"You be­long to a cult?" I re­ali­zed too la­te that whi­le I so­un­ded surp­ri­sed, I sho­uldn't ha­ve.

  "As it turns out, I'm in ne­ed of a he­althy fe­ma­le sac­ri­fi­ce. I'd plan­ned on lu­ring her in­to trus­ting me first, but if you're re­ady now

  Any smi­le left on my fa­ce slid away. "You're not imp­res­sing me.

  "I ha­ven't star­ted trying yet."

  I ed­ged off the tab­le and sto­od up to him. He was a full he­ad tal­ler. "Vee told me you're a se­ni­or. How many ti­mes ha­ve you fa­iled tenth-gra­de bi­ology? On­ce? Twi­ce?"

  "Vee isn't my spo­kes­per­son."

  "Are you den­ying fa­iling?"

  "I'm tel­ling you I didn't go to scho­ol last ye­ar." His eyes ta­un­ted me. It only ma­de me mo­re de­ter­mi­ned.

  "You we­re tru­ant?"

  Patch la­id his po­ol stick ac­ross the tab­le­top and cro­oked a fin­ger for me to co­me clo­ser. I didn't. "A sec­ret?" he sa­id in con­fi­den­ti­al to­nes. "I've ne­ver go­ne to scho­ol be­fo­re. Anot­her sec­ret? It's not as dull as I ex­pec­ted."

  He was lying. Ever­yo­ne went to scho­ol. The­re we­re laws. He was lying to get a ri­se out of me.

  "You think I'm lying," he sa­id aro­und a smi­le.

  "You've ne­ver be­en to scho­ol, ever? If that's true-and you're right, I don't think it is-what ma­de you de­ci­de to co­me this ye­ar?"

  'You/

  The im­pul­se to fe­el sca­red po­un­ded thro­ugh me, but I told myself that was exactly what Patch wan­ted. Stan­ding my gro­und, I tri­ed to act an­no­yed ins­te­ad. Still, it to­ok me a mo­ment to find my vo­ice. "That's not a re­al ans­wer."

  He must ha­ve ta­ken a step clo­ser, be­ca­use sud­denly our bo­di­es we­re se­pa­ra­ted by not­hing mo­re than a shal­low mar­gin of air. "Yo­ur eyes, No­ra. Tho­se cold, pa­le gray eyes are surp­ri­singly ir­re­sis­tib­le." He tip­ped his he­ad si­de­ways, as if to study me from a new ang­le. "And that kil­ler curvy mo­uth."

  Start­led not so much by his com­ment, but that part of me res­pon­ded po­si­ti­vely to it, I step­ped back. "That's it. I'm out of he­re."

  But as so­on as the words we­re out of my mo­uth, I knew they we­ren't true. I felt the ur­ge to say so­met­hing mo­re. Pic­king thro­ugh the tho­ughts tang­led in my he­ad, I tri­ed to find what it was I felt I had to say. Why was he so de­ri­si­ve, and why did he act li­ke I'd do­ne so­met­hing to de­ser­ve it?

  "You se­em to know a lot abo­ut me," I sa­id, ma­king the un­ders­ta­te­ment of the ye­ar. "Mo­re than you sho­uld. You se­em to know exactly what to say to ma­ke me un­com­for­tab­le."

  "You ma­ke it easy."

  A spark of an­ger fi­red thro­ugh me. "You ad­mit you're do­ing this on pur­po­se?"

  "This?"

  "This-pro­vo­king me."

  "Say 'pro­vo­king' aga­in. Yo­ur mo­uth lo­oks pro­vo­ca­ti­ve when you do."

  "We're do­ne. Fi­nish yo­ur po­ol ga­me." I grab­bed his po­ol stick off the tab­le and pus­hed it at him. He didn't ta­ke it.

  "I don't li­ke sit­ting be­si­de you," I sa­id. "I don't li­ke be­ing yo­ur part­ner. I don't li­ke yo­ur con­des­cen­ding smi­le." My jaw twitc­hed- so­met­hing that typi­cal­ly hap­pe­ned only when I li­ed. I won­de­red if I was lying now. If I was, I wan­ted to kick myself. "I don't li­ke you," I sa­id as con­vin­cingly as I co­uld, and thrust the stick aga­inst his chest.

  "I'm glad Co­ach put us to­get­her," he sa­id. I de­tec­ted the sligh­test irony on the word "Co­ach," but I co­uldn't fi­gu­re out any hid­den me­aning. This ti­me he to­ok the po­ol stick.

