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instead, pulling out my tattered, red-covered book to keep my distance.
    “You know, I always thought in today’s world Holden would have been medicated and much less likely to go off the deep end.” His voice was always deeper than I expected, and as I peered at him over the top of my book I noticed again that the hair on his chin was thicker than on most boys my age.
    “Excuse me?” Why was he talking to me?
    “Holden Caulfield. I wonder what modern-day medication would have done for him.” A frown lingered on his lips, and again I wondered what he was implying. Did he know I’d been medicated? Was he referring to himself? After all, we were both in the counselor’s office.
    I stared at him for a moment, trying to discern the meaning in his statement before shrugging, refusing to fall in his trap.
    “It’s not easy when you see the world differently from other people. It scares them.” He continued conversationally. My heart started at his words. He was too close—always too close to the sore spot with me.
    “Holden could be scary, and rash. Often, his reactions confused people. Plus, he was kind of a jerk.” I was tense and hostile, spoiling for a fight. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
    Connor stretched and brought his hands behind his head in the appearance of casualness, yet his eyes flashed blue and hot. “So you’ve heard the rumors, then? Which one? Juvie? Boot camp? Mental hospital?” He laughed. “No wonder you’re so skittish around me.”
    Busted. I dropped my eyes to my book and pretended to read the swirling words in front of me. After a moment I dropped it to my lap, only to find him watching me, again . “Why did you copy my picture in art?” I asked.
    “I didn’t.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Of course you did. Why?”
    Connor shook his head. “Ms. Anderson said draw a portrait of someone. I drew that guy.”
    Dry-mouthed, I swallowed before my next question. “Where did you see him?” I wanted to know. I needed to know. Why was he doing this?
    Connor dropped his hands and leaned forward on his knees. In a completely serious voice he said, “With you.”
    A clammy sweat coated my hands and made the metal arms on my chair slippery. “No, you didn’t.”
    “I did. In the classroom, in the hallway, on your way home from school. He’s probably outside that door. You want me to call him?”
    No doubt it was a dare and I wasn’t sure what would happen if he followed through. Evan was around; he was always around, and this was just the kind of thing he would think was amusing.
    Thankfully, Mrs. Crawford opened the door to her office, holding a sheet of paper, and stepped into the thick tension of the room, her brown eyes dancing between the two of us.
    “Jane, you can go in. I’ll only be a minute.” I stood, my feet twisting in the straps of my backpack, and stumbled. Connor’s hands were on my shoulders before my knees hit the ground and I heard him murmur a low, “Careful,” as he helped me stand. I gave him a quick glance and an even quieter “Thank you,” before going into her office.
    Mrs. Crawford walked behind me and repeated, “One minute,” before closing the door, leaving me and my heart alone to calm down. I sat in the chair facing her desk and put my book away. Mrs. Crawford was alright. She didn’t pry much, and we usually ended up talking about movies or books. I leaned over to get a better view of the photo in the frame on her desk of her and her husband. It was a photo of them at her graduation from Spelman College, and he was the definition of tall, dark and handsome.
    My eyes flicked to the paperwork on her desk, a thick file—definitely thicker than the one I’d seen with my name on it. Glancing behind me to ensure the door was still closed, I nudged the file so I could see the hand-written name down the side.
    Connor Jacobs.
    Anxiety rippled through my body, because although I wasn’t the kind of girl that poked her