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work. Still, he seemed to be an epicenter for all sorts of disturbances. Since seventh grade, Michael’s classrooms had always been remarkably unruly. He always assumed that this was normal. Kids hit puberty and turned into monsters, right? That’s what everyone said . . . but the way his classmates acted wasn’t exactly normal.
    When Michael was in a room, a clamminess filled the air that pulled at the edge of everyone’s senses like a smell so faint it was impossible to identify. Whatever it was, it usually attacked girls and guys differently. It made girls’ hearts race and made them suddenly feel like there was something that they desperately wanted. They would begin to sweat, and their eyes would constantly seek out Michael’s—for if they could look into Michael’s eyes, they would begin to feel just a bit better. And if they could move closer to him, they could feelrelief. Close enough to smell his breath. Closer still, to taste it.
    Of course, guys didn’t generally feel that way. Instead they felt like beating Michael up.
    So when the posse chasing Lourdes Hidalgo burst into Miss Benson’s classroom, word got around at the speed of light squared that Michael “Lips” Lipranski had taken his smooth moves to new heights. Everyone acted surprised, but no one really was.
    W HILE L OURDES SAT IN the principal’s office under tight guard, Michael had a pressing appointment with Mr. Fleiderman, the guidance counselor, who was everyone’s friend—or at least tried to be.
    The appointment wasn’t held in Fleiderman’s office, because when it wasn’t too cold, Fleiderman liked to hold his sessions out in the quad—the courtyard in the center of the large school. More relaxed, less threatening, Fleiderman thought. It had never occurred to him that most kids didn’t want to talk to the guidance counselor in view of the entire school.
    When Michael crossed through the wall of steamy fog, it seemed that the rest of the world slipped off the edge of the earth into gray nothingness. It’s how Michael felt inside too—lost, alone, and confused—generally fogged in, but he didn’t plan on letting Fleiderman see that. Let him think I’m calm and in control, thought Michael as he approached the over-eager counselor.
    Fleiderman shook Michael’s hand and invited him to sit with him in the moist grass. Michael refused to sit.
    â€œWhy not?” asked Fleiderman, pleasantly. “I won’t bite.”
    Michael smiled his winning smile. “Standing is better, strategically speaking,” he said. “If you attack me and try to strangle me, I can run. And yes, you might bite, too.”
    Fleiderman laughed at the suggestion and decided to stand. “All right, we’ll do it your way.”
    They both waited, Michael leaned against a yellowing sycamore tree with his arms folded.
    â€œSo talk to me,” Fleiderman finally said.
    â€œSo talk to you about what?”
    â€œYou know what. Miss Benson.”
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    Michael shrugged and looked away. “She kissed me. So?”
    â€œDon’t you mean you kissed her ?”
    Michael smiled slyly. “What makes you so sure?”
    Fleiderman grunted slightly. Michael could see irritation building in the mild-mannered man.
    â€œI want to understand where you’re coming from, Michael.”
    â€œBaltimore.”
    â€œNo, inside. I want to understand you.”
    That made Michael laugh out loud. “Good luck.”
    â€œI know you keep yourself pretty busy with girls in school. I know you’re . . . shall we say . . . ‘active.’ ”
    â€œActive?” said Michael. “Like a volcano?”
    â€œSexually active.”
    â€œOh,” said Michael. “That.” He looked away again and paced around to the other side of the sycamore. Fleiderman