  "I'm wor­king to chan­ge that," I co­un­te­red.

  Patch tho­ught this was so funny, his te­eth sho­wed thro­ugh his smi­le. He re­ac­hed for me, and be­fo­re I co­uld mo­ve away, he un­tang­led so­met­hing from my ha­ir.

  "Pi­ece of pa­per," he exp­la­ined, flic­king it to the gro­und. As he re­ac­hed out, I no­ti­ced a mar­king on the in­si­de of his wrist. At first I as­su­med it was a tat­too, but a se­cond lo­ok re­ve­aled a ruddy brown, slightly ra­ised birth­mark. It was the sha­pe of a splat­te­red pa­int drop.

  That's an un­for­tu­na­te pla­ce for a birth­mark," I sa­id, mo­re than a lit­tle un­ner­ved that it was so si­mi­larly po­si­ti­oned to my own scar.

  Patch ca­su­al­ly but no­ti­ce­ably slid his sle­eve down over his wrist. "You'd pre­fer it so­mep­la­ce mo­re pri­va­te?"

  "I wo­uldn't pre­fer it anyw­he­re." I wasn't su­re how this so­un­ded and tri­ed aga­in. "I wo­uldn't ca­re if you didn't ha­ve it at all." I tri­ed a third ti­me. "I don't ca­re abo­ut yo­ur birth­mark, pe­ri­od."

  "Any mo­re qu­es­ti­ons?" he as­ked. "Com­ments?"

  "No."

  "Then I'll see you in bio."

  I tho­ught abo­ut tel­ling him he'd ne­ver see me aga­in. But I wasn't go­ing to eat my words twi­ce in one day.

  La­ter that night a crack! pul­led me out of sle­ep. With my fa­ce mas­hed in­to my pil­low, I held still, all my sen­ses on high alert. My mom was out of town at le­ast on­ce a month for work, so I was used to sle­eping alo­ne, and it had be­en months sin­ce I'd ima­gi­ned the so­und of fo­ots­teps cre­eping down the hall to­ward my bed­ro­om. The truth was, I ne­ver felt comp­le­tely alo­ne. Right af­ter my dad was shot to de­ath in Port­land whi­le bu­ying my mom's birth­day gift, a stran­ge pre­sen­ce en­te­red my li­fe. Li­ke so­me­one was or­bi­ting my world, watc­hing from a dis­tan­ce. At first the phan­tom pre­sen­ce had cre­eped me out, but when not­hing bad ca­me of it, my an­xi­ety lost its ed­ge. I star­ted won­de­ring if the­re was a cos­mic pur­po­se for the way I was fe­eling. May­be my dad's spi­rit was clo­se by. The tho­ught was usu­al­ly com­for­ting, but to­night was dif­fe­rent. The pre­sen­ce felt li­ke ice on the skin.

  Tur­ning my he­ad a frac­ti­on, I saw a sha­dowy form stretc­hing ac­ross my flo­or. I flip­ped aro­und to fa­ce the win­dow, the ga­uzy shaft of mo­on­light the only light in the ro­om ca­pab­le of cas­ting a sha­dow. But not­hing was the­re. I squ­e­ezed my pil­low aga­inst me and told myself it was a clo­ud pas­sing over the mo­on. Or a pi­ece of trash blo­wing in the wind. Still, I spent the next se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes wa­iting for my pul­se to calm down.

  By the ti­me I fo­und the co­ura­ge to get out of bed, the yard be­low my win­dow was si­lent and still. The only no­ise ca­me from tree branc­hes scra­ping aga­inst the ho­use, and my own he­art thrum­ming un­der my skin.

  CHAPTER 3

  CO­ACH MCCO­NA­UGHY STO­OD AT THE CHALK­BO­ARD dro­ning on and on abo­ut so­met­hing, but my mind was far from the comp­le­xi­ti­es of sci­en­ce.

  I was busy for­mu­la­ting re­asons why Patch and I sho­uld no lon­ger be part­ners, ma­king a list of them on the back of an old qu­iz. As so­on as class was over, I wo­uld pre­sent my ar­gu­ment to Co­ach. Un­co­ope­ra­ti­ve on as­sign­ments, I wro­te. Shows lit­tle in­te­rest in te­am­work.

