"And Vee's is go­ing to drop."

  "That hap­pens when you can't lo­ok si­de­ways to get the right ans­wer," he sa­id dryly.

  "Vee's prob­lem is lack of de­di­ca­ti­on. I'll tu­tor her."

  "No can do." Glan­cing at his watch, he sa­id, "I'm la­te for a me­eting. Are we do­ne he­re?"

  I squ­e­ezed my bra­in for one mo­re ar­gu­ment, but it ap­pe­ared I was fresh out of ins­pi­ra­ti­on.

  "Let's gi­ve the se­ating chart a few mo­re we­eks. Oh, and I was se­ri­o­us abo­ut tu­to­ring Patch. I'll co­unt you in." Co­ach didn't wa­it for my ans­wer; he whist­led the tu­ne to Je­opardy and duc­ked out the do­or.

  By se­ven o'clock the sky had glo­we­red in­to an inky blue, and I zip­ped up my co­at for warmth. Vee and I we­re on our way from the mo­vie the­ater to the par­king lot, ha­ving just watc­hed The Sac­ri­fi­ce. It was my job to re­vi­ew mo­vi­es for the eZi­ne, and sin­ce I'd al­re­ady se­en every ot­her mo­vie sho­wing at the the­ater, we'd re­sig­ned our­sel­ves to the la­test ur­ban chil­ler.

  "That," Vee sa­id, "was the fre­aki­est mo­vie I ha­ve ever se­en. As a ru­le, we are no lon­ger al­lo­wed to see anyt­hing sug­ges­ti­ve of hor­ror."

  Fi­ne by me. Ta­ke in­to con­si­de­ra­ti­on that so­me­one had be­en lur­king out­si­de my bed­ro­om win­dow last night and com­po­und it with watc­hing a fully de­ve­lo­ped stal­ker mo­vie to­night, and I was star­ting to fe­el a lit­tle bit pa­ra­no­id.

  "Can you ima­gi­ne?" Vee sa­id. "Li­ving yo­ur who­le li­fe ne­ver ha­ving a clue that the only re­ason you're be­ing kept ali­ve is to be used as a sac­ri­fi­ce?"

  We both shud­de­red.

  "And what was up with that al­tar?" she con­ti­nu­ed, an­no­yingly una­wa­re that I wo­uld ha­ve rat­her tal­ked abo­ut the li­fe cycle of fun­gi than abo­ut the mo­vie. "Why did the bad guy light the sto­ne on fi­re be­fo­re tying her down? When I he­ard her flesh siz­zle-"

  "Okay!" I prac­ti­cal­ly sho­uted. "Whe­re to next?"

  "And can I just say if a guy ever kis­ses me li­ke that, I will start dry he­aving. Re­pul­si­ve do­esn't be­gin to desc­ri­be what was go­ing on with his mo­uth. That was ma­ke­up, right? I me­an, no­body ac­tu­al­ly has a mo­uth li­ke that in re­al li­fe-"

  "My re­vi­ew is due by mid­night," I sa­id, cut­ting ac­ross her.

  "Oh. Right. To the lib­rary, then?" Vee un­loc­ked the do­ors to her 1995 purp­le Dod­ge Ne­on. "You're be­ing aw­ful­ly to­uchy, you know."

  I slid in­to the pas­sen­ger se­at. "Bla­me the mo­vie." Bla­me the Pe­eping Tom at my win­dow last night.

  "I'm not tal­king abo­ut just to­night. I've no­ti­ced," she sa­id with a misc­hi­evo­us cur­ve of her mo­uth, "that you've be­en unu­su­al­ly crabby for a go­od half ho­ur at the end of bio the past two days."

  "Also easy. Bla­me Patch."

  Vee's eyes flic­ked to the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror. She adj­us­ted it for a bet­ter lo­ok at her te­eth. She lic­ked them, gi­ving a prac­ti­ced smi­le. "I ha­ve to ad­mit, his dark si­de calls to me."

  I had no de­si­re to ad­mit it, but Vee wasn't alo­ne. I felt drawn to Patch in a way I'd ne­ver felt drawn to an­yo­ne. The­re was a dark mag­ne­tism bet­we­en us. Aro­und him, I felt lu­red to the ed­ge of dan­ger. At any mo­ment, it felt li­ke he co­uld push me over the ed­ge.

  "He­aring you say that ma­kes me want to-" I pa­used, trying to think of exactly what our at­trac­ti­on to Patch did ma­ke me want to do. So­met­hing unp­le­asant.

