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that.”
    It was, though. It was like that.
    Don’t tell her, the voice said. Whatever you do, don’t tell her the truth.
    “Because if it is, honey, you can get help. It’s a treatable thing.”
    “I just told you it’s not.”
    “All right, all right. You don’t have to yell.”
    “I don’t want you to worry about me being too worried. That’s not going to help.”
    “Okay.”

CHAPTER SIX
    A MY FIGURED SOMETHING OUT. Her mother—who had come around to the idea of peer helpers eventually—hated the actual people who signed up. At the end of the first week, Nicole came in to Amy’s darkened room and sat down on her bed. “I can’t help it,” she said. “They all seem so ordinary and unworthy of you.”
    “MOTHER—”
    “That’s how I feel.”
    “THEY’RE MY FRIENDS NOW. YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO JUDGE THEM.”
    “Fine, I won’t. But I told Chloe that she’s fired if she puts any makeup on you.”
    “MOM. PEOPLE WEAR MAKEUP.”
    She shook her head like she was trying not to cry. “I know they do.”
    “I’M SEVENTEEN NOW.”
    “I know.”
    “THIS IS PART OF YOUR JOB. YOU’RE LETTING ME GO.”
    “Will you promise to tell me if these people do or say anything that makes you uncomfortable?”
    “PROBABLY NOT.”
    “You must, Amy. You must tell me if anything doesn’t feel right.”
    “YES. OKAY, FINE. I WILL.”
    No, I won’t, she thought.
    Amy surprised herself. Though the second week had gone marginally better than the first, it wasn’t by much. It was still slightly agonizing to creep along beside someone who wanted to walk faster. And humiliating to watch Sanjay flirt with cheerleaders by saying, “What I do is I’m kind of a babysitter for Amy. I love it! Best job I’ve ever had.”
    And yet here she was—defending her friends. Yes, anyone could see that Chloe was overly devoted to a boyfriend who was in a juvenile detention center instead of school. Sure, Sarah texted a lot during their time together, probably more than she should have, but what did Amy know? Sitting across from Sarah bent over her phone, Amy looked around the cafeteria and saw about a quarter of the people there doing the same thing. Her mother was right, in a way. Maybe they could have gotten more responsible—or at least more polite—people. But if they had, then the group wouldn’t have been a real cross section of peers, and it wouldn’t have included Matthew.
    That was the important part. That was why Amy felt defensive of them all. Because she needed the others to get Matthew every fourth day.
    With Matthew it wasn’t painful or awkward. With Matthew, the silences felt okay. He didn’t make nervous excuses about why he needed to be on the phone with someone else. He didn’t grimace when she did something clumsy. He was just there. Happy to pick up the contents of her spilled backpack, happy to wipe her face and shirt, happy to get hair out of her jacket. With Matthew it felt both easy and real. She tried to think of the right word to describe him, and finally it occurred to her: he felt like a friend.
    “Greetings,” Matthew said. It had been four weeks since the peer-helper program started, and he wasn’t sure why, but he’d started goofing around more with Amy—bowing when she walked up, saying, “At your service. . . .” Now he held out his hand and said, “May I carry your buff-colored card for you?”
    It was the last day of add-drop period and they were all carrying around schedule cards to collect teachers’ initials. He took her backpack and plucked the card out of her hand. “BIEN SUR,” she typed. She was just getting out of French. She’d switched her Pathway out of foreign language mode so it sounded like she was saying, “BEEN SEWER.”
    “Charming.” He smiled. “I’ve been a little sewer myself.”
    Being with Amy continued to surprise Matthew. This was his fifth day, and each time it felt easier. Before the year started, he’d wondered how he’d think of things to