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Bailey didn’t really feel like admitting all that to Eric. It sounded immature, like her parents still treated her like a child. Plus, she still had reservations of her own about going or not.
    She simply admitted, “I haven’t had a chance to ask my parents yet.”
    “But do you want to go?”
    “If I can find someone to go with, maybe,” Bailey said.
    “Maybe?”
    “You still haven’t told me what kind of party it.”
    “It’s a barn party.”
    “Meaning what?”
    “Meaning Brad Townsend’s dad runs a media company, so Brad’s bringing a projector and a gigantic screen. And Casey Crawford is bringing his DJ equipment for sound. And we’re going to bring hay bales down from the loft and have a Freddy Krueger movie marathon.”
    Eric Cady had said it all in one breath. Bailey couldn’t imagine herself being able to squeak out more than one sentence at time right now. That meant he wasn’t nervous. That meant he was cool under pressure. No surprise, she realized, given his reputation. And how he described the party sounded a lot different than what she had expected.
    But who is Freddy Krueger? she asked herself.
    To Eric, she just said, “That sounds cool.”
    That sounds cool was about the most brainless thing she could have said, she knew. But her mind was frazzled, running in too many new directions at once.
    “Do you know who Freddy Krueger is?” he asked.
    “No,” she said flatly.
    “I love your honestly,” Eric said.
    That comment hit home, and Bailey knew instantly that she would treasure the affirmation forever. In a world where liars prospered, she prided herself on always being truthful. At least trying her best.
    “Thank you,” she said. But regarding Freddy Krueger, she asked, “Who is he?”
    “A serial-killer from the 1980’s who slashes his victims with a glove made of knives,” Eric said.
    After a moment, Bailey said, sarcastically, “Wow, that sounds perfect for a teenage party out in some old barn in the middle of nowhere.”
    “It’s right on Hwy 8,” he told her.
    “May I tell my parents it’s not a drinking party?” she asked.
    “I’m not providing alcohol,” he said. “If people bring their own, I won’t say anything, unless things get out of hand. How about telling your parents you’ll be my date, and that the two of us won’t be drinking?”
    Bailey smiled to herself and said, “Okay. I can ask them tomorrow.”
    They talked on the phone for two more hours.
    And Bailey never called Jany back.

Chapter 7

    F orefront in Bailey’s mind was why Eric Cady liked her. She knew he did—after last night, she finally believed it—but it baffled her as to why. Last night, he had talked to her in a way that almost seemed intimate. He kept saying how he admired her for this and that, such as for having a brain, and for using it, and for not being a follower. He said she seemed brave and courageous.
    He really knew nothing about her, nor she about him.
    Only what appearances showed.
    The inside truth about Bailey Howard was that she was painfully shy. If that didn’t show externally, then what did? Did she seem brave? Courageous? There was no way!
    Shy as a turtle who hides in a shell.
    Insecure. Uneasy. Awkward. Scared.
    Those were the words that Bailey Howard imagined would more likely be taped on the back of her shirt.
    But a smile still pained her face, even this morning, at the hope that Eric Cady genuinely meant that she seemed brave. She’d known the rest for years—having a brain, using it, not being a follower—but to be called brave lit her with sunshine inside.
    And now, whenever she turned back to glance at him in Mr. Renly’s Algebra class, her heart went aflutter.
    Weird.
    Too bad Carla Cummings has to strain so hard cranking around to laugh and toss her hair in Eric’s direction without a clue that Eric had spent two hours on the phone last night with the shy, plain, turtle brain in the front row, Bailey Howard.
    Me , Bailey thought, spinning