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  "S-e-x," Vee an­no­un­ced.

  Pre­ci­sely af­ter she did, I tu­ned out. Was Patch fol­lo­wing me? Was he the fa­ce be­hind the ski mask-if the­re even was a fa­ce be­hind a mask? What did he want? I hug­ged my el­bows, sud­denly fe­eling very cold. I wan­ted my li­fe to go back to the way it was be­fo­re Patch bar­ged in­to my li­fe.

  At the end of class, I stop­ped Patch from le­aving. "Can we talk?"

  He was al­re­ady stan­ding, so he to­ok a se­at on the ed­ge of the tab­le. "What's up?"

  "I know you don't want to sit next to me any mo­re than I want to sit next to you. I think Co­ach might con­si­der chan­ging our se­ats if you talk to him. If you exp­la­in the si­tu­ati­on-"

  "The si­tu­ati­on?"

  "We're not-com­pa­tib­le."

  He rub­bed a hand over his jaw, a cal­cu­la­ting ges­tu­re I'd grown ac­cus­to­med to in only a few short days of kno­wing him. "We're not?"

  "I'm not an­no­un­cing gro­undb­re­aking news he­re."

  "When Co­ach as­ked for my list of de­si­red cha­rac­te­ris­tics in a ma­te, I ga­ve him you."

  "Ta­ke that back."

  "Intel­li­gent. At­trac­ti­ve. Vul­ne­rab­le. You di­sag­ree?"

  He was do­ing this for the so­le pur­po­se of an­ta­go­ni­zing me, and that only flus­te­red me mo­re. "Will you ask Co­ach to chan­ge our se­ats or not?"

  "Pass. You've grown on me."

  What was I sup­po­sed to say to that? He was ob­vi­o­usly aiming to get a re­ac­ti­on out of me. Which wasn't dif­fi­cult, se­e­ing as how I co­uld ne­ver tell when he was joking, and when he was sin­ce­re.

  I tri­ed to inj­ect a me­asu­re of self-com­po­su­re in­to my vo­ice. "I think you'd be much bet­ter se­ated with so­me­one el­se. And I think you know it." I smi­led, ten­se but po­li­te.

  "I think I co­uld end up next to Vee." His smi­le ap­pe­ared just as po­li­te. "I'm not go­ing to press my luck."

  Vee ap­pe­ared be­si­de our tab­le, glan­cing bet­we­en me and Patch. "Inter­rup­ting so­met­hing?"

  "No," I sa­id, yan­king my back­pack shut. "I was as­king Patch abo­ut to­night's re­ading. I co­uldn't re­mem­ber which pa­ges Co­ach as­sig­ned."

  Vee sa­id, "The as­sign­ment's on the bo­ard, sa­me as al­ways. As if you ha­ven't al­re­ady re­ad it."

  Patch la­ug­hed, se­emingly sha­ring a pri­va­te joke with him­self. Not for the first ti­me, I wis­hed I knew what he was thin­king. Be­ca­use so­me­ti­mes I was po­si­ti­ve the­se pri­va­te jokes had everyt­hing to do with me. "Anything el­se, No­ra?" he sa­id.

  "No," I sa­id. "See you to­mor­row."

  "Lo­oking for­ward to it." He win­ked. Ac­tu­al­ly win­ked.

  After Patch was out of ears­hot, Vee grip­ped my arm. "Go­od news. Cip­ri­ano. That's his last na­me. I saw it on Co­ach's class ros­ter."

  "And that's so­met­hing to smi­le abo­ut be­ca­use…?"

  "Every­body knows stu­dents are re­qu­ired to re­gis­ter presc­rip­ti­on drugs with the nur­se's of­fi­ce." She tug­ged at the front poc­ket of my back­pack, whe­re I kept my iron pills. "Li­ke­wi­se, every­body knows the nur­se's of­fi­ce is con­ve­ni­ently lo­ca­ted in­si­de the front of­fi­ce, whe­re, as it hap­pens, stu­dent fi­les are al­so kept."

  Eyes ag­low, Vee loc­ked her arm in mi­ne and pul­led me to­ward the do­or. "Ti­me to do so­me re­al sle­ut­hing."

  CHAPTER 5

  "CAN I HELP YOU?"