  "Tell me you don't think he's go­od-lo­oking," Vee sa­id, "and I pro­mi­se I'll ne­ver bring up his na­me aga­in."

  I re­ac­hed to turn on the ra­dio. Of all things, the­re had to be so­met­hing bet­ter to do than ru­in our eve­ning by in­vi­ting Patch, al­be­it abst­ractly, in­to it. Sit­ting be­si­de him for one ho­ur ever) day, fi­ve days a we­ek, was plenty mo­re than I co­uld ta­ke. I wasn't gi­ving him my eve­nings, too.

  "Well?" Vee pres­sed.

  "He co­uld be go­od-lo­oking. But I'd be the last to know. I'm a ta­in­ted juror on this one, sorry."

  "What's that sup­po­sed to me­an?"

  "It me­ans I can't get be­yond his per­so­na­lity. No amo­unt of be­a­uty co­uld ma­ke up for it."

  "Not be­a­uty. He's… hard-edged. Sexy."

  I rol­led my eyes.

  Vee hon­ked and tap­ped her bra­ke as a car pul­led in front of her. "What? You di­sag­ree, or ro­ugh-and-ro­gu­ish isn't yo­ur type?"

  "I don't ha­ve a type," I sa­id. "I'm not that nar­row."

  Vee la­ug­hed. "You, ba­be, are mo­re than nar­row-you're con­fi­ned. Cram­ped. Yo­ur spect­rum is abo­ut as wi­de as one of Co­ach's mic­ro­or­ga­nisms. The­re are very few, if any, boys at scho­ol you wo­uld fall for."

  "That's not true." I sa­id the words auto­ma­ti­cal­ly. It wasn't un­til I'd spo­ken them that I won­de­red how ac­cu­ra­te they we­re. I had ne­ver be­en se­ri­o­usly in­te­res­ted in an­yo­ne. How we­ird was I? "It isn't abo­ut the boys, it's abo­ut… lo­ve. I ha­ven't fo­und it."

  "It isn't abo­ut lo­ve," Vee sa­id. "It's abo­ut fun."

  I lif­ted my eyeb­rows, do­ubt­ful. "Kis­sing a guy I don't know-I don't ca­re abo­ut-is fun?"

  "Ha­ven't you be­en pa­ying at­ten­ti­on in bio? It's abo­ut a lot mo­re than kis­sing."

  "Oh," I sa­id in an en­ligh­te­ned vo­ice. "The ge­ne po­ol is war­ped eno­ugh wit­ho­ut me cont­ri­bu­ting to it."

  "Want to know who I think wo­uld be re­al­ly go­od?"

  "Go­od?"

  "Go­od," she re­pe­ated with an in­de­cent smi­le.

  "Not par­ti­cu­larly."

  "Yo­ur part­ner."

  "Don't call him that," I sa­id. "'Part­ner' has a po­si­ti­ve con­no­ta­ti­on."

  Vee squ­e­ezed in­to a par­king spa­ce ne­ar the lib­rary do­ors and kil­led the en­gi­ne. "Ha­ve you ever fan­ta­si­zed abo­ut kis­sing him? Ha­ve you ever sto­len a pe­ek si­de­ways and ima­gi­ned flin­ging yo­ur­self at Patch and crus­hing yo­ur mo­uth to his?"

  I sta­red at her with a lo­ok I ho­ped spo­ke ap­pal­led shock. "Ha­ve you?"

  Vee grin­ned.

  I tri­ed to ima­gi­ne what Patch wo­uld do if pre­sen­ted with this in­for­ma­ti­on. As lit­tle as I knew abo­ut him, I sen­sed his aver­si­on to Vee as if it we­re conc­re­te eno­ugh to to­uch.

  "He's not go­od eno­ugh for you," I sa­id.

  She mo­aned. "Ca­re­ful, you'll only ma­ke me want him mo­re."

  Insi­de the lib­rary we to­ok a tab­le on the ma­in le­vel, ne­ar adult fic­ti­on. I ope­ned my lap­top and typed: The Sac­ri­fi­ce, two and a half stars. Two and a half was pro­bably on the low si­de. But I had a lot on my mind and wasn't fe­eling par­ti­cu­larly equ­itab­le.

  Vee ope­ned a bag of dri­ed ap­ple chips. "Want so­me?"

  "I'm go­od, thanks."

  She pe­ered in­to the bag. "If you're not go­ing to eat them, I'll ha­ve to. And I re­al­ly don't want to."

