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with his head bent forward and his chin tucked in, he’s laughing into his chest. When he looks up, his eyes are dangerously close to my face. “No problems. My life is perfecto.”
    â€œMake one up.”
    He tries flattery. “How am I supposed to concentrate when I’m sitting next to a beautiful girl?”
    â€œNo chance, asshole.” I surprise myself. And judging from the look on his face, I surprise him as well. “Give me a problem.”
    â€œYeah? Okay. The love of my life is ignoring me.”
    I make a face and stretch my brain to find a validation. “That sounds … hard.”
    â€œIt is. In a lot of different ways.” He winks and suddenly I realize the double meaning in my words. “And that validation sucked.”
    Who is this guy? I can’t figure him out, and he’s irritating. Like an itch you can’t scratch because it would be impolite and people would stare. So I take a risk and ask, “Did you really not know what the word ‘stalking’ meant?”
    He grins, and his smile tells me all I need to know. “You asshole,” I say again.
    â€œHey. You’re cute when you’re feisty, you know that?”
    I turn away. “I’m going to ask for another partner.”
    We haven’t even gotten to the texting practice yet. It’s going to be a long day.

7
    It looks like someone puked fliers all over the school. Every blank space on every wall has some variation of the Central’s Peer Helpline — We’re Here to Listen advertisement. We all worked together to make the fliers, but Paisley posted them after hours so we wouldn’t blow our secret cover.
    She ran an ad in the local paper too.
    So officially, we’re now in business.
    Too bad we don’t have a clue what we’re doing.
    My locker is across from a particularly colorful slathering of fliers. There’s a playing card precariously wedged in one of my locker slats. I pull it out and look at it. A joker. There’s tiny, black writing, block letters that look so neat and square I wonder if they have been printed around the edges of the card. I turn the card counterclockwise to read all the words. It says, Remember stranger danger from elementary school? I am Stranger .
    I have this sudden urge to get the card as far away from me as possible. I drop it in the nearest trash can and back away. People these days have a twisted sense of humor. Sick .
    I feel like I’m sitting in a closet. Probably because I am sitting in a closet. A converted storage closet with a futon, a desk, two computers, two chairs, and two phones. The whole room is smaller than my parents’ master bathroom.
    I’m highlighting my AP government textbook, using my three-colored approach. Pink for possible vocab words, yellow for dates, and orange for facts. Janae is sprawled across the futon, paging through a magazine. Luckily I avoided being paired with Miguel.
    â€œ Why did we sign up for this again?” She rolls over onto her back.
    I laugh. “I was wondering the same thing myself.” The phone hasn’t rung once. We’ve been parked in this tiny room for over an hour. About as much fun as getting orthodontic braces tightened. At least I’m getting some good studying done.
    â€œNice ankle bracelet,” I tell her. It’s pretty, made of baby-blue seashells and tied together with some kind of twine that resembles hay.
    â€œYou like?” Janae grins and holds up her leg for me to examine more closely. “I made it.”
    â€œSeriously?” I look closer. She doesn’t seem like the jewelry-making type. She seems more the weed-smoking, rave-going, bleach-your-hair-in-the-sink type.
    Janae unhooks the bracelet and turns it over in her hands. “Yeah. This is a good one. I made a bunch a while back when I was living away from home.” Her eyes lose focus for a moment, like she’s remembering something. “I