"Trust me, Dorth, the­re are no boys in my li­fe." Okay, may­be the­re we­re two lur­king on the frin­ge, circ­ling from afar, but sin­ce I didn't know eit­her very well, and one out­right frigh­te­ned me, it felt sa­fer to clo­se my eyes and pre­tend they we­ren't the­re.

  "This is a go­od thing, and a bad thing," Do­rot­hea sa­id scold-ingly. "You find the wrong boy, you ask for tro­ub­le. You find the right boy, you find lo­ve." Her vo­ice sof­te­ned re­mi­nis­cently. "When I was a lit­tle girl in Ger­many, I had to cho­ose bet­we­en two boys. One was a very wic­ked boy. The ot­her was my Henry. We are hap­pily mar­ri­ed for forty-one ye­ars."

  It was ti­me to chan­ge the su­bj­ect. "How's, um, yo­ur god­son… Li­onel?"

  Her eyes stretc­hed. "You ha­ve a thing for lit­tle Li­onel?"

  "No­o­oo."

  "I can work so­met­hing out-"

  "Ah no, Do­rot­hea, re­al­ly. Thank you, but-I'm re­al­ly con­cent­ra­ting on my gra­des right now. I want to get in­to a top-ti­er col­le­ge."

  "If in the fu­tu­re-"

  "I'll let you know."

  I fi­nis­hed my ba­gel to the so­unds of Do­rot­hea's mo­no­to­ne chat­ter, in­te­rj­ec­ting a few nods or "uh-huh's" whe­ne­ver she stop­ped tal­king long eno­ugh to wa­it for my res­pon­se. I was pre­oc­cu­pi­ed de­ba­ting whet­her or not I re­al­ly wan­ted to me­et El­li­ot to­night. At first, me­eting up had se­emed li­ke a gre­at idea. But the mo­re I tho­ught abo­ut it, the mo­re do­ubt crept in. I'd only known El­li­ot a co­up­le of days, for one. And I wasn't su­re how my mom wo­uld fe­el abo­ut the ar­ran­ge­ment, for anot­her. It was get­ting la­te, and Delp­hic was at le­ast a half-ho­ur dri­ve. Mo­re to the po­int, on we­ekends Delp­hic had a re­pu­ta­ti­on for be­ing wild.

  The pho­ne rang, and Vee's num­ber sho­wed on the cal­ler ID.

  "Are we do­ing anyt­hing to­night?" she wan­ted to know.

  I ope­ned my mo­uth, we­ig­hing my ans­wer ca­re­ful­ly. On­ce I told Vee abo­ut El­li­ot's of­fer, the­re was no tur­ning back.

  Vee shri­eked. "Oh, man! Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man. I just spil­led na­il po­lish on the so­fa. Hang on, I'm go­ing to get so­me pa­per to­wels. Is na­il po­lish wa­ter-so­lub­le?" A mo­ment la­ter she re­tur­ned. "I think I ru­ined the so­fa. We ha­ve to go out to­night. I don't want to be he­re when my la­test work of ac­ci­den­tal art is dis­co­ve­red."

  Do­rot­hea had mo­ved down the hall to the pow­der ro­om. I had no de­si­re to spend the who­le night lis­te­ning to her grunt over the bath­ro­om fix­tu­res as she cle­aned, so I ma­de my de­ci­si­on. "How abo­ut Delp­hic Se­aport? El­li­ot and Jules are go­ing. They want to me­et up."

  "You bu­ri­ed the le­ad! Vi­tal in­for­ma­ti­on he­re, No­ra. I'll pick you up in fif­te­en." I was left lis­te­ning to the di­al to­ne.

  I went ups­ta­irs and pul­led on a snug whi­te cash­me­re swe­ater, dark je­ans, and navy blue dri­ving moc­ca­sins. I sha­ped the ha­ir fra­ming my fa­ce aro­und my fin­ger, the way I'd le­ar­ned to ma­na­ge my na­tu­ral curls, and… vo­ila! Half-de­cent spi­rals. I step­ped back from the mir­ror for a twi­ce-over and cal­led myself a cross bet­we­en ca­ref­ree and al­most sexy.

  Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter to the dot, Vee bo­un­ced the Ne­on up the dri­ve­way and be­eped the horn stac­ca­to-style. It to­ok me ten mi­nu­tes to ma­ke the dri­ve bet­we­en our ho­uses, but I usu­al­ly pa­id at­ten­ti­on to the spe­ed li­mit. Vee un­ders­to­od the word spe­ed, but li­mit wasn't part of her vo­ca­bu­lary.

