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for a minute before going their separate ways the way friends do. From what I can tell, they don’t even say good-bye. MJ just jaywalks across Center Street headed for home, and Hoodie Dude walks straight toward the bus shelter. I pull out my phone, pretend to make a call, then turn my body away from the direction of his approach, like I’m trying to get as much privacy for my call as anyone could in a bus shelter. I hope he didn’t get a good look at me before I realized he was coming my way, and if he did, that he won’t recognize me from the day of the fire. My heart is pounding when I feel his weight land on the bench beside me.
    But I guess he doesn’t recognize me because when I sneak a quick peek, I see he has taken out his own phone and begun texting. I want to get out of there, but I make myself stay. Maybe he’ll make a call and I’ll hear him say something incriminating. After a couple of minutes, he’s still texting and I begin to feel stupid holding my end of an imaginary phone call. I’m about to leave the shelter when I notice an odd smell.
    It would probably be hard for anyone who doesn’t live near the corner of Aurora Avenue and Center Street to smell anything other than the grease Treets uses to deep-fry fish, dry-cleaning fluid, bus exhaust, and the sesame oil-scented smoke from Seoul BBQ. But this corner is as familiar to me as my own home and I know an out-of-place scent when I smell one, and I didn’t detect this one until Hoodie Dude arrived. It’s the smell of smoke, but different from the spicy grilled-meat smoke pouring out of stacks on Seoul BBQ’s roof. This is the smell of wood smoke, tinged with something else I can’t quite make out. Maybe bacon? I guess I’m picking up on a blend of Eau de Hoodie Dude and TasteeTreets value meal #8—the Extreme BLT.
    But the smoke smell is unmistakable, and it’s also strong. It’s been two days since MJ’s house almost burned down. I suppose Hoodie Dude could have gone camping and built a fire since then, or maybe he has a fireplace at home. But I suspect a guy who goes around in the same jacket all the time even when it stinks of smoke probably doesn’t live in the kind of home that has a washer and dryer, much less a fireplace. And two-day-old smoke doesn’t smell this strongly on the clothes of someone who watched a fire from across the street.
    â€œHey, you got the time?”
    His voice startles me, but I know he doesn’t really need the time from me because he was just on his phone. Maybe he did see me when he first came out of Treets and recognized me from the day of the fire. But I don’t turn around when I answer, “Nope. My battery just died.”
    I see the bus approaching from a block away and get up to leave the shelter before Hoodie Dude does so I can pretend to board first. When the bus doors open, I dig around in my bag, mumble something about forgetting my bus pass and walk in the direction the bus came from. That way when he boards— if he boards—he won’t be able to look back to see my face.

Chapter 7
    H oodie Dude does board the bus instead of following me, and by the time I take a left down the next block and double back toward Aurora Avenue, I’m beginning to think maybe I was just being a little paranoid. Maybe the guy really was just asking the time. After years of riding the city bus, I know by now that’s one of the oldest lines guys use to start a conversation because it’s a legit question when you’re waiting for a bus. Still, I don’t feel that great about going home to an empty house.
    I figure since I don’t have anyone to tell my problems to and I cancelled my impromptu date with Reginald, I should at least do right by Marco and my GPA, and start walking south toward Lexington Avenue. It’s too early for him to be home from football practice yet, and I don’t want to risk knocking on