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guess,” I said, surprised he’d read my thoughts. “Wasn’t sure if it was too personal a question.”
    “Wren, you’ve already had your arms around me from behind. I think we’re past the ‘too personal’ stuff.”
    “Ha, good point,” I said, burning up at the thought of how intimately I’d already touched him. I blew on the rim of my cup, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, then why’d you get kicked out?”
    He closed one eye, wrestling with the best place to start his story, then took a deep breath and said, “I was a term-paper pimp.”
    I coughed, nearly choking on the coffee. “Pimp?”
    He smirked at my reaction. “No, seriously. I was a middleman. Matched people up with the right guys—I had specialists in chemistry, history, creative writing; some at Saint Gabe’s, some elsewhere. Some I did myself. I got sloppy. Someone tipped the principal off. A guy handed in a term paper that was too good. They threatened him with expulsion and nabbed me.”
    “Didn’t anyone else get in trouble?”
    “A few of my customers got suspended, but I didn’t rat out my suppliers. I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “That’s why they really kicked me out—because I wouldn’t rat.”
    I didn’t know what to say. Here I was, afraid to be even one second late for school, and he was so willing to admit—to brag, even—about his total disregard for what anybody with a shred of conscience would know was just . . . wrong. He studied me, waiting for more of a response. He didn’t seem embarrassed or regretful at all.
    “Didn’t you worry you’d get caught?” I asked.
    “At the time I didn’t really think about it. I had a lot going on.”
    A lot going on, like what? I wanted to ask, but did I really want to know? Maybe I would have felt differently about ourchat if I hadn’t been obsessing about my own crappy school record lately. The unfairness of it all bothered me.
    “But . . . you knew it was wrong.”
    “ Wrong is such a subjective term, don’t you think?”
    I tried to laugh, but it came out flat. “No. Pretty black-and-white.”
    “It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but . . . think of it like this—in the real world, people outsource all the time. Some of my customers had jobs on top of their school workload. There was a demand; I filled it. Simple. Econ 101. At least that’s how I defended myself. They didn’t quite buy it, hence getting the boot.”
    Grayson’s argument was so convincing, I was almost swayed.
    “Well, it is different than outsourcing,” I said.
    “Wren, Saint Gabe’s is a wild place. There are guys whose parents make more money than we’ll see in our collective lifetimes, and then there are guys on scholarships whose families are barely scraping by. The ones who can’t buy their way into college? Good grades are the strongest weapon they have. They needed a business like mine. I felt like I was helping people.”
    “I guess it’s just something I would never do. I’ve waited until the last minute to write term papers, but no matter how shitty, at least they were mine.”
    “Wow, you’re such a Girl Scout.”
    He’d turned into the hot-dog-tossing tool again . . . or maybe he always was and his quirky car and inviting smile duped me into dropping my guard. I wasn’t that far from home; I could walk. I stood up and tossed my coffee into a nearby trash can.
    “Well, um, thanks for the coffee, the ride, but I’ve got to go.”
    I began walking away, then realized I’d left my bag in his car. “I need my bag.”
    Grayson frowned as he poured the rest of his coffee into the dead leaves. He stood up, tossed the cup into the trash, and walked toward the car. I followed behind, taking two steps for every one of his brisk strides. When he reached the car, he opened the passenger side, stooped in for my bag, and held it out for me. My fingertips grazed his as I took it from him.
    “Guess you’re thinking, Why’d I save this asshole?” he said, leaning against