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hammering double-time in my chest. “You, um . . . could . . .” How did he get my cell phone number? I looked up at Grace, the only other person who knew Quentin existed. I wouldn’t put it past her to prank me.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Where’s your cell phone?”
    She did a half roll and pulled it out of her back jean pocket. “Here. Why?”
    “Never mind.”
    “Girl, you are losing it.” She shoved her phone back in her pocket. “Are you going to answer my question?”
    Staring at the text, I asked, “What question?”
    “Focus, Cee. Focus. Who should I ask about Chelsey?”
    “What? Oh, Sean.” Distracted, I moved to the little bench seat in the window and hit the reply button, the dampness in my palms back. “You could ask Sean directly.”
     
    How did you get
    this #?
     
    “What do I care? Sean can date whomever he wants.”
    I shook my head, because I knew she did care. My phone beeped again, startling me.
     
    If you’re free on Thurs,
    I’ll tell you.
     
    “CeeCee? Hello?” Grace’s exaggerated voice catching my attention.
    “What?” Annoyance seeped into my tone. I could easily sneak out, but to meet him? I looked out the window, picturing the car I saw drive-by earlier. I knew I needed to say no. I should say no. Every logical thought screamed no.
    Grace lowered the magazine and shot me her best offended look. “Don’t get uppity with me for asking you a friggin’ question. Who’s texting you, anyway?”
    “Oh, um. Foster,” I lied. “Complaining about his school work and lack of social life.”
    “It’s his own fault,” she shot back with her typical answer for everything. “Did your brother think he would be able to skate through an engineering degree?”
    “Engineering’s a great field,” Avery added in.
    “Whatever,” Grace said, going back to her magazine. “But in my book, it’s just another form of island isolation.”
    Island isolation. I was tired of isolation. Tired of this room. Tired of my own mind. Tired of gray. In a moment of irrational thought, I typed one word and hit send.
     
    OK
     
    “Not everything has to be about isolation,” Avery added. “It could just mean . . .”
    The next beep seemed to have doubled in volume.
    “CeeCee, I know you two are close and all, but you’ve got to cut him off.”
    I tuned her out to read the text.
     
    Catch the 6:40 ferry.
    I’ll meet you on the other side.
     
    I didn’t reply. Unsure of what I ’d just agreed to.

 

     
     
    “Can you believe that?” Dylan leaned over and asked after the last bell of the day released us from the apprehension I’d been locked in all week. “An essay? In French? By next week? This class is going to kill me.”
    “Um, yeah.” A French essay was the least of my worries. I was distracted by the fact that it was now Thursday and I’d agreed to meet a total stranger in the city, who may or may not be stalking me. Who may or may not be a nice guy. Who may or may not . . .
    Stop.
    I had to stop with the what-ifs. I shoved my books in to my messenger bag and bee-lined for the door.
    Dylan’s lanky lope easily kept pace with my jumpy gait. “Where are you off to? I told Grace and Avery I’d meet them at the coffee shop after school. Do you want to come?”
    I ignored the hope in his voice. “I can’t.”
    We stepped into the mass of humanity that had flooded the halls. “I’ve got to, um . . . I’ve got some things I need to do.” Like, go home and search for my sanity, which seemed to have vanished the moment I agreed to meet Quentin. Well, actually, before that, but I was now pushing the blame in his direction.
    A body jarred my shoulder from behind and sent me tripping into Dylan. His French book fluttered to the ground as he awkwardly reached out to catch me and missed, leaving me to land with a “whoosh” on top of three hundred pages of Français .
    “You okay?” He jammed the flow of bodies with his towering frame and reached down, clamping his clammy