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because if Sam ever tried, he could be vaguely hot. In the pale light I can just make out the cluster of tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose—they make me think of sunny days. He has muddy-brown eyes that make it hard to look away. Tousled bed-head hair. That whole I’ll-listen-to-everything-you-have-to-say-and-then-write-you-a-love-letter thing. Girls eat that stuff up. Instead he’s tragically committed to achieving new astronomical levels of bizzaro-ness. I can’t be sure, but I think I glimpse a shoelace as his belt tonight.
    â€œHella Stella, I said, ‘Are you okay?’ ” Sam repeats himself for what’s likely the millionth time.
    I bristle at my old nickname. The word “hella” was sooo middle school and plus, I don’t need to give people any more reason to talk about me. I scan the cemetery around us nervously. I can see a small group of stoners lighting up twenty feet away. Definitely not worried about them overhearing. But Janey Bear and her bestie, Kate Lucey, are staggering down the path toward us, arms locked, red cups in their hands, jaws clacking. Fan-freaking-tastic. I bet they’re only out here prowling for sordid hookups to gossip about. Janey couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. Me sharing a romantic moment with Sam Worth in this gloomy cemetery will be the scandal that she’s dreamed of her whole life. Before the night is over, rumors will be spreading that we were hooking up between the tombs, Sam calling out my childhood nickname between thrusts, me confessing myeternal love. Gag me. And of course, if that happens, I can kiss ever kissing Taylor Martinson good-bye.
    I turn back to him and mouth, “Don’t call me that.”
    His eyes widen, and he reminds me of this owl stuffed toy I used to have. “Call you what? Hella Stella? Why?” he says so loudly I know Janey must hear.
    I take a shaky breath and glance toward the girls. Janey’s staring back at me with narrow-set blue eyes that don’t miss a thing. “Sam, just don’t,” I murmur urgently. “Please shut up.” I try to scare him with a nasty glare, but he starts to chuckle.
    â€œWhat’s up with you tonight, Hella Stella?” he asks right as Janey and Kate stop in front of us.
    â€œHi, Stella,” Kate says, her pitch swinging with joy over discovering us. Even she knows they’ve caught me red-handed. Janey just stares, the mole on her wormy upper lip twitching. We’re not exactly friends. Zoey calls Janey and Kate leeches behind their backs. She says they’re really nice to the actually popular people so that they can latch on and get invited to parties. I dislike them for different reasons. They’re always looking to knock you down a peg. Like they think of being popular as being on a varsity team. Someone should tell them that making other people less popular doesn’t guarantee that they’ll be called off the bench. It just makes them bitches. I’d like to tell them that this very moment. Instead I take the easy way out.
    I hold my finger up to the girls for them to wait a second and then cross my arms against my chest. “I said don’t call me that. I’m not ten anymore, Sam. And apparently you need me to spell it out for you. We’re.Not. Friends. When are you going to get that through your head?” The words taste bitter in my mouth.
    Sam’s eyes are glued to mine. His top lip begins to bow like he’s going to smile or laugh. I feel my bitchiest scowl falter. He stands with his hands in his pockets—the left one still bulging with his vest—and completely ignores the other two girls. For some reason a little trill of satisfaction runs through me that he acts like they don’t exist. He smiles like he knows better—better about what I can’t imagine—and says to me, “Did you know that in the Middle Ages people used to write the news