was growing on her. They were able to talk in private one afternoon while Declan and Lauren went downstairs to make popcorn. He'd come right out and apologized for acting like a jerk around her, explaining that he'd never hurt Lauren or take advantage of her in any way and had no intention of doing so in the future. He said this earnestly and with an uncharacteristic trace of humility and she'd had no other choice than to take him at his word. She, too, apologized for jumping to the wrong conclusion. She'd been shocked and unnerved by what she'd seen at Riley's and she supposed she'd let her imagination run away with her. She hadn't acted fairly. Declan and Lauren had returned to find the two laughing over one of Nathan's crude anecdotes and both were noticeably taken aback by the newfound chumminess.

Through long talks with Lauren, Vivien had learned that Nathan did in fact hold her purse for her while she shopped her weekly circuit around the mall. Not only did he hold her purse, he was quite verbal in her selections and was not above roaming the racks himself to bring her the perfect killer outfit.

These were her favorite times, the times when the four of them were together. She got sad when she suddenly remembered that graduation was just around the corner and soon they might be going their separate ways. Both Declan and Nathan were waiting to hear about lacrosse scholarships from several colleges. And of course, Lauren would finish her senior year at Eastbrook. But what did the future hold for her? Both her mother and Ricardo were dead set against her going back there.

When she really thought about it, she couldn't escape the sense that something wasn't right. And to make matters worse, whatever it was would give her the slip just when she was on the verge of grasping it. Completely innocuous things would bring it on, like the time Ramona had brought home sushi takeout and, despite being ravenous, she couldn't eat a single bite. Or the fact that she had absolutely no tolerance for smoking. The smell brought on waves of claustrophobia.

She didn't know what to do about this. So far, she'd kept these episodes to herself, but they had begun to weigh on her and she'd decided she was going to tell Declan when the chance came up. She might, if she was patient, catch that ghost all on her own. But facing life's challenges by herself was something she'd had to do in the past. Things were different now. Why go it alone when she had Declan?

Holed up in his room after dinner, fingers poised over the keyboard, Declan found his mind wandering. He had a three-page government paper he needed to crank out in the next couple of hours. But he couldn't concentrate.

He was always thinking. Of her. Of... _him_. Of everything that had happened.

The weeks immediately after had been nothing short of pure hell, thanks to the screwball mom. She'd forbidden him or any of Vivien's friends from seeing her in the hospital, acting as if it was somehow their fault she'd ended up in there. Then, when she was finally out, the two of them just packed up and left—no goodbyes, no forwarding address, nothing!

He'd nearly lost his mind. Pacing his room, ranting and raving until his parents suggested he might want to see some kind of counselor. That settled him down. A little. He wrote her letters, poured out his heart and soul, ripped the letters up and then taped them back together. Even weirder, he slept with her sweatshirt. Since he'd literally been barred from seeing her, he hadn't been able to return the suitcase she'd left in Patrick's room. So he'd emptied it, sifting through her things like a thief. The sweatshirt was soft. It smelled like Vivien and vanilla cupcakes.

At last he'd been able to get through to Mrs. Allen and talk some sense into her. She'd only been scared, she told him. She wanted to protect Vivien. Understandable, all considering.

The first time seeing Vivien, he'd been so nervous he could hardly speak. Had no idea what to expect, didn't want to upset her, accidentally say the wrong thing. Their conversations were excruciating. She remembered nothing. For her, Christophe Laval had never existed; she'd simply repressed the whole thing. Apparently this was normal in cases of severe trauma, he'd been told. He'd also been told—make that _warned_ —under no circumstances was he to bring it up. It was imperative to Vivien's mental well-being that nothing was forced. She had to remember all on her own. When the time was right. If ever.