  But it was the things not lis­ted that bot­he­red me most. I fo­und the lo­ca­ti­on of Patch's birth­mark eerie, and I was spo­oked by the in­ci­dent at my win­dow last night. I didn't out­right sus­pect Patch of spying on me, but I co­uldn't ig­no­re the co­in­ci­den­ce that I was al­most po­si­ti­ve I'd se­en so­me­one lo­oking in my win­dow just ho­urs af­ter I'd met him.

  At the tho­ught of Patch spying on me, I re­ac­hed in­si­de the front com­part­ment of my back­pack and sho­ok two iron pills from a bot­tle, swal­lo­wing them who­le. They ca­ught in my thro­at a mo­ment, then fo­und the­ir way down.

  Out of the cor­ner of my eye, I ca­ught Patch's ra­ised eyeb­rows.

  I con­si­de­red exp­la­ining that I was ane­mic and had to ta­ke iron a few ti­mes a day, es­pe­ci­al­ly when I was un­der stress, but I tho­ught bet­ter. The ane­mia wasn't li­fe thre­ate­ning… as long as I to­ok re­gu­lar do­ses of iron. I wasn't pa­ra­no­id to the po­int that I tho­ught Patch me­ant me harm, but so­me­how, my me­di­cal con­di­ti­on was a vul­ne­ra­bi­lity that felt bet­ter kept sec­ret.

  "No­ra?"

  Co­ach sto­od at the front of the ro­om, his hand outst­retc­hed in a ges­tu­re that sho­wed he was wa­iting for one thing-my ans­wer. A slow burn ma­de its way up my che­eks.

  "Co­uld you re­pe­at the qu­es­ti­on?" I as­ked.

  The class snic­ke­red.

  Co­ach sa­id, with slight ir­ri­ta­ti­on, "What qu­ali­ti­es are you at­trac­ted to in a po­ten­ti­al ma­te?"

  "Po­ten­ti­al ma­te?"

  "Co­me on now, we ha­ven't got all af­ter­no­on."

  I co­uld he­ar Vee la­ug­hing be­hind me.

  My thro­at se­emed to const­rict. "You want me to list cha­rac­te­ris­tics of a…?"

  "Po­ten­ti­al ma­te, yes, that wo­uld be help­ful."

  Wit­ho­ut me­aning to, I lo­oked si­de­ways at Patch. He was eased back in his se­at, one notch abo­ve a slo­uch, stud­ying me with sa­tis­fac­ti­on. He flas­hed his pi­ra­te smi­le and mo­ut­hed, We're wa­iting.

  I stac­ked my hands on the tab­le, ho­ping I lo­oked mo­re com­po­sed than I felt. "I've ne­ver tho­ught abo­ut it be­fo­re."

  "Well, think fast."

  "Co­uld you call on so­me­one el­se first?"

  Co­ach ges­tu­red im­pa­ti­ently to my left. "You're up, Patch."

  Unli­ke me, Patch spo­ke with con­fi­den­ce. He had him­self po­si­ti­oned so his body was ang­led slightly to­ward mi­ne, our kne­es me­re inc­hes apart.

  "Intel­li­gent. At­trac­ti­ve. Vul­ne­rab­le."

  Co­ach was busy lis­ting the adj­ec­ti­ves on the bo­ard. "Vul­ne­rab­le?" he as­ked. "How so?"

  Vee spo­ke up. "Do­es this ha­ve anyt­hing to do with the unit we're stud­ying? Be­ca­use I can't find anyt­hing abo­ut de­si­red cha­rac­te­ris­tics of a ma­te anyw­he­re in our text."

  Co­ach stop­ped wri­ting long eno­ugh to lo­ok over his sho­ul­der. "Every ani­mal on the pla­net at­tracts ma­tes with the go­al of rep­ro­duc­ti­on. Frogs swell the­ir bo­di­es. Ma­le go­ril­las be­at the­ir chests. Ha­ve you ever watc­hed a ma­le lobs­ter ri­se up on the tips of his legs and snap his claws, de­man­ding fe­ma­le at­ten­ti­on? At­trac­ti­on is the first ele­ment of all ani­mal rep­ro­duc­ti­on, hu­mans inc­lu­ded. Why don't you gi­ve us yo­ur list, Miss Sky?"

  Vee held up fi­ve fin­gers. "Gor­ge­o­us, we­althy, in­dul­gent, fi­er­cely pro­tec­ti­ve, and just a lit­tle bit dan­ge­ro­us." A fin­ger went down with each desc­rip­ti­on.