  "I'm go­ing to Delp­hic Se­aport with Vee," I cal­led to Do­rot­hea. "If my mom calls, wo­uld you mind re­la­ying the mes­sa­ge?"

  Do­rot­hea wad­dled out of the pow­der ro­om. "All the way to Delp­hic? This la­te?"

  "Ha­ve fun at yo­ur con­fe­ren­ce!" I sa­id, es­ca­ping out the do­or be­fo­re she co­uld pro­test or get my mom on the pho­ne.

  Vee's blond ha­ir was pul­led up in a high pony­ta­il, big fat curls spil­ling down. Gold ho­ops dang­led from her ears. Cherry red lips­tick. Black, lengt­he­ning mas­ca­ra.

  "How do you do it?" I as­ked. "You had fi­ve mi­nu­tes to get re­ady."

  "Always pre­pa­red." Vee shot me a grin. "I'm a Boy Sco­ut's dre­am."

  She ga­ve me a cri­ti­cal on­ce-over.

  "What?" I sa­id.

  "We're me­eting up with boys to­night."

  "Last I chec­ked, yes."

  "Boys li­ke girls who lo­ok li­ke… girls."

  I arc­hed my eyeb­rows. "And what do I lo­ok li­ke?"

  "Li­ke you step­ped out of the sho­wer and de­ci­ded that alo­ne was eno­ugh to pass as pre­sen­tab­le. Don't get me wrong. The clot­hes are go­od, the ha­ir is okay, but the rest… He­re." She re­ac­hed in­si­de her pur­se. "Be­ing the fri­end that I am, I'll lo­an you my lips­tick. And my mas­ca­ra, but only if you swe­ar you don't ha­ve a con­ta­gi­o­us eye di­se­ase."

  "I do not ha­ve an eye di­se­ase!"

  "Just co­ve­ring my ba­ses."

  "I'll pass."

  Vee's mo­uth drop­ped, half-play­ful, half-se­ri­o­us. "You'll fe­el na­ked wit­ho­ut it!"

  "So­unds li­ke just the kind of lo­ok you'd go for," I sa­id.

  In all ho­nesty I had mi­xed fe­elings abo­ut go­ing ma­ke­up free. Not be­ca­use I did fe­el a lit­tle bit na­ked, but be­ca­use Patch had put the no-ma­ke­up sug­ges­ti­on in my mind. In an ef­fort to ma­ke myself fe­el bet­ter, I told myself my dig­nity wasn't at sta­ke. Ne­it­her was my pri­de. I'd be­en gi­ven a sug­ges­ti­on, and I was open-min­ded eno­ugh to try it. What I didn't want to ack­now­led­ge was I'd spe­ci­fi­cal­ly cho­sen a night I knew I wo­uldn't see Patch to test it out.

  A half ho­ur la­ter Vee dro­ve un­der the ga­tes to Delp­hic Se­aport. We we­re for­ced to park at the fart­hest end of the lot, due to he­avy ope­ning-we­ekend traf­fic. Nest­led right on the co­ast, Delp­hic is not known for its mild we­at­her. A low wind had pic­ked up, swe­eping pop­corn bags and candy wrap­pers aro­und our ank­les as Vee and I wal­ked to­ward the tic­ket co­un­ter. The tre­es had long sin­ce lost the­ir le­aves, and the branc­hes lo­omed over us li­ke di­sj­o­in­ted fin­gers. Delp­hic Se­aport bo­omed all sum­mer long with an amu­se­ment park, mas­qu­era­des, for­tu­ne-tel­ling bo­oths, gypsy mu­si­ci­ans, and a fre­ak show. I co­uld ne­ver be su­re if the hu­man de­for­mi­ti­es we­re re­al or an il­lu­si­on.

  "One adult, ple­ase," I told the wo­man at the tic­ket co­un­ter. She to­ok my mo­ney and slid a wrist­band un­der the win­dow. Then she smi­led, ex­po­sing whi­te plas­tic vam­pi­re te­eth, smud­ged red with lips­tick.

  "Ha­ve a go­od ti­me," she sa­id in a bre­ath­less vo­ice. "And don't for­get to try our newly re­mo­de­led ri­de." She tap­ped her si­de of the glass, po­in­ting to a stack of park maps and a fli­er.

