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looked at the kissing teens, instead of feeling lonely or sad or jealous or depressed or in need of kissing or like my life was an unremitting toothache,
    I felt happy for them. And grateful, because they reminded me that I should deep-condition my hair.
    Six hours fly by when you have packing and pore-shrinking and Surprise-Face practicing to do. I’d just finished my required homeschool half hour of PE (courtesy of my How 2 Break-dance Like Da Pros DVD) and was changing into mysecond-most Trouble-none-of-that-here-esque outfit (Polly Catalog 10b—white-and-brown-striped button-down shirt, purple-and-brown sweater vest, denim skirt, brown cowboy boots with owls embroidered on them, and long amber beaded necklace—because Trouble hates a sweater vest) when the phone rang.
    The only person who ever called me was my father, so I put on my most charming voice. “Yes? How may I be of service to you?”
    “Jasmine, thank God I got you,” said the voice on the other end that clearly did not belong to my father. “It’s a matter of life or death.”

Chapter Six
    “Arabella?” I asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you okay? Where are you? Why did you disappear like that today?”
    “I had to. It was the only way to escape from him. If he was busy, then he couldn’t follow me to Prada.”
    “But there was nothing to be afraid of, that guy was just trying to—”
    “You talked to him? What did he say? Did he say who he was working for?”
    “ Working for? He wasn’t working for anyone. He’s a gondolier. He was just returning the change that you left at the gelato shop.”
    “That’s a lie,” she said.
    “But he had the money.”
    “I didn’t leave my change. He just said it to cover up his true motives. That he was following me.”
    Oh, look who just pulled off the Hint of Insanity Highway at Paranoia Plaza!
    “Um, maybe,” I said. “Are you sure? Did you recognize him?”
    “No, of course not. Why would I?”
    “If you didn’t recognize him, how do you know he’s the one who’s been following you?”
    “I told you, I never see him, I just know he is there. Waiting for me.”
    “Let me see if I understand. You’ve never seen anyone. You just sense him.”
    She made an impatient noise. “Yes. Did you see anyone else? Talk to anyone? Did anyone follow you?”
    “A reporter followed me and asked some questions, but I didn’t say anything. Why is a reporter following you?”
    “What kind of questions? What exactly did she ask you? Things about my family?”
    Apparently this was a one-way game of Twenty Questions. “She just asked me my name. Why?”
    “What did you say? Did you tell her where I live?”
    “I didn’t tell her anything—I don’t know anything. I don’t even know what part of Venice your apartment is in.”
    “Good. Then they won’t be able to get it out of you.”
    “Who? What are you talking about? What’s going on, Arabella?”
    “Something deep and dangerous.”
    “Can you be more specific?”
    “I can’t talk now. They could be anywhere. Listening. Meet me tonight at Club Centrale at ten P.M. and I’ll explain everything.”
    Of course. Because a secret assignation with a paranoid person convinced that the Someone after her might try to Get Something out of me was just the kind of thing Model Daughters sallied forth to engage in when they were supposed to be tucked into bed.
    What Arabella was suggesting was clearly in violation of both my Not Leaving the Hotel and Not Associating with the Insane (except Dadzilla) policies. But I felt guilty completely turning her down. “I can’t come out to meet you tonight, but if you want to come here, or tell me what’s wrong, maybe I could—”
    She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I told you, I can’t discuss it now. You have no idea what it’s like knowing that anyone could be the ONE.” She said it like it was written in all capital letters.
    “The ONE what?” I asked.
    “The ONE who works for them.”
    Oh, that ONE. I