  Vee was on the co­lor-whe­el fru­it di­et. Three red fru­its a day, two blue, a hand­ful of gre­en…

  She held up an ap­ple chip, exa­mi­ning it front to back.

  "What co­lor?" I as­ked.

  "Ma­ke-me-gag-Gran­ny-Smith-gre­en. I think."

  Just then Mar­cie Mil­lar, the only sop­ho­mo­re to ma­ke var­sity che­er­le­ading in the his­tory of Cold­wa­ter High, to­ok a se­at on the ed­ge of our tab­le. Her straw­ber­ry blond ha­ir was com­bed in­to low pig­ta­ils, and li­ke al­ways, her skin was con­ce­aled un­der half a bot­tle of fo­un­da­ti­on. I was fa­irly cer­ta­in I'd gu­es­sed the right amo­unt, sin­ce the­re wasn't a tra­ce of her freck­les in sight. I hadn't se­en any of Mar­cie's freck­les sin­ce se­venth gra­de, the sa­me ye­ar she dis­co­ve­red Mary Kay. The­re was three-qu­ar­ters of an inch bet­we­en the hem of her skirt and the start of her un­der­we­ar… if she was even we­aring any.

  "Hi, Su­per­si­ze," Mar­cie sa­id to Vee.

  "Hi, Fre­aks­how," Vee sa­id back.

  "My mom is lo­oking for mo­dels this we­ekend. The pay is ni­ne dol­lars an ho­ur. I tho­ught you'd be in­te­res­ted."

  Mar­cie's mom ma­na­ges the lo­cal JC­Pen­ney, and on we­ekends she has Mar­cie and the rest of the che­er­le­aders mo­del bi­ki­nis in the sto­re's stre­et-fa­cing disp­lay win­dows.

  "She's ha­ving a re­al­ly hard ti­me fin­ding plus-si­ze lin­ge­rie mo­dels," sa­id Mar­cie.

  "You've got fo­od stuck in yo­ur te­eth," Vee told Mar­cie. "In the crack bet­we­en yo­ur two front te­eth. Lo­oks li­ke cho­co­la­te Ex-Lax

  Mar­cie lic­ked her te­eth and slid off the tab­le. As she sas­ha­yed off, Vee stuck her fin­ger in her mo­uth and ma­de gag­ging ges­tu­res at Mar­cie's back.

  "She's lucky we're at the lib­rary," Vee told me. "She's luck) we didn't cross paths in a dark al­ley. Last chan­ce-any chips?"

  "Pass."

  Vee wan­de­red off to dis­card the chips. A few mi­nu­tes la­ter she re­tur­ned with a ro­man­ce no­vel. She to­ok the se­at next to me and, disp­la­ying the no­vel's co­ver, sa­id, "So­me­day this is go­ing to be us. Ra­vis­hed by half-dres­sed cow­boys. I won­der what it's li­ke to kiss a pa­ir of sun­ba­ked, mud-crus­ted lips?"

  "Dirty," I mur­mu­red, typing away.

  "Spe­aking of dirty." The­re was an unex­pec­ted ri­se in her vo­ice. "The­re's our guy."

  I stop­ped typing long eno­ugh to pe­er over my lap­top, and my he­art skip­ped a be­at. Patch sto­od ac­ross the ro­om in the chec­ko­ut li­ne. As if he sen­sed me watc­hing, he tur­ned. Our eyes loc­ked for one, two, three co­unts. I bro­ke away first, but not be­fo­re re­ce­iving a slow grin.

  My he­art­be­at tur­ned er­ra­tic, and I told myself to pull it to­get­her. I was not go­ing down this path. Not with Patch. Not un­less I was out of my mind.

  "Let's go," I told Vee. Shut­ting my lap­top, I zip­ped it in­si­de its car­rying ca­se. I pus­hed my bo­oks in­si­de my back­pack, drop­ping a few on the flo­or as I did.

  Vee sa­id, "I'm trying to re­ad the tit­le he's hol­ding… hang on… How to Be a Stal­ker."

  "He is not chec­king out a bo­ok with that tit­le." But I wasn't su­re.

  "It's eit­her that or How to Ra­di­ate Sexy Wit­ho­ut Trying"

  "Shh!" I his­sed.

  "Calm down, he can't he­ar. He's tal­king to the lib­ra­ri­an. He's chec­king out."

