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sweet when you kicked your friend,” she clarified.
    “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    She didn’t challenge me on the lie, but her smile was knowing. “Have a good history class, Harper Lee.”
    “I-I will,” I sputtered. “You, too.”
    I stayed in the hallway a moment long, blinking in confusion about our recent exchange, until Raleigh turned a corner and was out of sight. Maia was right; a secret handshake would have been nice.
     
    + + +
     
    I made the mistake of riding the subway that evening without my ear buds. Nothing said “Don’t talk to me” better than listening to music on the train—except for actually saying “Don’t talk to me.” I was sandwiched between a model-tall couple who only spoke very loud German and a woman who was either homeless or ridiculously rich. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.
    Despite the mild weather, the woman wore a long pink puffy jacket that reached past her knees. Two overstuffed couture bags that looked like they’d seen better days crowded my feet. Groceries poked out of the open zippers. Everything inside the bags looked high-end, including the chocolate bar the woman produced and promptly ate in front of me. The wide chocolate bar and its thin foil wrapping reminded me of Willy Wonka, but there was no golden ticket in this bar of chocolate.
    A few people got off the train with me at my stop. It was after the late afternoon rush of those returning to their homes after working in the Loop, but regardless of the hour, the elevated platform near my apartment remained relatively crowded since it was the closest stop to the University of Chicago and the public parks that surrounded the area around the Museum of Science and Industry.
    Although the train platform had been populated, with each step away from the L stop, the more deserted my surroundings became. I’d taken this route at this hour more times than I could count since I’d started babysitting for the Henderson’s, but for some reason I felt prickly and on edge that night. Lurking dark figures that turned out to be nothing but garbage cans or mailboxes jumped out at every turn, and without my music, the regular sounds of the city felt sharper and more obtrusive.
    My ears picked up a second set of footsteps in my immediate vicinity. I twisted my head this way and that, but saw no one attached to the noise. No cars drove on the one-way residential streets that populated my neighborhood, making me feel even more isolated and vulnerable than usual. I picked up my pace, not quite running, but certainly lengthening my stride. My pulse quickened along with my step and the click-clack of my boots on the concrete sidewalk echoed in my ears nearly as loudly as the pounding of my heart.
    The footsteps I’d heard in the distance picked up as well. They struck the ground at a different pattern than my own. The steps were getting louder and closer until it sounded like the person was running in my direction. I wasn’t about to stick around until the person came upon me, so I started to run as well.
    If I was actually being followed, I should have run past my apartment building and straight to the busy intersection only a few blocks from my complex. But I wasn’t in that mindset, and I ran directly for the safety of my front door. I rummaged for my keys at the bottom of my school bag. My place wasn’t fancy enough to have a door attendant like some of the apartments in nicer neighborhoods, but it at least had a locked front door, and you needed a key to work the elevator inside the lobby.
    My hands shook as I searched for the right key on my key ring, which seemed to have picked up a few more keys since the last time I’d used it. The steps were louder now—closer—but I didn’t pause to look in the direction of the closing sounds. I thought I heard heavy breathing; the person was out of breath from running.
    Just as I wiggled the correct key into the front lock and twisted, I