  Patch la­ug­hed un­der his bre­ath. "The prob­lem with hu­man at­trac­ti­on is not kno­wing if it will be re­tur­ned."

  "Excel­lent po­int," Co­ach sa­id.

  "Hu­mans are vul­ne­rab­le," Patch con­ti­nu­ed, "be­ca­use they're ca­pab­le of be­ing hurt." At this, Patch's knee knoc­ked aga­inst mi­ne. I sco­oted away, not da­ring to let myself won­der what he me­ant by the ges­tu­re.

  Co­ach nod­ded. "The comp­le­xity of hu­man at­trac­ti­on-and rep­ro­duc­ti­on-is one of the fe­atu­res that set us apart from ot­her spe­ci­es."

  I tho­ught I he­ard Patch snort at this, but it was a very soft so­und, and I co­uldn't be su­re.

  Co­ach con­ti­nu­ed, "Sin­ce the dawn of ti­me, wo­men ha­ve be­en at­trac­ted to ma­tes with strong sur­vi­val skil­ls-li­ke in­tel­li­gen­ce and physi­cal pro­wess-be­ca­use men with the­se qu­ali­ti­es are mo­re li­kely to bring ho­me din­ner at the end of the day." He stuck his thumbs in the air and grin­ned. "Din­ner equ­als sur­vi­val, te­am."

  No one la­ug­hed.

  "Li­ke­wi­se," he con­ti­nu­ed, "men are at­trac­ted to be­a­uty be­ca­use it in­di­ca­tes he­alth and yo­uth-no po­int ma­ting with a sickly wo­man who won't be aro­und to ra­ise the child­ren." Co­ach pus­hed his glas­ses up the brid­ge of his no­se and chuck­led.

  "That is so se­xist," Vee pro­tes­ted. "Tell me so­met­hing that re­la­tes to a wo­man in the twenty-first cen­tury."

  "If you ap­pro­ach rep­ro­duc­ti­on with an eye to sci­en­ce, Miss Sky, you'll see that child­ren are the key to the sur­vi­val of our spe­ci­es. And the mo­re child­ren you ha­ve, the gre­ater yo­ur cont­ri­bu­ti­on to the ge­ne po­ol."

  I prac­ti­cal­ly he­ard Vee's eyes rol­ling. "I think we're fi­nal­ly get­ting clo­se to to­day's to­pic. Sex."

  "Almost," sa­id Co­ach, hol­ding up a fin­ger. "Be­fo­re sex co­mes at­trac­ti­on, but af­ter at­trac­ti­on co­mes body lan­gu­age. You ha­ve to com­mu­ni­ca­te 'I'm in­te­res­ted' to a po­ten­ti­al ma­te, only not in so many words."

  Co­ach po­in­ted be­si­de me. "All right, Patch. Let's say you're at a party. The ro­om is full of girls of all dif­fe­rent sha­pes and si­zes. You see blonds, bru­net­tes, red­he­ads, a few girls with black ha­ir. So­me are tal­ka­ti­ve, whi­le ot­hers ap­pe­ar shy. You've fo­und one girl who fits yo­ur pro­fi­le-attrac­ti­ve, in­tel­li­gent, and vul­ne­rab­le. How do you let her know you're in­te­res­ted?"

  "Sing­le her out. Talk to her."

  "Go­od. Now for the big qu­es­ti­on-how do you know if she's ga­me or if she wants you to mo­ve on?"

  "I study her," Patch sa­id. "I fi­gu­re out what she's thin­king and fe­eling. She's not go­ing to co­me right out and tell me, which is why I ha­ve to pay at­ten­ti­on. Do­es she turn her body to­ward mi­ne? Do­es she hold my eyes, then lo­ok away? Do­es she bi­te her lip and play with her ha­ir, the way No­ra is do­ing right now?"

  La­ugh­ter ro­se in the ro­om. I drop­ped my hands to my lap.

  "She's ga­me," sa­id Patch, bum­ping my leg aga­in. Of all things, I blus­hed.

  "Very go­od! Very go­od!" Co­ach sa­id, his vo­ice char­ged, smi­ling bro­adly at our at­ten­ti­ve­ness.

  "The blo­od ves­sels in No­ra's fa­ce are wi­de­ning and her skin is war­ming," Patch sa­id. "She knows she's be­ing eva­lu­ated. She li­kes the at­ten­ti­on, but she's not su­re how to hand­le it."

  "I am not blus­hing."