  Con­fir­ming this with a qu­ick glan­ce over, I re­ali­zed that if we left now, we'd pro­bably me­et him at the exit do­ors. And then I wo­uld be ex­pec­ted to say so­met­hing to him. I or­de­red myself back in­to my cha­ir and se­arc­hed di­li­gently thro­ugh my poc­kets for not­hing what­so­ever whi­le he fi­nis­hed chec­king out.

  "Do you think it's cre­epy he's he­re at the sa­me ti­me we are?" Vee as­ked.

  "Do you?"

  "I think he's fol­lo­wing you."

  "I think it's a co­in­ci­den­ce." This wasn't en­ti­rely true. If I had to ma­ke a list of the top ten pla­ces I wo­uld ex­pect to find Patch on any gi­ven night, the pub­lic lib­rary wo­uldn't ma­ke it. The lib­rary wo­uldn't ma­ke the top hund­red pla­ces. So what was he do­ing he­re?

  The qu­es­ti­on was par­ti­cu­larly dis­tur­bing af­ter what had hap­pe­ned last night. I hadn't men­ti­oned it to Vee be­ca­use I was ho­ping it wo­uld shrink and shri­vel in my me­mory un­til it ce­ased to ha­ve hap­pe­ned. Pe­ri­od.

  "Patch!" Vee sta­ge-whis­pe­red. "Are you stal­king No­ra?"

  I clam­ped my hand over her mo­uth. "Stop it. I me­an it." I put on a se­ve­re fa­ce.

  "I bet he is fol­lo­wing you," sa­id Vee, prying my hand away. "I bet he has a his­tory of it too. I bet he has rest­ra­ining or­ders. We sho­uld sne­ak in­to the front of­fi­ce. It wo­uld all be in his stu­dent fi­le."

  "We are not sne­aking in­to the front of­fi­ce."

  "I co­uld cre­ate a di­ver­si­on. I'm go­od at di­ver­si­ons. No one wo­uld see you go in. We co­uld be li­ke spi­es."

  "We are not spi­es."

  "Do you know his last na­me?" Vee as­ked.

  "No."

  "Do you know anyt­hing abo­ut him?"

  "No. And I'd li­ke to ke­ep it that way."

  "Oh, co­me on. You lo­ve a go­od mystery, and it do­esn't get bet­ter than this."

  "The best myste­ri­es in­vol­ve a de­ad body. We don't ha­ve a de­ad body."

  Vee squ­e­aled. "Not yet!"

  Sha­king two iron pills from the bot­tle in my back­pack, I swal­lo­wed them to­get­her.

  Vee bo­un­ced the Ne­on in­to her dri­ve­way just af­ter ni­ne thirty. She kil­led the en­gi­ne and dang­led the keys in front of me.

  "You're not go­ing to dri­ve me ho­me?" I as­ked. A was­te of bre­ath, sin­ce I knew her ans­wer.

  "The­re's fog."

  "Patchy fog."

  Vee grin­ned. "Oh, boy. He is so on yo­ur mind. Not that I bla­me you. Per­so­nal­ly, I'm ho­ping I dre­am abo­ut him to­night."

  Ugh.

  "And the fog al­ways gets wor­se ne­ar yo­ur ho­use," Vee con­ti­nu­ed. "It fre­aks me out af­ter dark."

  I grab­bed the keys. "Thanks a lot."

  "Don't bla­me me. Tell yo­ur mom to mo­ve clo­ser. Tell her the­re's this new club cal­led ci­vi­li­za­ti­on and you guys sho­uld jo­in."

  "I sup­po­se you ex­pect me to pick you up be­fo­re scho­ol to­mor­row?"

  "Se­ven thirty wo­uld be ni­ce. Bre­ak­fast is on me."

  "It bet­ter be go­od."

  "Be ni­ce to my baby." She pat­ted the Ne­on's dash. "But not too ni­ce. Can't ha­ve her thin­king the­re's bet­ter out the­re."

  On the dri­ve ho­me I al­lo­wed my tho­ughts a bri­ef trip to Patch. Vee was right-so­met­hing abo­ut him was inc­re­dibly al­lu­ring. And inc­re­dibly cre­epy. The mo­re I tho­ught abo­ut it, the mo­re I was con­vin­ced so­met­hing abo­ut him was… off. The fact that he li­ked to an­ta­go­ni­ze me wasn't exactly a news flash, but the­re was a dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en get­ting un­der my skin in class and pos­sibly go­ing as far as fol­lo­wing me to the lib­rary to ac­comp­lish it. Not many pe­op­le wo­uld go to that much tro­ub­le… un­less they had a very go­od re­ason.