  I grab­bed one of each on my way thro­ugh the re­vol­ving ga­tes.

  The fli­er re­ad:

  DELPHIC AMUSEMENT PARK'S

  NEWEST SENSATION!

  THE ARCHANGEL

  REMODELED AND RENOVATED!

  FALL FROM GRACE ON THIS

  ONE-HUNDRED-FOOT VERTICAL DROP.

  Vee re­ad the fli­er over my sho­ul­der. Her na­ils thre­ate­ned to punc­tu­re the skin on my arm. "We ha­ve to do it!" she squ­e­aled.

  "Last," I pro­mi­sed, ho­ping if we did all the ot­her ri­des first, she'd for­get abo­ut this one. I hadn't be­en af­ra­id of he­ights for ye­ars, pro­bably be­ca­use I had con­ve­ni­ently avo­ided them. I wasn't su­re I was re­ady just yet to find out if ti­me had fa­ded my fe­ar of them.

  After we hit the Fer­ris whe­el, the bum­per cars, the Ma­gic Car­pet ri­de, and a few of the ga­me bo­oths, Vee and I de­ci­ded it was ti­me to lo­ok for El­li­ot and Jules.

  "Hmm," sa­id Vee, lo­oking both ways down the path lo­oping the park. We sha­red a tho­ught­ful si­len­ce.

  "The ar­ca­de," I sa­id at last.

  "Go­od call."

  We had just wal­ked thro­ugh the do­ors to the ar­ca­de when I saw him. Not El­li­ot. Not Jules.

  Patch.

  He glan­ced up from his vi­deo ga­me. The sa­me ba­se­ball cap he'd worn when I saw him du­ring PE shi­el­ded most of his fa­ce, but I was cer­ta­in I saw a flic­ker of a smi­le. At first glan­ce it ap­pe­ared fri­endly, but then I re­mem­be­red how he'd en­te­red my tho­ughts, and I went cold to the bo­ne.

  If I was lucky, Vee hadn't se­en him. I ed­ged her for­ward thro­ugh the crowd, let­ting Patch fall out of sight. The last thing I ne­eded was for her to sug­gest we go over and stri­ke up a con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  "The­re they are!" Vee sa­id, wa­ving her arm over her he­ad. "Jules! El­li­ot! Over he­re!"

  "Go­od eve­ning, la­di­es," El­li­ot sa­id, ma­king his way thro­ugh the crowd. Jules mo­ved in his wa­ke, lo­oking abo­ut as ent­hu­si­as­tic as three-day-old me­at lo­af. "Can I buy you both a Co­ke?"

  "So­unds go­od," sa­id Vee. She was lo­oking right at Jules. "I'll ta­ke a Di­et."

  Jules mut­te­red an ex­cu­se abo­ut ne­eding to use the rest­ro­om and slip­ped back in­to the crowd.

  Fi­ve mi­nu­tes la­ter El­li­ot re­tur­ned with Co­kes. Af­ter split­ting them bet­we­en us, he rub­bed his hands to­get­her and sur­ve­yed the flo­or. "Whe­re sho­uld we start?"

  "What abo­ut Jules?" Vee as­ked.

  "He'll find us."

  "Air hoc­key," I sa­id im­me­di­ately. Air hoc­key was on the ot­her si­de of the ar­ca­de. The fart­her away from Patch, the bet­ter. I told myself it was a co­in­ci­den­ce he was he­re, but my ins­tincts di­sag­re­ed.

  "Ooh, lo­ok!" Vee in­te­rj­ec­ted. "Fo­os­ball!" She was al­re­ady zig­zag­ging her way to­ward an open tab­le. "Jules and me aga­inst the two of you. Lo­sers buy piz­za."

  "Fa­ir eno­ugh," sa­id El­li­ot.

  Fo­os­ball wo­uld ha­ve be­en fi­ne, had the tab­le not be­en a short dis­tan­ce from whe­re Patch sto­od pla­ying his ga­me. I told myself to ig­no­re him. If I kept my back to him, I'd hardly no­ti­ce he was the­re. May­be Vee wo­uldn't no­ti­ce him eit­her.

  "Hey, No­ra, isn't that Patch?" Vee sa­id.

  "Hmm?" I sa­id in­no­cently.

  She po­in­ted. "Over the­re. That's him, isn't it?"

  "I do­ubt it. Are El­li­ot and I the whi­te te­am, then?"