  "She's ner­vo­us," Patch sa­id. "She's stro­king her arm to draw at­ten­ti­on away from her fa­ce and down to her fi­gu­re, or may­be her skin. Both are strong sel­ling po­ints."

  I ne­arly cho­ked. He's joking, I told myself. No, he's in­sa­ne. I had no ex­pe­ri­en­ce de­aling with lu­na­tics, and it sho­wed. I felt li­ke I spent most of our ti­me to­get­her sta­ring at Patch, mo­uth aga­pe. If I had any il­lu­si­ons abo­ut ke­eping up with him, I was go­ing to ha­ve to fi­gu­re out a new ap­pro­ach.

  I pla­ced my hands flat aga­inst the tab­le, held my chin high, and tri­ed to lo­ok as if I still pos­ses­sed so­me dig­nity. "This is ri­di­cu­lo­us."

  Stretc­hing his arm out to his si­de with exag­ge­ra­ted slyness, Patch hung it on the back of my cha­ir. I had the stran­ge fe­eling that this was a thre­at aimed en­ti­rely at me, and that he was una­wa­re and un­ca­ring of how the class re­ce­ived it. They la­ug­hed, but he didn't se­em to he­ar it, hol­ding my eyes so singly with his own that I al­most be­li­eved he'd car­ved a small, pri­va­te world for us that no one el­se co­uld re­ach.

  Vul­ne­rab­le, he mo­ut­hed.

  I loc­ked my ank­les aro­und the legs of my cha­ir and jer­ked for­ward, fe­eling the we­ight of his arm drop off the back of the se­at. I was not vul­ne­rab­le.

  "And the­re you ha­ve it!" Co­ach sa­id. "Bi­ology in mo­ti­on."

  "Can we ple­ase talk abo­ut sex now?" as­ked Vee.

  "To­mor­row. Re­ad chap­ter se­ven and be re­ady for a dis­cus­si­on first thing."

  The bell rang, and Patch scra­ped his cha­ir back. "That was fun. Let's do it aga­in so­me­ti­me." Be­fo­re I co­uld co­me up with so­met­hing mo­re pithy than No, thanks, he ed­ged be­hind me and di­sap­pe­ared out the do­or.

  "I'm star­ting a pe­ti­ti­on to ha­ve Co­ach fi­red," Vee sa­id, co­ming to my tab­le. "What was up with class to­day? It was wa­te­red-down porn. He prac­ti­cal­ly had you and Patch on top of yo­ur lab tab­le, ho­ri­zon­tal, mi­nus yo­ur clot­hes, do­ing the Big De­ed-"

  I na­iled her with a lo­ok that sa­id, Do­es it lo­ok li­ke I want a rep­lay?

  "Ye­esh," Vee sa­id, step­ping back.

  "I ne­ed to talk to Co­ach. I'll me­et you at yo­ur loc­ker in ten mi­nu­tes."

  "Su­re thing."

  Co­ach kic­ked back in his cha­ir and fol­ded his hands be­hind his he­ad. "I li­ke the se­ating chart. Al­most as much as I li­ke this new man-to-man play I'm wor­king on for Sa­tur­day's ga­me."

  I set a copy of the scho­ol co­de of con­duct and stu­dent rights down on top of it. "By law, no stu­dent sho­uld fe­el thre­ate­ned on scho­ol pro­perty."

  "You fe­el thre­ate­ned?"

  "I fe­el un­com­for­tab­le. And I'd li­ke to pro­po­se a so­lu­ti­on." When Co­ach didn't cut me off, I drew a con­fi­dent bre­ath. "I will tu­tor any stu­dent from any of yo­ur bi­ology clas­ses-if you will se­at me be­si­de Vee aga­in."

  I ma­de my way up to Co­ach's desk, whe­re he sat hunc­hed over a bo­ok of bas­ket­ball plays. At first glan­ce all the Xs and Os ma­de it lo­ok li­ke he'd be­en pla­ying tic-tac-toe.

  'Hi, No­ra," he sa­id wit­ho­ut lo­oking up. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm he­re to tell you the new se­ating chart and les­son plan is ma­king me un­com­for­tab­le."

  "Patch co­uld use a tu­tor."

  I re­sis­ted grit­ting my te­eth. "That de­fe­ats the po­int."

  "Did you see him to­day? He was in­vol­ved in the dis­cus­si­on. I ha­ven't he­ard him say one word all ye­ar, but I put him next to you and-bin­go. His gra­de in he­re is go­ing to imp­ro­ve."