  I for­ced myself to smi­le at the front of­fi­ce sec­re­tary, ho­ping I didn't lo­ok as dis­ho­nest as I felt. "I ha­ve a presc­rip­ti­on I ta­ke da­ily at scho­ol, and my fri­end-"

  My vo­ice ca­ught on the word, and I won­de­red if af­ter to­day I wo­uld ever fe­el li­ke cal­ling Vee my fri­end aga­in.

  "-my fri­end in­for­med me that I'm sup­po­sed to re­gis­ter it with the nur­se. Do you know if that's cor­rect?" I co­uldn't be­li­eve I was stan­ding he­re, in­ten­ding to do so­met­hing il­le­gal. As of la­te, I was ex­hi­bi­ting a lot of unc­ha­rac­te­ris­tic be­ha­vi­or. First I'd fol­lo­wed Patch to a dis­re­pu­tab­le ar­ca­de la­te at night. Now I was on the ver­ge of sno­oping in his stu­dent fi­le. What was the mat­ter with me? No-what was the mat­ter with Patch, that when it ca­me to him, I co­uldn't se­em to stop exer­ci­sing bad judg­ment?

  "Oh, yes," the sec­re­tary sa­id so­lemnly. "All drugs ne­ed to be re­gis­te­red. Nur­se's of­fi­ce is back thro­ugh the­re, third do­or on the left, ac­ross from stu­dent re­cords." She ges­tu­red in­to the hal­lway be­hind her. "If the nur­se isn't the­re, you can ta­ke a se­at on the cot in­si­de her of­fi­ce. She sho­uld be back any mi­nu­te."

  I fab­ri­ca­ted anot­her smi­le. I'd re­al­ly ho­ped it wo­uldn't be this easy.

  He­ading down the hall, I stop­ped se­ve­ral ti­mes to check over my sho­ul­der. No­body ca­me up be­hind me. The pho­ne out in the front of­fi­ce was rin­ging, but it so­un­ded a world apart from the dim cor­ri­dor whe­re I sto­od. I was all alo­ne, free to do as I ple­ased.

  I ca­me to a stop at the third do­or on the left. I suc­ked in a bre­ath and knoc­ked, but it was ob­vi­o­us from the dar­ke­ned win­dow that the ro­om was empty. I pus­hed on the do­or. It mo­ved with re­luc­tan­ce, cre­aking open on a com­pact ro­om with scuf­fed whi­te ti­les. I sto­od in the ent­ran­ce a mo­ment, al­most wis­hing the nur­se wo­uld ap­pe­ar so I'd ha­ve no cho­ice but to re­gis­ter my iron pills and le­ave. A qu­ick glan­ce ac­ross the hall re­ve­aled a do­or with a win­dow mar­ked STU­DENT RE­CORDS. It too was dark.

  I fo­cu­sed my at­ten­ti­on on a nag­ging tho­ught at the back of my mind. Patch cla­imed that he hadn't go­ne to scho­ol last ye­ar. I was pretty su­re he was lying, but if he wasn't, wo­uld he even ha­ve a stu­dent re­cord? He'd ha­ve a ho­me ad­dress at the very le­ast, I re­aso­ned. And an im­mu­ni­za­ti­on card, and last se­mes­ter's gra­des. Still. Pos­sib­le sus­pen­si­on se­emed li­ke a lar­ge pri­ce to pay for a pe­ek at Patch's im­mu­ni­za­ti­on card.

  I le­aned one sho­ul­der aga­inst the wall and chec­ked my watch. Vee had told me to wa­it for her sig­nal. She sa­id it wo­uld be ob­vi­o­us.

  Gre­at.

  The pho­ne in the front of­fi­ce rang aga­in, and the sec­re­tary pic­ked up.

  Che­wing my lip, I sto­le a se­cond glimp­se at the do­or la­be­led STU­DENT RE­CORDS. The­re was a go­od chan­ce it was loc­ked. Stu­dent fi­les we­re pro­bably con­si­de­red high se­cu­rity. It didn't mat­ter what kind of di­ver­si­on Vee cre­ated; if the do­or was loc­ked, I wasn't get­ting in.

  I shif­ted my back­pack to the op­po­si­te sho­ul­der. Anot­her mi­nu­te tic­ked down. I told myself may­be I sho­uld le­ave…

  On the ot­her hand, what if Vee was right and he was stal­king me? As his bio part­ner, re­gu­lar con­tact with him co­uld pla­ce me in dan­ger. I had a res­pon­si­bi­lity to pro­tect myself… didn't I?