  "Patch is No­ra's bio part­ner," Vee exp­la­ined to El­li­ot. She win­ked slyly at me but ma­de a fa­ce of in­no­cen­ce the mo­ment El­li­ot ga­ve her his at­ten­ti­on. I sho­ok my he­ad subtly but firmly at her, trans­mit­ting a si­lent mes­sa­ge-stop.

  "He ke­eps lo­oking this way," Vee sa­id in a lo­we­red vo­ice. She le­aned ac­ross the fo­os­ball tab­le, at­temp­ting to ma­ke her con­ver­sa­ti­on with me ap­pe­ar pri­va­te, but she whis­pe­red lo­ud eno­ugh that El­li­ot had no cho­ice but to over­he­ar. "He's bo­und to won­der what you're do­ing he­re with-" She bob­bed her he­ad at El­li­ot.

  I shut my eyes and en­vi­si­oned ban­ging my he­ad aga­inst the wall.

  "Patch has ma­de it very cle­ar he'd li­ke to be mo­re than bi­ology part­ners with No­ra," Vee con­ti­nu­ed. "Not that an­yo­ne can bla­me him."

  "That so?" sa­id El­li­ot, eye­ing me with a lo­ok that sa­id he wasn't surp­ri­sed. He'd sus­pec­ted it all along. I no­ti­ced he to­ok a step clo­ser.

  Vee shot me a tri­ump­hant smi­le. Thank me la­ter, it sa­id.

  "It's not li­ke that," I cor­rec­ted. "It's-"

  "Twi­ce as bad," Vee sa­id. "No­ra sus­pects he's stal­king her. The po­li­ce are on the brink of be­co­ming in­vol­ved."

  "Sho­uld we play?" I sa­id lo­udly. I drop­ped the fo­os­ball in the cen­ter of the tab­le. No­body no­ti­ced.

  "Do you want me to talk to him?" El­li­ot as­ked me. "I'll exp­la­in we're not lo­oking for tro­ub­le. I'll tell him you're he­re with me, and if he's got a prob­lem, he can dis­cuss it with me."

  This was not the di­rec­ti­on I wan­ted the con­ver­sa­ti­on to go. At all. "What hap­pe­ned to Jules?" I sa­id. "He's be­en go­ne for a whi­le."

  "Ye­ah, may­be he fell in the to­ilet," sa­id Vee.

  Let me talk to Patch," El­li­ot sa­id.

  Whi­le I ap­pre­ci­ated the con­cern, I did not li­ke the idea of El­li­ot go­ing he­ad-to-he­ad with Patch. Patch was an X fac­tor: in­tan­gib­le, scary, and unk­nown. Who knew what he was ca­pab­le of? El­li­ot was far too ni­ce to be sent up aga­inst Patch.

  "He do­esn't sca­re me," El­li­ot sa­id, as if to disp­ro­ve my tho­ughts.

  Obvi­o­usly this was so­met­hing El­li­ot and I di­sag­re­ed on.

  "Bad idea," I sa­id.

  "Gre­at idea," Vee sa­id. "Other­wi­se, Patch might get… vi­olent. Re­mem­ber last ti­me?"

  Last ti­me?! I mo­ut­hed at her.

  I had no idea why Vee was do­ing this, ot­her than that she had a penc­hant for ma­king everyt­hing as dra­ma­tic as pos­sib­le. Her idea of dra­ma was my idea of mor­bid hu­mi­li­ati­on.

  "No of­fen­se, but this guy so­unds li­ke a cre­ep," sa­id El­li­ot. "Gi­ve me two mi­nu­tes with him." He star­ted to walk over.

  "No!" I sa­id, yan­king on his sle­eve to stop him. "He, uh, might get vi­olent aga­in. Let me hand­le this." I nar­ro­wed a lo­ok at Vee.

  "You su­re?" El­li­ot sa­id. "I'm mo­re than happy to do it."

  "I think it's best co­ming from me."

  I wi­ped my palms on my je­ans, and af­ter ta­king a mostly ste­ady bre­ath, I star­ted clo­sing the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en me and Patch, which was only the width of a few ga­me con­so­les. I had no idea what I was go­ing to say when I re­ac­hed him. Ho­pe­ful­ly just a bri­ef hel­lo. Then I co­uld go back and re­as­su­re El­li­ot and Vee that everyt­hing was un­der cont­rol.