And he had to admit, he'd struggled. He liked things neat and tidy. All this not knowing, this tiptoeing around, it was a stretch for him. How were they to move forward when they could never go back? How was it possible to build a relationship with those nagging loose ends? It seemed reckless, like crossing over freshly frozen water. While the ice looked solid on the surface, every footstep left you wondering if you might just crash through. Some days he could barely stand it. He could feel himself unraveling and he'd have to make some kind of excuse to leave. This always seemed to confuse her. It was torture.

Nights of tossing and turning brought little relief. He couldn't stop it, just replayed that horrible night over and over again in his head. He never even got to hear her side of the story. She'd tried, that night in Nathan's car. But he'd stopped her. Unable to listen to anything but the voice inside his head, the one that had screamed bloody murder. He'd felt on the verge of losing control, like a killer himself. And the feeling had terrified him, made him question his faith and everything he cared about. What kind of doctor wants to end a life rather than save it?

The whole episode had brought all kinds of ugly feelings to the surface. After reading Lauren's note, he'd been furious. And then, discovering that Vivien had been seeing that sick-o on a regular basis, sharing a part of her that she'd consciously kept from him, he'd been crazy jealous. But those feelings had faded with time and hours of somber reflection, and he'd finally regained his senses. Why be jealous of a twisted relationship? Christophe had used her love of music to get to her. He'd preyed on her soft spot, the gaping hole left by her asshole dad as a parting gift. And then he'd made that hole deeper by filling her head with nonsense, telling her love was longing without end. Love was death.

Pure crap. The intensity they'd shared was the wrong kind. Need fueled by fear was not love.

What truly haunted him was imagining what had gone down in that cabin. Before he and Nathan got there. He prayed to God Looney Tunes hadn't done anything worse than smashing her on the back of the head. If he so much as touched her...

He wished with all his heart that Christophe Laval—or whatever the hell his name was—had never set foot in East Lake Pines. It was almost as if the guy had had a personal vendetta against him, stealing his girlfriend and then...there was Cocoa. They'd finally found her—frozen stiff, poor thing—under a row of snow-covered hedges in the corner of the backyard. It was unclear what had killed her. But he knew.

Unfortunately, they'd never found _him_. His truck, yes. Some old lady came across it, abandoned, in the middle of her husband's cornfield. There'd been a significant amount of blood inside, the police had said. All medical facilities in the area had been thoroughly searched, in conjunction with a door-to-door manhunt. Nothing. The only plausible conclusion was that the psychopath had crawled off and died in the frigid temperatures. If this was so, he hoped it had been a slow and painful death.

All the same, he would've preferred to see the body for himself—one hundred percent dead. The possibility that he could still be alive was so objectionable he could only consider it for the briefest of moments.

With a yawn, he arched his back and stretched. The blank screen stared back at him. Shit. He pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Now he remembered. There'd been a call earlier. Some detective guy wanting to talk to him. But enough was enough; he didn't want to answer any more questions about Frenchie.

Yet now he suddenly changed his mind. If nothing else, it was something to do besides writing a paper.

"Detective Finch," the voice barked in his ear.

"Hello. This is Declan Mieres. You left me a message?"

There was a pause. "Yes. That's right. I did. Listen," he said, clearing his throat, "I have something here. We found something...in the cabin."

Declan stiffened.

"The cabin up in Whispering Pines," Finch clarified needlessly. "My partner came across a letter. I believe it was meant for you."

The news startled him and he could think of no reply.

"It's of...ah...a personal nature," the detective continued. "Nothing to do with the case, really. So I thought you might like to have it."

"Yes...OK. Should I come up there? For the letter, I mean?"

"That won't be necessary. That's why I called. I'm in town—about to head out in the next few minutes, as a matter of fact. But I can drop by and give it to you in person if you're home."

"Yes, I'm home. You're sure it isn't any trouble?"

"Not at all," he chuckled. "I remember what it was like to be young. Believe me, there's nothing quite like the first one. You'll remember her forever."