  If the do­or was un­loc­ked and the fi­les we­re alp­ha­be­ti­zed, I wo­uld ha­ve no tro­ub­le lo­ca­ting Patch's qu­ickly. Add anot­her few se­conds to skim his fi­le for red flags, and I co­uld pro­bably be in and out of the ro­om in un­der a mi­nu­te. Which was so bri­ef it might not fe­el li­ke I'd en­te­red at all.

  Things had grown unu­su­al­ly qu­i­et out in the front of­fi­ce. Sud­denly Vee ro­un­ded the cor­ner. She ed­ged down the wall to­ward me, wal­king in a cro­uch, drag­ging her hands along the wall, ste­aling sur­rep­ti­ti­o­us glan­ces over her sho­ul­der. It was the kind of walk spi­es adop­ted in old mo­vi­es.

  "Everyt­hing is un­der cont­rol," she whis­pe­red.

  "What hap­pe­ned to the sec­re­tary?"

  "She had to le­ave the of­fi­ce for a mi­nu­te."

  "Had to? You didn't in­ca­pa­ci­ta­te her, did you?"

  "Not this ti­me."

  Thank go­od­ness for small mer­ci­es.

  "I cal­led in a bomb thre­at from the pay pho­ne out­si­de," Vee sa­id. "The sec­re­tary di­aled the po­li­ce, then ran off to find the prin­ci­pal."

  "Vee!"

  She tap­ped her wrist. "Clock's tic­king. We don't want to be in he­re when the cops ar­ri­ve."

  Tell me abo­ut it.

  Vee and I si­zed up the do­or to stu­dent re­cords.

  "Mo­ve over," Vee sa­id, gi­ving me her hip.

  She drew her sle­eve down over her fist and dril­led it in­to the win­dow. Not­hing hap­pe­ned.

  "That was just for prac­ti­ce," she sa­id. She drew back for anot­her punch and I grab­bed her arm.

  "It might be un­loc­ked." I tur­ned the knob and the do­or swung open.

  "That wasn't ne­ar as much fun," sa­id Vee.

  A mat­ter of opi­ni­on.

  "You go in," Vee inst­ruc­ted. "I'm go­ing to ke­ep sur­ve­il­lan­ce. If all go­es well, we'll ren­dez­vo­us in an ho­ur. Me­et me at the Me­xi­can res­ta­urant on the cor­ner of Dra­ke and Be­ech." She cro­uch-wal­ked back down the hall.

  I was left stan­ding half in, half out of the nar­row ro­om li­ned wall-to-wall with fi­ling ca­bi­nets. Be­fo­re my cons­ci­en­ce tal­ked me out of it, I step­ped in­si­de and shut the do­or be­hind me, pres­sing my back aga­inst it.

  With a de­ep bre­ath I slo­uc­hed off my back­pack and hur­ri­ed for­ward, drag­ging my fin­ger along the fa­ces of the ca­bi­nets. I fo­und the dra­wer mar­ked car-cuv. With one tug the dra­wer rat­tled open. The tabs on the fi­les we­re la­be­led by hand, and I won­de­
red if Cold­wa­ter High was the last scho­ol in the co­untry not com­pu­te­ri­zed.

  My eyes brus­hed over the na­me "Cip­ri­ano."

  I wrenc­hed the fi­le from the cram­med dra­wer. I held it in my hands a mo­ment, trying to con­vin­ce myself the­re was not­hing too wrong with what I was abo­ut to do. So what if the­re was pri­va­te in­for­ma­ti­on in­si­de? As Patch's bi­ology part­ner, I had a right to know the­se things.

  Out­si­de, vo­ices fil­led the hall.

  I fumb­led the fi­le open and im­me­di­ately flinc­hed. It didn't ma­ke any sen­se.

  The vo­ices ad­van­ced.

  I sho­ved the fi­le ran­domly in­si­de the dra­wer and ga­ve it a push, sen­ding it rat­tling back in­to the ca­bi­net. As I tur­ned, I fro­ze. On the ot­her si­de of the win­dow, the prin­ci­pal stop­ped midst­ri­de, his ga­ze latc­hing on­to me.

  Wha­te­ver he'd be­en sa­ying to the gro­up, which pro­bably con­sis­ted of every ma­j­or pla­yer on the scho­ol's fa­culty, tra­iled off.

  "Excu­se me a mo­ment," I he­ard him say. The gro­up con­ti­nu­ed hust­ling for­ward. He did not.

