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shouldn’t bubble up, but he squeezes my upper arm in supplication, much as you might with someone who really is a friend. The arguments die on my lips.
    “ It’s your funeral,” I mutter insolently.
    He laughs, and then holds out his hand to me. “Friends?”
    I stare at his offered hand, before finally placing my hand in his. He gently squeezes, careful of the injury, then stands, drawing me up with him.
    “ Come on, friend, I’ll give you a ride home.”
    “ No!” he looks at me, surprised at my vehement refusal, but I can’t let him drive me to my house. “I mean, that’s okay, I like to walk. I walk home every day.”
    “ Okay,” he accepts this without argument. When I begin to climb the hill, my bruised knees that have been sitting in one position long enough to stiffen betray me and I groan involuntarily.
    “ What?” his concern is immediate, as he looks me over.
    “ Nothing, it’s fine. I think I hurt my knee a little.”
    I try to play it off, intending to grit down on the pain and walk as if nothing’s wrong. My body, never my ally, has other ideas and two limping steps give me away.
    “ Alright, enough of the martyrdom,” he says, sweeping me up into his arms as if I were a small child. Surprised, my arms wrap around his neck to hold on, embarrassment causes me to duck my head. He strides easily up the hill, not putting me down until we reach his car. He sets me down, opens the door, moving a pile of books for me to climb in.
    “ These are yours,” he says, handing me the pile. “You dropped them outside the school today.” No reference to the fact that the reason I had dropped them—and skinned my hands and knees—was that I had been running from him.
    “ Thanks,” I mumble.
    He closes the door, walking around to climb in the driver’s side. It feels surreal, riding in a car beside a boy, almost as if I’m normal. I direct him to within about a block of my house.
    “ Stop here, I’ll walk now.”
    He turns to look at me, an argument ready, but something he sees in my face stops him. He nods, and pulls over.
    “ You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks.
    “ Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
    “ Okay. Hold on,” he says when I reach for the door handle. He jumps out, running around the car to open my door. I pretend that my knees aren’t blaring at me, and he pretends not to notice as I clamber out.
    “ You know, you’re a little taller, too,” I tell him, amazed at my boldness.
    He laughs as he gets back in, gives me a wave, turns his car around and drives off. I watch him go, wonder thrumming through me—right alongside the suspicion.
     
    When I limp in the front door, I see immediately that my mother is asleep, snoring in a drug-induced slumber. Another first as I sneak quietly past her—not that she’s sleeping but that I ignore my chores for the moment, going up the stairs. I walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. With some trepidation, I approach the mirror.
    The mirror has become my enemy over the years, only required when I need to try to cover a bruise or black eye. Now I look in, pull my long, light blond hair back from my face, and try to see what Henry might see when he looks at me.
    Rather unremarkable, I think. With a finger, I trace smooth skin (blessed with acne free, blemish free complexion), straight nose, eyebrows neither too bushy nor thin, an ordinary mouth, indented chin. I suppose my eyes are my best feature, wide and fringed with dark lashes. They’re light blue, ringed with gold.
    I shake my head and let my hair fall back into place. Nothing attractive, extraordinarily plain, but he still wants to be my friend. Okay, then.
    For the first time in my life, school tomorrow is something to look forward to. As a matter of fact, I think I might not be able to wait for it to come.
     
     

Chapter Five
     
    However, as morning dawns, I find myself tied up in knots. Had the previous afternoon really happened, or had I only dreamed it? Because I can’t