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up. So when I was sure no one was looking, I pulled out my Book of Thoughts and started scribbling some more.
    I know it was disturbed or something, to draw somebody getting attacked by sharks. Especially if that somebody was dead already. A somebody that you yourself had killed. It was probably disturbed, too, to draw the stuff Jared might be doing that very second if I hadn’t hit him with that hockey puck—Jared sleeping, Jared drinking hot chocolate, Jared doing his homework, Jared watching TV with Annie. The nightmares were disturbed, too, I guess. But drawing those kinds of thoughts on paper turned out to be better than keeping them in my brain, because when I kept them in my brain, they sort of jabbed at me like pointy sharp knives, and when I put them on paper, at least they stayed there. Left me alone afterward.
    Anyway, like I said, they used to be a lot worse.
    â€œYou never told me what the drawings were actually of.”
    I was so startled by the voice, I jumped off my stool. Actually jumped.
    â€œHey!” I shouted. I slammed my notebook closed. “What are you doing here?”
    Fallon Little smiled a crooked smile at me. The tip of her lip that tucked into her scar, I couldn’t decide if it made her look cute or sinister. “I came to see you,” she said. Like it was so obvious.
    â€œHow did you know where I worked?”
    â€œYou don’t have to be, like, a detective, Trent. It’s a small town. Also, I’ve been in here about nine times with my parents and seen you.”
    I guessed that was true. “Where’s your dog?” I asked, hoping she’d forget about the notebook and whatever it was she came in to talk about.
    â€œSquillo? He’s at home. Where else would he be?”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    Today Fallon was dressed even weirder than the day before—neon-yellow shorts and a giant green-and-white-striped polo shirt with “#1 Golfer” embroidered on the pocket. Her hair was up in a bun, frizzing out at every angle, and there was what appeared to be a chopstick poking through it. “I want the favor you owe me,” she said.
    My mom was still dusting, on the far side of the store, with her back to me. I wondered if I concentrated hard enough I could get her to turn around and force me to refill the mustard cups.
    â€œAre you okay?” Fallon asked me. She waved her hand in front of my eyes, breaking my concentration. “Trent?”
    Mom actually
did
turn around then, but she totally failed at being a mother, because instead of rescuing me, she just gave me and Fallon a cheerful wave and moved on to another corner of the store.
    I turned back to Fallon.
    â€œI don’t owe you any favors,” I told her.
    â€œSure you do,” she said. “I practically saved your life.”
    â€œYou did
not
save my—”
    â€œI want a picture.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œA picture,” she said again. She pointed at the notebook, which I was doing a terrible job hiding under the counter. “You’re a good artist, I saw. And I want you to draw me a picture.”
    â€œI’m not going to draw you a picture.”
    She blinked at me. One blink, then another. “You want to hear the real story?” she asked me.
    This girl was nuts times a million. “What are you talking about?” I said.
    â€œThe real story about my scar,” she said. “Everyone always wants to know how I got it.”
    I couldn’t help myself—I was kind of curious. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”
    â€œIt happened when I was three,” Fallon said. She examined my face closely while she told me. “I was playing Frisbee in the park with my dad, and the Frisbee whacked me”—she slammed a hand up as though re-creating the scene—“right between the eyes. Crazy, huh?”
    I may not be the smartest kid in the universe, but I know you can’t get a scar