Declan hesitated, the unsolicited wisdom hitting a nerve. He wasn't about to forget her. When he thought of his future, he always pictured her right there with him. He hadn't told her yet, but Notre Dame had come through with an offer too good to refuse. Needless to say, his parents—his dad especially—had been ecstatic. It was what he'd wanted since he was a kid. But things were different now. And he found himself holding out hope that the local university would come up with an equally competitive offer. Even three hours from Vivien was three too many. "Well, thanks. I'll give you my address."

"No need. I've got it already."

"Oh. Right. I didn't think of that."

"Give me fifteen minutes," the detective said. There was a click and the line cut.

True to his word, within fifteen minutes, the detective had the letter safely in Declan's hands. Not much of a letter, as it turned out. More of a note. A lengthy scrawl slanted across a page ripped from the bible, of all things.

The handwriting was Vivien's. When had she written this? His heart was racing before he could even begin. He took a deep breath.

Declan,

You may not ever get the chance to read this, but I have to get it down on paper anyway. My head is spinning. And the circles keep taking me back to you. I wanted so much to be perfect for you—even though you told me not to. Sometimes, I'm not the best listener. I was so afraid of losing you that I never let myself have you in the first place. If that makes any sense. Anyway, I see your point now. I finally get it. The sad part is that it's too late. I've messed things up way beyond repair. So I want to tell you how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you like I did. I also want to tell you that you are and always will be the only one for me. It's going to look bad, when you find out everything. But would you believe me if I said I made a mistake? Sort of a big one, I know. If I could just go back in time and do it all over again...Well, I'm paying for it now. I'm so scared. If I had one last wish, it would be for you to hold me in your arms. From the very beginning, the only thing you asked for was the truth.

I love you.

Now you know.

Declan had to read it three times as some of the writing had bled into the print underneath. When he was finished, he let his hand fall, the page dropping to the floor. He stared off at nothing, picturing her frightened, desperate, the distinct possibility that she wasn't going to make it out of there alive running through her mind as she scribbled down her thoughts. And those thoughts were of him.

He broke into a foolish grin. He felt giddy, like the time he'd gone around emptying every last swallow from unattended champagne glasses half a dozen Christmases ago. Before he could stop himself, he was dialing her number.

"Hey," she said sleepily.

He frowned and glanced at the clock. "Did I wake you? The head nurse will not be pleased."

"My mother?" She stifled a yawn. "No. I'll talk quietly. What's up?"

"Listen...I just wanted to hear your voice."

"But you called after practice today, remember?"

There was a moment of confusion as both spoke at once: "I remember—"

"What's wrong—?"

Silence.

"Nothing's wrong," he assured her. And nothing was. Everything was finally _right_. All at once he was tongue-tied. Telling her about the letter was out of the question. How could he explain what he was feeling at this moment?

"I love you," he said suddenly, and held his breath. He'd never just put it out there like that, those three words, left to stand all on their own. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard her gasp.

"Are you sure you're OK?" She laughed nervously.

"What, I'm not allowed to say that?"

"No. Of course you are. I love you too."

The conversation stalled. He could hear her breathing on the other end. She felt so far away. He wished she hadn't moved to the middle of nowhere. More than anything, he wanted to curl up next to her. Keep her safe.

"Go to back to sleep," he said at last.

She yawned once more. "All right." She paused. "Declan?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. Your second call was even better than the first."

He laughed. "You're welcome." Then his voice dropped to a near whisper, "Now you know."

About the author:

Leslie J. Portu is an avid reader of YA fiction. She graduated from the University of Wisconsin (Go Badgers!) with degrees in Political Science and International Relations, and later returned for French education. Writing came late into her life but she can think of nothing else as rewarding, and is already hard at work on her second novel. She lives in Ann Arbor, MI with her husband, four children, and two dumb dogs.

Now dear reader, it's your turn! Please, please share your thoughts/feelings about the book, storyline, writing, characters you loved/hated, etc. YOU are what it's all about!

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