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of being alone with him gets me a little nervous. But also a little excited.
    Next thing I know, he’s got my stuff stashed on his motorcycle and I’m sitting behind him holding on like crazy. I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, and the wind in my face is scary and wonderful all at the same time. Plus the feel of my hands on his stomach makes my insides melt. I keep saying to myself, “Concentrate, Leslie. Concentrate or you could die”—not because I think we’re going to crash or anything, but because I’m afraid I’m going to faint off his bike into traffic.
    His house is in a really nice neighborhood, the kind with trees and a park, where everybody cuts their grass or has somebody cut it for them. There’s a Camry in the driveway. I wonder if his folks have stayed home after all but he says no, it’s his mom’s. His parents always travel in his dad’s BMW .
    He parks beside the attached garage and helps me off. I have my knapsack on my back, but he carries the bag with my club stuff. Nobody’s ever carried my things before, except for Katie the time I busted my collarbone.
    When we get inside, I ask, “How come you go to our school when you live here?”
    The answer’s original, just like him. He went to a private school in Port Burdock, real snobby, and he was on all the teams. Everybody was after him because he was this big sports star, and it got to be too much. He tried to quit the teams, but they wouldn’t let him because he was on an athletic scholarship. So he said, “Fine. I’m dropping out.” And he did, just like that, and came to our school, where nobody’d know him. Amazing. I’d give anything to be popular. But he’s got the guts to just be himself.
    Maybe he’s so brave because he almost died. In grade school, he got a major fever on a big family trip through Asia. Getting well cost him a year, which is why he’s eighteen in grade twelve. But he made it. He cheated death. I mean, he’s a hero.
    And rich. By the time he’s showed me the upstairs, it’s clear his folks are loaded. The master bedroom has a fireplace and a wall-size flat-screen TV , not to mention walk-in closets and a six-piece en suite bathroom with a sunken Jacuzzi.
    For a second, I wonder if there’s a reason we’ve ended up here. Is he planning to make a move? I’m half scared and half hoping, but he’s a perfect gentleman. “That’s it,” he says, and ushers me downstairs. I’m sort of disappointed, but also glad I can relax.
    “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks as we hit the kitchen.
    “Sure. Do you have a Coke?”
    His lip twitches in amusement. “Let me rephrase that. Can I get you something to drink?”
    My heart skips. I’ve never had a drink alone with a guy before, and even if he can behave himself, I’m not sure I can. All the same, I don’t want to look stupid, and one can’t do any harm, can it? “What do you have?”
    Instead of saying beer, wine, rum or whatever, he starts reciting labels: “Johnnie Walker, Smirnoff, Gilbey’s, Havana Club. Your wish is my command.”
    I decide to play it safe. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
    “Johnnie Walker on the rocks,” he says, and takes a couple of tumblers out of the cupboard, shoots in a few cubes from the ice machine on the fridge and pours. I’ve never had scotch before; it’s like I’m in the movies.
    Jason hands me my drink and phones out for pizza while I have a sip. I almost choke. It’s not like beer at all. I mean, it’s puke foul. Who invented this stuff? All the same, if I don’t finish it, I’ll look like a reject. I know if I sip slowly I’ll start retching, so I make a quick decision. I stop breathing and swallow it in two big gulps. It almost comes back up, but I focus on Jason’s butt as he slouches at the counter by the telephone, and the sick feeling goes away.
    Jason hangs up. He sees my empty glass. He’s impressed. “You sure know how to knock it back.”
    “I was thirsty,” I