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her long enough to know it was only a shell. Underneath was something bolder, something headstrong and fearless and fun.
    Her hands were pale and cool and soft, like they’d been the night I’d held them for the first time, when she convinced me to go night-swimming in the lake. We’d been hanging out most of the summer. She pulled me along and we ran off the dock together, and by the time we hit the cold, dark water, I was halfway in love with her. I thought that night meant something. But when I asked her to Homecoming two weeks later (abandoning, for once, my well-advised anti-school-dance policy), she’d looked at me as if I was a curiosity. “Christopher, please . . .” She’d looked sad about something, which didn’t make sense to me. So I asked her again.
    “No, Christopher. Just . . . no.” That’s an exact quote: the words are seared into my head.
    Turns out, she was already going with some knob from the soccer team. I’d been imagining things. I’d avoided her ever since.
    I followed her to the foyer, where the Regent with the red hair was standing by himself, looking forlorn. Apparently he had been ditched for good.
    “So look,” Julia said. “I’ve wanted to ask you . . .” She trailed off, struggling with something, and I wasn’t about to throw her a line. “How come you never called me? You know, back then.”
    It was a ridiculous question, really. Julia had left me a few messages after the Homecoming debacle, saying she hoped that we could still hang out and blah, blah, something, something. It was nice of her, I guess, like it was nice of the United States to give Japan aid after we dropped the bomb on them. But I had no desire to soak in my own humiliation—of course I didn’t call.
    “Well . . . ?” she said.
    Was she serious? Well, see, you were the only girl I’d ever liked, and then you rejected me, and my soul has been in a state of repair ever since. I probably should have said that—ask a stupid question and all—but I didn’t.
    Maybe I just wanted to avoid the conversation, but my mind went to Mitch Blaylock. Now that I’d had to face Julia, I might as well talk to Tim. He was the only policeman I could trust. The one person who might help me get to the bottom of things.
    “So, hey, is your brother here?”
    Her head reared back a little. “Christopher . . . I’m trying to talk to you.”
    “Yeah, right, but I need to ask Tim something.”
    Julia pinned a curl behind her ear, like she was frustrated but being all patient about it. I didn’t get it: I was the one who’d been frustrated.
    We didn’t get any further, because a buzzing came through the windows. The lonely man with the Brillo-pad hair looked up from his drink for the first time in minutes. A throbbing, mechanical, gargling sound grew until the panes shimmied a little. Just like that, it shut off.
    “Well,” Julia said in a deflated sort of way, “here’s your chance.”
    “What do you mean?”
    She stepped to a window and peeled back the curtain. A guy was getting off a motorcycle in the driveway. “Tim’s here.”
    He was headed for the front door, scrubbing his thick brown hair back to life after it being under his helmet. I’d never seen Tim on a motorcycle before—he must have bought it in the last year.
    “Oh my God.” My voice cracked.
    Julia didn’t hear me. She pulled the door open for her brother.
    Tim bounded inside, bigger than I remembered. “Heya, Christopher Newell! Long time.”
    Heya— his signature greeting. I’d forgotten about that. He had big arms, and when he clapped me on the back I felt it all the way through my chest.
    Then he was giving Julia a hug. I stood there awkwardly, forcing myself to smile. Forcing myself to make eye contact and act as normal as possible.
    “Hey—are you all right?” Tim said.
    He and Julia were inspecting me. I guess they saw it on my face.
    “Oh, sure.” Keep your voice level, I told myself.
    Keep your eyes on them .
    Don’t look at