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thought, but I couldn’t say that. I tried to say something—anything—else, but could not.
    There was no way to explain that I wasn’t the kind of person Vic would want as a son. That the thought of more family bonds—more people to disappoint—terrified and angered me. Even if there had been, there was no one to listen or understand. No one in this world.
    I suppose I had never really thought there was.

CHAPTER 7
    T he skinhead—Frank Delgado—was in my senior history seminar. On the first day of class he wore the same camouflage shorts with the now-limp pink T-shirt. He sat down at the front of the room, propped his legs up on a desk beside him, and closed his eyes. Against the backdrop of the chalkboard, his bald head gleamed as if he’d polished it. He did not polish his boots, however. They were encrusted with dried mud.
    It was the last class of the day, and I had arrived early—right before Delgado—and sat down at the back of the small classroom. The rest of the kids, as they trickled in, appeared to find this distribution a problem. They chose seats clustered together in the middle of the room. They talked to each other, but were conscious of me. They stole glances at me whenever they dared. Delgado they ignored.
    When I had a choice, I was and always had been thekind of kid who sat at the back. It made even more sense here; once class was in session, everyone would be facing forward and not looking at me. But after a few minutes I stood up and moved to the seat on the other side of the skinhead.
    I couldn’t tell you why.
    I had spent another uneasy night. Despite the fact that I hadn’t been aware of sleeping, I had a confused dream in which Emily chased me down the corridors of my old high school. She was laughing, and so was I, but I was also terrified and I knew I needed to keep running. If she caught me she was going to tell me something I didn’t want to know. Then she grabbed me by the arm from behind, and her strength was extraordinary. She swung me around hard, slamming my back against the lockers. And it was not Emily anymore. It was Lily. Lily, hair aflame. Powerful, angry, demanding. And somehow also … crying.
    At that point I’d known for sure that I was dreaming, known also that I was close enough to the surface to wake up. It was then I’d heard the humming again, insistent. And I’d opened my eyes in the gray dawn.
    For a second in the doorway across the bedroom I saw that shadow again—but this time it was distinctly human. A girl—a woman. I struggled up onto my elbows and said fuzzily, frantically:
“Emily? Emily!”
even though I knew, I
knew
, it was not Emily. But then the shadow had … not disappeared, but
dissolved
.
    And the humming had stopped.
    In short, it had been a nasty night, a rotten preliminary to my first day of classes.
    I glanced sideways at Frank Delgado, glad of his presence as a distraction. What was this raggedly dressed skinhead kid doing at an exclusive prep school? Was it really that difficult for Dr. Walpole to enroll boys? Of course, she’d enrolled me. Probably the skinhead had a desperate family, too, willing to pay any price.
    The bell rang, and a minute passed, and it was only then that the teacher entered, at a pace a shade faster than brisk. Next to me, Frank Delgado withdrew his feet from the neighboring desk and casually angled to face the front. The teacher put some books down and moved to sit behind her desk. It was only then that I saw who it was: Dr. Walpole. I glanced down at my schedule. Yes, there it was: Sr Hist Sem Medv. Walpl.
    I remembered now, she had said she taught history. But I hadn’t expected to find her teaching
me
. It made me feel … watched. I sank down a little in my chair.
    Dr. Walpole’s gaze moved rapidly, comprehensively, from face to face. “Senior seminar in medieval history,” she said. “Yearlong, three credits.