  He ope­ned the do­or. "This area is off-li­mits to stu­dents."

  I tri­ed on a help­less fa­ce. "I'm so sorry. I'm trying to find the nur­se's of­fi­ce. The sec­re­tary sa­id third do­or on the right, but I think I mis­co­un­ted… "I threw my hands up."I'm lost."

  Be­fo­re he co­uld res­pond, I tug­ged at the zip­per on my back­pack. "I'm sup­po­sed to re­gis­ter the­se. Iron pills," I exp­la­ined. "I'm ane­mic."

  He stu­di­ed me for a mo­ment, his brow cre­asing. I tho­ught I co­uld see him we­ig­hing his op­ti­ons: stick aro­und and de­al with me, or de­al with a bomb thre­at. He jer­ked his chin out the do­or. "I ne­ed you to exit the bu­il­ding im­me­di­ately."

  He prop­ped the do­or wi­de and I duc­ked out un­der his arm, my smi­le col­lap­sing.

  An ho­ur la­ter I slid in­to a cor­ner bo­oth at the Me­xi­can res­ta­urant on the cor­ner of Dra­ke and Be­ech. A ce­ra­mic cac­tus and a stuf­fed co­yo­te we­re mo­un­ted on the wall abo­ve me. A man we­aring a somb­re­ro wi­der than he was tall sa­un­te­red over. Strum­ming chords on his gu­itar, he se­re­na­ded me whi­le the hos­tess la­id me­nus on the tab­le. I frow­ned at the in­sig­nia on the front co­ver. The Bor­der­li­ne. I hadn't eaten he­re be­fo­re, yet so­met­hing abo­ut the na­me so­un­ded va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar.

  Vee ca­me up be­hind me and flop­ped in­to the op­po­si­te se­at. Our wa­iter was on her he­els.

  "Fo­ur chi­mis, ext­ra so­ur cre­am, a si­de of nac­hos, and a si­de of black be­ans," Vee told him wit­ho­ut con­sul­ting the me­nu.

  "One red bur­ri­to," I sa­id.

  "Se­pa­ra­te bills?" he as­ked.

  "I'm not pa­ying for her," Vee and I sa­id at the sa­me ti­me.

  After our wa­iter left, I sa­id, "Fo­ur chi­mis. I'm lo­oking for­ward to he­aring the fru­it con­nec­ti­on."

  "Don't even start. I'm star­ving. Ha­ven't eaten sin­ce lunch." She pa­used. "If you don't co­unt the Hot Ta­ma­les, which I don't."

  Vee is vo­lup­tu­o­us, Scan­di­na­vi­an fa­ir, and in an unort­ho­dox way, inc­re­dibly sexy. The­re ha­ve be­en days when our fri­ends­hip was the only thing stan­ding in the way of my je­alo­usy. Next to Vee, the only thing I ha­ve go­ing for me are my legs. And may­be my me­ta­bo­lism. But de­fi­ni­tely not my ha­ir.

  "He'd bet­ter bring chips so­on," sa­id Vee. "I'll bre­ak out in hi­ves if I don't eat so­met­hing salty wit­hin the next forty-fi­ve se­conds. And any­way, the first three let­ters in the word di­et sho­uld tell you what I want it to do."

  "They ma­ke sal­sa with to­ma­to­es," I po­in­ted out. "That's a red. And avo­ca­dos are a fru­it. I think."

  Her fa­ce brigh­te­ned. "And we'll or­der vir­gin straw­ber­ry da­iqu­iris."

  Vee was right. This di­et was easy.

  "Be right back," she sa­id, sli­ding out of the bo­oth. "That ti­me of the month. Af­ter that, I want to get the sco­op"

  Whi­le wa­iting for her, I fo­und myself con­cent­ra­ting on the bus­boy so­me tab­les away. He was hard at work scrub­bing a rag over the top of a tab­le. The­re was so­met­hing stran­gely fa­mi­li­ar abo­ut the way he mo­ved, abo­ut the way his shirt fell over the arch of his well-de­fi­ned back. Al­most as if he sus­pec­ted he was be­ing watc­hed, he stra­igh­te­ned and tur­ned, his eyes fi­xing on mi­ne at the exact sa­me mo­ment I fi­gu­red out what was so fa­mi­li­ar abo­ut this par­ti­cu­lar bus­boy.

  Patch.