  Patch was dres­sed in the usu­al: black shirt, black je­ans, and a thin sil­ver neck­la­ce that flas­hed aga­inst his dark comp­le­xi­on. His sle­eves we­re pus­hed up his fo­re­arms, and I co­uld see his musc­les wor­king as he punc­hed but­tons. He was tall and le­an and hard, and I wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en surp­ri­sed if un­der his clot­hes he bo­re se­ve­ral scars, so­uve­nirs from stre­et fights and ot­her reck­less be­ha­vi­or. Not that I wan­ted a lo­ok un­der his clot­hes.

  When I got to Patch's con­so­le, I tap­ped a hand aga­inst the si­de of it to get his at­ten­ti­on. In the cal­mest vo­ice I co­uld ma­na­ge, I sa­id, "Pac-Man? Or is it Don­key Kong?" In truth, it lo­oked a lit­tle mo­re vi­olent and mi­li­tary.

  A slow grin spre­ad over his fa­ce. "Ba­se­ball. Think may­be you co­uld stand be­hind me and gi­ve me a few po­in­ters?"

  Fi­re­bombs erup­ted on the scre­en, and scre­aming bo­di­es sa­iled thro­ugh the air. Ob­vi­o­usly not ba­se­ball.

  "What's his na­me?" Patch as­ked, di­rec­ting an al­most im­per­cep­tib­le nod at the fo­os­ball tab­le.

  "Elli­ot. Lis­ten, I ha­ve to ke­ep this short. They're wa­iting."

  "Ha­ve I se­en him be­fo­re?"

  "He's new. Just trans­fer­red."

  "First we­ek at scho­ol and he's al­re­ady ma­de fri­ends. Lucky guy." He slid me a lo­ok. "Co­uld ha­ve a dark and dan­ge­ro­us si­de we know not­hing abo­ut."

  "Se­ems to be my spe­ci­alty."

  I wa­ited for him to catch my me­aning, but he only sa­id, "Up for a ga­me?" He til­ted his he­ad to­ward the back of the ar­ca­de. Thro­ugh the crowd I co­uld just ma­ke out po­ol tab­les.

  "No­ra!" Vee cal­led out. "Get over he­re. El­li­ot is cram­ming de­fe­at down my thro­at!"

  "Can't," I told Patch.

  "If I win," he sa­id, as if he had no in­ten­ti­on of be­ing re­fu­sed, "you'll tell El­li­ot so­met­hing ca­me up. You'll tell him you're no lon­ger free to­night."

  I co­uldn't help it; he was way too ar­ro­gant. I sa­id, "And if / win?"

  His eyes skim­med me, he­ad to toe. "I don't think we ha­ve to worry."

  Be­fo­re I co­uld stop myself, I punc­hed his arm.

  "Ca­re­ful," he sa­id in a low vo­ice. "They might think we're flir­ting."

  I felt li­ke kic­king myself, be­ca­use that's exactly what we we­re do­ing. But it wasn't my fa­ult-it was Patch's. In clo­se con­tact with him, I ex­pe­ri­en­ced a con­fu­sing po­la­rity of de­si­res. Part of me wan­ted to run away from him scre­aming, Fi­re! A mo­re reck­less part was temp­ted to see how clo­se I co­uld get wit­ho­ut… com­bus­ting.

  "One ga­me of po­ol," he temp­ted.

  "I'm he­re with so­me­one el­se."

  "He­ad to­ward the po­ol tab­les. I'll ta­ke ca­re of it."

  I cros­sed my arms, ho­ping to lo­ok stern and a lit­tle exas­pe­ra­ted, but at the sa­me ti­me, I had to bi­te my lip to ke­ep from sho­wing a slightly mo­re po­si­ti­ve re­ac­ti­on. "What are you go­ing to do? Fight El­li­ot?"

  "If it co­mes to that."

  I was al­most su­re he was joking. Al­most.

  "A po­ol tab­le just ope­ned up. Go cla­im it." /… da­re… you.

  I stif­fe­ned. "How did you do that?"

  When he didn't im­me­di­ately deny it, I felt a squ­e­eze of pa­nic. It was re­al. He knew exactly what he was do­ing. The palms of my hands to­uc­hed with swe­at.

  "How did you do that?" I re­pe­ated.

  He ga­ve me a sly smi­le. "Do what?"

  "Don't," I war­ned. "Don't pre­tend you're not do­ing it."

  He le­aned a sho­ul­der aga­inst the con­so­le and ga­zed down at me. "Tell me what I'm sup­po­sed to be do­ing."

  "My… tho­ughts."