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cold, but it’s like tap water. The only thing that burns is the key in my pocket, daring me to touch it. I set the dishes in the sink, grab my backpack, and head for the garage. Alone.
    As long as no one hugs me, I will be fi ne. I walk down a hall of Middle Point High School, nodding at the kids I’ve known since elementary school. Most of them have enough sense to just throw a sympathetic glance in my direction. Some talk to me anyway, but nothing too dangerous, just neutral things like “Good morning” and “I think we have third period together.” Even Mark Baker, Middle Point’s quarterback- slash- deity, gives me a supportive smile through the school- colored war paint smeared on his face. Any other day, I’d be texting Chloe to inform her that the Mark Baker acknowledged my existence. But the whole reason I don’t is the same reason he acknowledged me in the fi rst place: Chloe is dead.
    They all lost their track star. Their bragging rights. In a few weeks, they won’t even realize something’s missing. They’ll just move on. Forget about Chloe.
    I shake my head but know it’s true. A few years ago, a fresh-man riding on the back of her older brother’s motorcycle died when he ran a stop sign and careened into a car. Flowers and cards were taped to her lockers, the student body held a candlelit vigil in the football stadium, and the class president spoke at a special memorial the school arranged for her. Today, I can’t for the life of me remember her name. She was in a few of the same
    -1—
    clubs as me, some classes, too. I can see her face clearly. But I can’t 0—
    remember her name.
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    8/23/11 3:44 PM
    I test the combo to my new locker. It opens, third try. I stare into it, feeling as hollow as it looks. The hall takes a while to clear out, but I wait until it does. When it is quiet, when the classroom doors ease closed, when the hall stops smelling like perfume and cologne, I slam the locker shut as hard as I can. And it feels good.
    Because I am late to class, I’m forced to sit up front. The back row is ideal for spacing out or for texting, but I have no one to text. Today, I could space out on a roller coaster, so the front row is as good a seat as any. I glance around the room as Mr.
    Pinner passes out a class- rule sheet. Model airplanes hang by strings from the ceiling, timelines stripe the walls, and black-and- white pictures of the Egyptian pyramids adorn a nearby information board. History used to be my favorite class, but in view of my new vendetta against time, I’m just not feeling it.
    Mr. Pinner is on Rule No. 3 when he looks up and to the back of the class. “Can I help you? Surely you’re not already violating Rule Numero Uno! Anybody remember that one?”
    “Arrive on time,” chimes in a do- gooder from the back.
    “Is this world history?” the presumable violator asks. His voice is even, confi dent, nothing like it should be, given that he’s violated Numero Uno. I hear a few people shuffl e in their chairs, probably to get a look at him.
    “The one and only,” says Mr. Pinner. “Unless, of course, you mean the one down the hall.” He chuckles at his joke.
    “Is this, or is this not, world history?” the student asks again.
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    A rash of whispers breaks out, and I smile at the timeline
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    8/23/11 3:44 PM
    I’m looking at. Mr. Pinner clears his throat. “Didn’t you hear me the fi rst time? I said this is world history.”
    “I did hear you the fi rst time. You didn’t make yourself clear.” Even the do- gooder snickers. Mr. Pinner fi dgets with the leftover rule sheets in his hand and pushes his glasses up on his nose. The girl behind me whispers, “Gorgeous!” to her neighbor, and since she can’t be talking about Mr. Pinner, I take the bait and turn around.
    And my breath catches in my throat. Galen. He is standing in the doorway—
    no, he’s fi