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you hit your head." He added, "Though your pupils look fine. You don't feel sleepy, do you?"
    "No more than during any other first-period class," I told him.
    He grinned, then glanced at the note on Mrs. Starr's door. "She won't be back till this afternoon," he said, and I had no idea if he was able to interpret her code or was just guessing. "Do you mind?"
    I didn't know what he was asking until he set down the papers he'd been holding, knelt in front of me, and set his hands on my head. The sunglasses were in the way and our hands collided as he and I both
reached for them at the same time. I hung them from the neckline of my shirt, and he felt all over my head.
    "This feels stupid," I said.
    "No, it doesn't," he countered.
    And actually, he was right. It felt kind of sexy. Like having a male hairdresser massage your head. Except with the guy who cuts my hair, I
know
he's not interested.
Could
Julian York be interested in me? And was I interested in having him be interested in me? Maybe. Definitely ... maybe. At least
maybe
enough that I was glad I'd washed and conditioned my hair last night so that my hair smelled like apricots instead of—heaven forbid—hair.
    He was leaning close, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated, his fingers moving slowly and gently over my scalp. "I don't feel anything," he told me.
    "Maybe you should keep looking," I said, shocking myself with how brazen I was.
    He sat back on his heels, laughing. "You're definitely looking better," he told me.
    "I'm okay," I told him. "I really don't think anything smacked me on the head. It's just..." Hmm, maybe I should just open up and tell this sweet guy that I've been seeing dead people, witchy people, and blue people.
    Yeah, right.
    I finished, "It's just that lady died."
    "Probably," Julian agreed. "It didn't look good."
    I realized he'd left—everyone had left, except for me and Shelley—before the ambulance guys had covered her up.
    I found myself saying, "No. I saw her."
    Hard to tell what to make of Julian's face.
    Waiting,
I guess, to see what I'd say next.
    And there was no way I could tell a virtual stranger what had been going on.
    I finished, "They pulled the blanket up over her face, and they put her in the ambulance, and they left without turning their siren on."
    "Rough," Julian acknowledged, meaning, I think,
rough
that I had witnessed it, because
rough
is obviously an inadequate word for dying. "Maybe you should ask to see Mr. Harman?"
    Mr. Harman is the school psychologist, whose schedule is tougher to figure out than Mrs. Starr's: He doesn't even leave notes on his door; he's just there or, more often, not.
    I shook my head.
    "Want to come with me to the office?" He picked up his papers. "Talk to Mr. Rajamani?"
    Mr. Rajamani, our principal, is actually a pretty good guy. But that didn't mean I wanted to talk to him. "No," I said. "I'd better be heading back to Mrs. Robellard's class."
    He gave a pained expression. "Ah," he said as though that explained everything, "you're coming from Mrs. Robellard's class." Then, more seriously, "Are you sure you're okay?"
    I nodded, and he stood, which moved him out of the range in which I could see him clearly. But I could see him extend a hand to help me get to my feet.
    He hauled me up to a vertical position, then asked, "Still okay?"
    "Absolutely."
    "Tell someone if you're feeling poorly," he said, sounding like an adult, and an old-fashioned one at that.
    I saluted him, trying to be spontaneous and playful, only realizing just as my hand went up what a geeky move that was. But he saluted back, making the gesture cute rather than geeky. Then he picked up his papers and started walking away from me down the hall.
    Why didn't I leave well enough alone?
    But he'd been so nice, I wanted one more glimpse of him.
    So I plucked the sunglasses off my shirt and put them on.
    He turned back once more, which was sweet, as though wanting to make sure I was all right, and I waved. He waved back, though