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have anywhere to focus my disruptive thoughts. What, exactly, was I supposed to do? Stew in my guilt for snapping at the one person who still wanted me as her best friend? I wished I could distract myself by searching online for a new pair of shoes, but if I was caught on my cell phone I’d have more problems than I needed today. Cell phones weren’t allowed during school hours.
    Taking my chances of making eye contact with someone, I looked straight ahead. I still had to find another piece of art that “appealed” to me so I could finish my assignment. But I didn’t want to get up.
    I hoped I could see something worth looking at from here. Something that wouldn’t inspire thoughts of death, betrayal, or scuffed shoes.
    About twenty feet away I noticed a black-and-white charcoal drawing. It was a sketch of a young girl with long, straight hair parted down the middle. It was really well done. Perhaps a little too well done for this bush-league art fair. I stood and wiped stray guck off my red skinny jeans and made a beeline for it.
    This had to be some kind of egotistical-Freudian-thought-processing-dysfunction, because as I got nearer, that girl in the sketch started to look a hell of a lot like me. Slightly upturned nose. Dimple in the left cheek. Long neck. What the H?
    Who put this here?
    In the bottom right corner of the picture, old-fashioned, scrolly letters read:
     
Love, D. S.
     
    Who was that?
    And now that I was up close, there was something very disturbing about this sketch. It wasn’t just her face, it was the tattoo on her arm. A winged demon screeching at me, threatening to tear me apart. I’d seen that exact tattoo before on Charlie LeMarq.
    Oh no. The world suddenly went fuzzy and dark, like I was seeing things through stained glass. I scanned the room for the nearest escape to fresh air, and instead of finding a clearly marked exit, I found another face that took the last of my breath away. Across the crowd, stood a man with a goatee who looked a lot like Detective Martinez.
    A falling sensation rushed over me, and a sickening crack echoed through my skull.
     
    “Ruby, can you hear me?” A raspy male voice lingered above.
    “It’s Ruby Rose!” a girl shrieked through the clamor. “Someone call 911!”
    “No! Somebody just get me some water,” Alana ordered.
    I opened my eyes to find a three-headed monster looming over me. Then my vision cleared, and I made out Liam, Alana, and some tiny freshman girl, all fussing over me.
    “No, don’t call 911—I’m fine. I just need some water, like Alana said.” I sat up and reached for the water bottle in front of me. As I drank, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. Liam’s arms were firmly wrapped around my shoulders—with at least a hundred inquiring eyes watching, and dozens of smartphones taking pictures.
    So much for the “no cell phone rule” only I was dumb enough to follow.
    Among the first of my unclear thoughts was: The tabloids are going to think it’s an early Christmas . A close second: This is impossible—Ruby Rose doesn’t faint. Lagging behind: Is Martinez really here at the art fair? Couldn’t be, because he’d be here now among the crowd . Trailed by: I hope I don’t have leftover cafeteria Cheetos in my hair . And finally: I gotta get out of here.
    I got up and broke out of the literal and metaphorical grip Liam had on me. The sea of students parted as I made my way toward the exit—everyone moved except for Taylor. She just stood there gloating in all her non-fainting, anti-Ruby glory. With her arms crossed and dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail to accentuate her cat-like eyes, she said, “You OK, sweetie?”
    “Excuse me,” I said, as my shoulder checked hers, knocking her off balance. Maybe one day I’d get the opportunity to teach her how I really felt about her constantly calling me sweetie. But not today. I speed walked out the double doors, and then sprinted through the parking lot, begging the ocean