  I co­uldn't be­li­eve it. I tho­ught abo­ut slap­ping my fo­re­he­ad when I re­mem­be­red he'd told me he wor­ked at the Bor­der­li­ne.

  Wi­ping his hands on his ap­ron, he wal­ked over, ap­pa­rently enj­oying my dis­com­fort as I lo­oked aro­und for so­me way to es­ca­pe, fin­ding I had now­he­re to go but de­eper in­to the bo­oth.

  "Well, well," he sa­id. "Fi­ve days a we­ek isn't eno­ugh of me? Had to gi­ve me an eve­ning, too?"

  "I apo­lo­gi­ze for the un­for­tu­na­te co­in­ci­den­ce."

  He slid in­to Vee's se­at. When he la­id his arms down, they we­re so long, they cros­sed in­to my half of the tab­le. He re­ac­hed for my glass, twir­ling it in his hands.

  "All the se­ats he­re are ta­ken," I sa­id. When he didn't ans­wer, I grab­bed my glass back and to­ok a sip of wa­ter, ac­ci­den­tal­ly swal­lo­wing an ice cu­be. It bur­ned the who­le way down. "Sho­uldn't you be wor­king ins­te­ad of fra­ter­ni­zing with cus­to­mers?" I cho­ked.

  He smi­led. "What are you do­ing Sun­day night?"

  I snor­ted. By ac­ci­dent. "Are you as­king me out?"

  "You're get­ting cock).1 li­ke that, An­gel."

  "I don't ca­re what you li­ke. I'm not go­ing out with you. Not on a da­te. Not alo­ne." I wan­ted to kick myself for ex­pe­ri­en­cing a hot thrill upon spe­cu­la­ting what a night alo­ne with Patch might en­ta­il. Most li­kely, he hadn't even me­ant it. Most li­kely, he was ba­iting me for re­asons known only to him. "Hang on, did you just call me An­gel?" I as­ked.

  "If I did?"

  "I don't li­ke it."

  He grin­ned. "It stays. An­gel.

  He le­aned ac­ross the tab­le, ra­ised his hand to my fa­ce, and brus­hed his thumb along one cor­ner of my mo­uth. I pul­led away, too la­te.

  He rub­bed lip gloss bet­we­en his thumb and fo­re­fin­ger. "You'd lo­ok bet­ter wit­ho­ut it."

  I tri­ed to re­mem­ber what we'd be­en tal­king abo­ut, but not ne­arly as hard as I tri­ed to ap­pe­ar un­mo­ved by his to­uch. I tos­sed my ha­ir back over my sho­ul­der, pic­king up the ta­il of our pre­vi­o­us con­ver­sa­ti­on. "Anyway, I'm not al­lo­wed to go out on scho­ol nights."

  "Too bad. The­re's a party on the co­ast. I tho­ught we co­uld go." He ac­tu­al­ly so­un­ded sin­ce­re.

  I co­uld not fi­gu­re him out. At all. The ear­li­er hot thrill still lin­ge­red in my blo­od, and I to­ok a long pull on my straw, trying to co­ol my fe­elings with a shot of ice wa­ter. Ti­me alo­ne with Patch wo­uld be int­ri­gu­ing, and dan­ge­ro­us. I wasn't su­re how exactly, but I was trus­ting my ins­tincts on this one.

  I af­fec­ted a yawn. "Well, li­ke I sa­id, it's a scho­ol night." In ho­pes of con­vin­cing myself mo­re than him, I ad­ded, "If this party is so­met­hing you'd be in­te­res­ted in, I can al­most gu­aran­tee I won't be."

  The­re, I tho­ught. Ca­se clo­sed.

  And then, wit­ho­ut any war­ning what­so­ever, I sa­id, "Why are you as­king me any­way?"

  Up un­til this very mo­ment, I'd be­en tel­ling myself I didn't ca­re what Patch tho­ught of me. But right now, I knew it was a lie. Even tho­ugh it wo­uld pro­bably co­me back to ha­unt me, I was cu­ri­o­us eno­ugh abo­ut Patch to go al­most anyw­he­re with him.

  "I want to get you alo­ne," Patch sa­id. Just li­ke that, my de­fen­ses shot back up.

  "Lis­ten, Patch, I don't want to be ru­de, but-"

  "Su­re you do."

  "Well, you star­ted it!" Lo­vely. Very ma­tu­re. "I can't go to the party. End of story."