  Half­way ho­me a pat­te­ring ra­in flus­hed out the wispy clo­uds of fog ho­ve­ring abo­ve the ro­ad. Di­vi­ding my at­ten­ti­on bet­we­en the ro­ad and the cont­rols on the ste­ering whe­el, I tri­ed to lo­ca­te the winds­hi­eld wi­pers.

  The stre­et­lights flic­ke­red over­he­ad, and I won­de­red if a he­avi­er storm was blo­wing in. This clo­se to the oce­an the we­at­her chan­ged cons­tantly, and a ra­ins­torm co­uld qu­ickly es­ca­la­te in­to a flash flo­od. I fed the Ne­on mo­re gas.

  The out­si­de lights flic­ke­red aga­in. A cold fe­eling prick­led up the back of my neck, and the ha­irs on my arms ting­led. My sixth sen­se gra­du­ated to high alert. I as­ked myself if I tho­ught I was be­ing fol­lo­wed. The­re we­re no he­ad­lights in the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror. No cars ahe­ad, eit­her. I was all alo­ne. It wasn't a very com­for­ting tho­ught. I pus­hed the car to forty-fi­ve.

  I fo­und the wi­pers, but even at top spe­ed they co­uldn't ke­ep up with the ham­me­ring ra­in. The stop­light ahe­ad tur­ned yel­low. I rol­led to a stop, chec­ked to see that traf­fic was cle­ar, then pul­led in­to the in­ter­sec­ti­on.

  I he­ard the im­pact be­fo­re I re­gis­te­red the dark sil­ho­u­et­te skid­ding ac­ross the ho­od of the car.

  I scre­amed and stom­ped on the bra­ke. The sil­ho­u­et­te thum­ped in­to the winds­hi­eld with a splin­te­ring crack.

  On im­pul­se, I jer­ked the ste­ering whe­el a hard right. The back end of the Ne­on fish­ta­iled, sen­ding me spin­ning ac­ross the in­ter­sec­ti­on. The sil­ho­u­et­te rol­led and di­sap­pe­ared over the ed­ge of the ho­od.

  I was hol­ding my bre­ath, squ­e­ezing the ste­ering whe­el bet­we­en whi­te-knuck­led hands. I lif­ted my fe­et off the pe­dals. The car buc­ked and stal­led out.

  He was cro­uc­hed a few fe­et away, watc­hing me. He didn't lo­ok at all… inj­ured.

  He was dres­sed in to­tal black and blen­ded with the night, ma­king it hard to tell what he lo­oked li­ke. At first I co­uldn't dis­tin­gu­ish any fa­ci­al fe­atu­res, and then I re­ali­zed he was we­aring a ski mask.

  He ro­se to his fe­et, clo­sing the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us. He flat­te­ned his palms to the dri­ver's-si­de win­dow. Our eyes con­nec­ted thro­ugh the ho­les in the mask. A let­hal smi­le se­emed to ri­se in his.

  He ga­ve anot­her po­und, the glass vib­ra­ting bet­we­en us.

  I star­ted the car. I tri­ed to synchro­ni­ze sho­ving it in­to first ge­ar, pus­hing on the gas pe­dal, and re­le­asing the clutch. The en­gi­ne rev­ved, but the car buc­ked aga­in and di­ed.

  I tur­ned the en­gi­ne over on­ce mo­re, but was dist­rac­ted by an off-key me­tal­lic gro­an. I watc­hed with hor­ror as the do­or be­gan to bow. He was te­aring-it-off.

  I ram­med the car in­to first. My sho­es slip­ped over the pe­dals. The en­gi­ne ro­ared, the RPM ne­ed­le on the dash spi­king in­to the red zo­ne.

  His fist ca­me thro­ugh the win­dow in an exp­lo­si­on of glass. His hand fumb­led over my sho­ul­der, clam­ping aro­und my arm. I ga­ve a ho­ar­se cry, stom­ped the gas pe­dal, and re­le­ased the clutch. The Ne­on scre­ec­hed in­to mo­ti­on. He hung on, grip­ping my arm, run­ning be­si­de the car se­ve­ral fe­et be­fo­re drop­ping away.

  I sped for­ward with the for­ce of ad­re­na­li­ne. I chec­ked the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror to ma­ke su­re he wasn't cha­sing me, then sho­ved the mir­ror to fa­ce away. I had to press my lips to­get­her to ke­ep from sob­bing.