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house, and a few of the streetlights are out. There’s a haze in the air like a thin fog, blurring everything. A cat screeches like someone stepped on its tail. I walk quickly past the parked cars, the rows of shadowy houses; some are still and dark, while others show the blue glow of TVs flickering in their windows.
    Behind me, something rustles.
    The hair rises on the back of my neck. I walk faster.
    Footsteps echo behind me.
    I spin around. Even through the gloom, I can see a man in a dark trench coat about a block away, a hat pulled down over his forehead, his face hidden in shadow.
    My heart flutters. I start running, and the footsteps follow me, slowing when I slow, speeding up when I do. I’m sobbing, breath caught in my throat, and still the footsteps come, and I’m barely ahead of them.
    I burst into the house, slam the door shut, and lock it. And then I stand there, shaking, until Mom comes to see who it is.

9
    At school, I look for Meghan again. There’s something about her that draws me to her. Maybe it’s the tough-girl act that I know covers her vulnerability, or maybe it’s that I know nobody sees her for who she really is. Just like nobody sees me—nobody except Carolyn and Sandy. And Sarah; Sarah used to.
    Meghan’s the first person who’s interested me since Sarah left; she’s the first person who’s made me think I might want to open myself up again. But I don’t see her anywhere, not even near Danny’s charred locker. What if her mother’s giving her problems? Or what if she got freaked out by my note?
    I go to class when the bell rings, but I can’t focus on what the teacher’s saying. Whenever I start to relax, I hear the footsteps again. I keep my backpack on me, never letting it out of my sight. I’m afraid
he
knows that the art therapy group starts today, afraid that’s what set him off.
    Artists show so much through their art—and not always consciously. We show things in our choices of color or the lack of it; in what we decide to paint; and even in ourbrush strokes—like the way my mom’s are so controlled, while mine are so fluid. Art is like a printout of my soul, showing all the things I can’t say. And if
he’s
near me still, if he’s watching me, he already knows that.
    Teachers’ voices move in and out of my awareness like a weak radio signal. Even in art class, it’s hard for me to keep my attention on Mrs. Archer. But I hear enough to know that we’re drawing in black, white, and shades of grey today. It’s a challenge that would normally have me leaping up to get my supplies before everyone else, but today I hang back, picking up whatever’s left over.
    Back at my seat, I stare at the blank page. The greys and blacks of charcoal and graphite remind me of the shadows, of
him
—and I can’t let myself go there.
    I clench my pencil, unable to make a mark on the page. Mrs. Archer walks past me slowly. I know she’s noticed I haven’t even started, but she doesn’t say anything. She always seems to know when to push me and when to leave me alone.
    I sketch a few light lines, erase them, then start again.
Meghan
.
Think of Meghan.
    I keep my mind focused on her as I work, shutting out everything else.
    I draw Meghan’s face, grinning cockily at me. I draw her with attitude, the tendrils of her hair becoming whips, keeping other people away. And I draw myself, coiled in one of her tendrils, her hair flowing up to join with mine. I rough out the background, filling it with texture that overlaps and intertwines.
    Someone leans over me.
    I jump.
    “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mrs. Archer says, touching my shoulder. “Do you mind if I take a look?”
    “Of course not!”
    Mrs. Archer sits down beside me, studying my drawing. I lean back and try to see with unclouded eyes.
    The pencil strokes that make up Meghan’s and my hair are soft and winding, sharp only at the tips, but the background is harsh, almost chaotic in pattern. The contrast works well, but