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how she feels that day, I guess.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me that before? Geez, I thought everyone was obsessed with it for no reason.”
    â€œWell. I don’t know if everyone’s obsessed with it because of the legend or if the legend grew because everyone’s obsessed with it. Anyway, McCoy says we’re not supposed to talk about it. But if you really want creepy, you should watch him take care of it. Cleans every lightbulb by hand. Caresses it.”
    I laughed.
    Tucker paused, his neck and ears turning red. He fidgeted. “There’s also the myth about a python in the ceiling tiles, being fed by the lunch ladies. But that one’s not too interesting. Do you know about Red Witch Bridge?”
    I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. “I’ve heard of it.”
    â€œNever drive through the covered bridge by Hannibal’sRest at night. You hear the witch scream right before she rips you to shreds and leaves your car empty by the side of the road.” A gleam of excitement lit his eyes as he waited for my reaction. Normally he only got that look when he was telling me about one of his conspiracy theories.
    â€œHave you ever done it?” I asked.
    â€œMe? Drive through Red Witch Bridge? No, I’m brave as soggy potato salad.”
    â€œYou? Soggy potato salad? No .”
    Tucker laughed and puffed out his skinny chest in mock bravado. “I know I don’t look it, but I’d run the other direction before I got anywhere near that bridge.” He dropped the act and offered me the Coke. “Thirsty?”
    â€œYou don’t want it?”
    â€œNah. Bought it and then remembered that I hate soda.”
    I took it hesitantly. “You didn’t put anything in it, did you?”
    â€œDo I look like that type of person?”
    â€œI don’t know, Mr. Soggy Potato Salad. You’re a wild card.”
    I technically wasn’t supposed to have caffeine—my mother said it made me too excitable and screwed with my medicine, which made her a liar because I felt perfectly fine whenever I broke the rules—but I drank it anyway.
    â€œI see your textbooks have had a rough day.” Tuckerprodded the binding of my calculus book.
    â€œMm,” I said. “Stray cat found its way into my locker.”
    â€œSuperglue will fix that right up.”
    Superglue? Now there was an idea. I glanced down at Miles. He was staring over his shoulder at us, eyes narrowed. The enormity of this balancing act hit me all at once, made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t let him walk all over me, but I couldn’t make him angry, either.
    Tucker gave him the finger. Miles turned back to the court.
    â€œI’ll regret that later,” Tucker said, “when my steering column is gone.”
    Either Tucker would regret it, or I would.
    â€œAre you okay?” Tucker asked. “You look like you’re going to vomit.”
    â€œYes.” No. “I’m okay.” This was the least okay thing that had happened to me since the Hillpark Gym Graffiti Incident.
    I realized too late that I’d snapped at him. I didn’t mean to be harsh, but I hated worry, and pity, and that look people got when they knew something wasn’t okay with you and they also knew that you were in denial about it.
    I wasn’t in denial. I just couldn’t let it slip this time.

Chapter Seven
    I spent the rest of the game flipping my focus back and forth between my homework and Miles. He didn’t look back up at us, but I knew he knew I was watching him.
    I distracted myself by trying to think of ways to pay Tucker back for the Coke. He ignored me when I brought it up and changed the subject to conspiracy theories— Roswell, the Illuminati, Elvis faking his own death, and when Miles glared up at us again, a nice little story about a Nazi moon base.
    Tucker was the sort of intelligent, history-savvy person I could throw at my mother and watch