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admiring his Rambo-like physique. “Especially if you’ll be substituting for Ms. Mazur anytime soon. I’d love to show you my technique. I call it the thump-and-slap.”
    “Sounds like you’re having fun. Maybe if Ms. Mazur calls in sick.”
    “I’ll see what I can do,” she says, practically drooling. “Camelia, do we know anyone with whooping cough? I hear it’s supercatchy.”
    “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that,” I say.
    “I’m heading out to pick up some molds,” Spencer says. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour. Camelia, will you be around when I get back?” A lock of his wavy dark hair falls into his eyes, turning Kimmie to virtual mush. “I thought maybe we could talk about stuff.”
    “Talk is cheap,” Kimmie interrupts. “Don’t you have anything to show?”
    “As in, what I’m working on?” Spencer asks.
    “For starters.”
    “Well, I’m about to begin sculpting a six-foot-tall ballerina in bronze.”
    “Need a model?” She stands on her tiptoes. “I could wear my stilettos.”
    “I’ll keep it in mind,” he says, and turns to me. “So, will I see you later?”
    “I don’t know,” I say, glancing at his hand. It still lingers on my shoulder. “I kind of have a lot of homework.”
    “On a Friday?” Kimmie asks.
    “So, maybe another time,” he says, reminding me to lock up when I’m done.
    Kimmie bops me on head with a sponge once he’s gone. “Honestly, what is your problem?”
    “You’re the one with the problem. What are you doing hitting on my boss?”
    “ He was hitting on you ,” she says, correcting me.
    “No way,” I say. “Spencer’s just like that . . . he’s just nice .”
    “Yeah, well, nice boss plus open invitation to hang out after hours equals a very happy lizard . . . meaning you, Miss Chameleon. You want a spicier life? Well, then, he’s your chipotle pepper.”
    “I am so not interested in Spencer.”
    “Because he didn’t supposedly kill anybody?”
    “Okay, I’m done having this conversation.” I roll my clay up into a ball and plop it down against my wedging board.
    “Fine,” she says, drying her hands. She tosses the wad of paper towels to the floor, in lieu of the garbage barrel, and it catches on her heel. “Call me later.”
    “Will do,” I say, watching as she walks off, the roll of paper towels trailing along after her like industrial-strength toilet paper, totally making me giggle.

 15 
    She’s become my addiction and she doesn’t even know it. Part of me wants her to know—wants her to feel me out there. Watching her. Checking how she dresses. And what she eats. And who she spends her time with. Watching as she opens her bedroom curtains first thing in the morning. And walks to school. And shops for nail polish in town.
    I take note of some of her favorite things—like yogurt-covered pretzels, pale peach lip gloss, and hooded sweatshirts with big front pockets.
    And I know when she goes to bed, usually around eleven thirty, right after chatting online with I can only wonder who.
    That’s the hard part—not knowing EVERYTHING about her, despite how hard I try. Even when I’m up close, I can’t always hear what she’s saying in conversation. I can’t always watch her lips, for fear she’ll catch on, which would ruin everything.
    I want to talk to her. And sometimes we do talk. But it’s never for very long and we never say anything important.
    I can’t be myself around her. I can’t relax or open up, or show her all the pictures I’ve got tacked up on my wall: pictures of her at the beach, in front of her house, at the mall, and in the bakery downtown.
    Lately she’s been talking to everyone, even to people she never normally associates with. She’s been asking them questions about something that shouldn’t even matter to her, something she shouldn’t even know about.
    Luckily, she redeemed herself, though. We got really close recently. Or, should I say, I got really close to her. At first I