“Hey, there,” calls a deep voice all buttery and smooth, like I am hanging out at a bar and not only sixteen. It sounds vaguely familiar, a variation of somebody’s voice I already know but can’t place.

  “What’s your problem?” I yell, trying to swallow the knot in my throat.

  There is a pause, and then, “I don’t have a problem, unless you count the fact that you’re out there, and I’m in here.”

  Gross.

  Laughter spills out of the car. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

  The tinted window rolls down just enough for me to hear another voice coming through the crack. “You want a ride?”

  “Grow up,” I say, turning up the Blackburns’ driveway. Wanting to run but not wanting these losers to think I’m scared of them. So I continue slowly up the driveway with my head down, my eyes trained on my feet.

  “Tell your friend I say hi,” a girl’s voice calls out to me.

  That voice. I whirl around to find Liv Sandstrom’s head poking out of the front passenger window, her hair flying wildly around her. I gawk at her, stunned, wondering who else is in the car with her. Which of the lucky ones’ voices I heard before hers . . .

  I take a step toward them, and Liv laughs. She sinks back through the window as the car jerks forward, taking her and the rest of my tormentors away. Two empty cans fly out of the back window and land at my feet with a clank. My gaze drops to the dented cans while I try to stop the anger from swelling up inside me. Not just anger—confusion. What does Liv have against Cale? What do all of them have against Cale?

  At the front door, I ring the doorbell, forcing myself not to dwell on what just happened. A big smile with a bigger voice under a mop of bright red hair greets me, yelling, “Cale! Kenzie’s here!” before running down the hall and leaving me agape at a dark, empty hall.

  Who is that kid and how does he know me? My mouth hangs open at his whirlwind of an exit while I wait for someone to come around the corner or bound down the stairs to tell me where to go.

  But it looks like I’m on my own here.

  As I step through the entrance, a flash of light encroaches on my vision, and now I’m staring at the same small face with the same mop of red hair, only a little bit younger. He runs up to me and hugs my torso, then stares up at me with a gap-toothed smile. I reach down to lift him up, but the memory fades before I do, and I’m standing in the foyer of Cale’s house, the same house I’ve been to dozens of times since freshman year.

  “Hello?” I call out, closing the door behind me.

  Music from a TV spills down a hallway as I pace further along the floor toward the kitchen, where I can make out some kind of commotion going on in there.

  I look around. “Cale?” The kitchen is smaller than mine, but still on par with the rest of the house—white cabinets, shiny black granite and sleek stainless steel. This is how I remember it. The backside of Cale’s tall, athletic torso stands in front of a huge square window at the sink, doing dishes. A white towel is draped over his shoulder as if he were someone much more important than just Cale. He’s also in the middle of busting a move to whatever tune blasts through his earbuds.

  I never knew he was so smooth.

  Watching him lifts my mood, and I inch forward, careful to stay hidden behind his bobbing, twisting head so he can’t see me. When he’s only a foot away from me, I reach out to tap him on the back, but before I make contact, he spins around and yells, “Hola!” right in my face.

  To call the noise I make a scream is putting it lightly. As in, calling an explosion a burst or an earthquake a shiver. Cale’s eyes shift from playful to scared for his life as my instincts kick in before my brain has a chance to register that I am really not about to die. My fist shoots straight into Cale’s face, but he ducks just in time, catching hold of my hand and twisting me around in front of him.

  “Suck it!” I yell, punching him in the chest with my other hand.

  He lets go of me, laughing. “Did you just yell ‘suck it’? In your big moment of crisis, that’s the best you can come up with?” He pulls the towel off his shoulder and snaps it at me, as if fending off a charging bull. “Ouch. You have such a potty mouth. Shall we wash it out with soap?” He swipes a slimy bottle of green liquid soap off the counter and pretends to pour it over my head.

  “Watch it.” I grab the bottle from him and toss it into the sink. “How’d you know I was behind you, anyway? Are you a ninja in training or something?”

  “I saw your reflection in the window. At first I thought I was about to get knifed until I realized how short and cute my killer was.”

  “Har. Har. By the way, you need to give that kid—your brother, I mean—a few lessons on safety . . . and etiquette. For all you know, I could’ve been a murderer.”

  “A cute one, remember?”

  “Shut it.” I snatch the towel off his shoulder and smack him with it in the chest. He spins me around, trying to wrestle it away from me. I scream, refusing to give in. The harder he pulls, the tighter I hold on. Finally we’re at an impasse.

  “Uncle?” I offer, unable to twist out of the headlock I’m in.

  “Uncle-what?”

  “Uncle. As in, I give up.”

  He releases me, and I fall to the floor. “Quitter.”

  I rub my hip. “Smooth.”

  He cocks his head sideways and gives me a lopsided smile. A light spattering of freckles skip across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his hair gelled and sticking up, making him appear mischievous, like a little kid who can’t be trusted. What is it about freckles that instantly bring to mind trouble?

  I have to admit he looks pretty cute there in his kitchen, surrounded by fruit and flowers and without the usual ski cap on his head, his regular low-key style replaced by some fancy Pac Sun ensemble.

  “Cool hair, by the way,” I say, patting the top of his coiffed ’do with my hand. He darts away from me like I’m going to ruin it or something. “What’s up with the fancy hairdo?”

  “Just keeping it real.”

  I look at him funny, wondering what he’s talking about.

  “Mom. Dad. Clients. Dinner party. You know the drill,” he adds, a dignified look on his face.

  No, I don’t. In this life, my parents never seem to eat dinner, much less turn it into a party.

  “Okay, you ready to talk art?” I say. “Get this thing over with?”

  Cale looks all serious again as he heads for a door at the back of the kitchen, grabbing a set of keys off the counter along the way. “Don’t just stand there. Let’s go,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “Where?”

  “I want to show you something,” he says, opening what appears to be the garage door for me.

  “What?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  I tag him in the shoulder. “A secret? What kind of secret?”

  “You have to wait and see.”

  “Can you at least give me a hint?”

  He thinks for a minute and cracks a smile. “We’re going on a field trip.”

  “We are? Where to?”

  “Surprise, remember?” he says, standing beside a black Mercedes G box, opening the door for me.

  “Whoa—is this your car?” I ask, sliding inside, surprised I’d never seen him driving it.

  “Um. You know it’s my car.”

  Oops. Stuff I’m already supposed to know. “You should drive it to school. It’s so sweet.”

  “I prefer my bike.”

  “Oh,” I say, wondering what kind of rich person he is.

  Not a very good one.

  We drive down the hill and past the school, into town. At the next light he veers right, cutting across a big, half-empty parking lot. I size up the next street, trying to guess which building he’s headed for. Other than the liquor store and butcher shop, nothing stands out. Call me crazy, but I kind of figure we’re not stopping for meat or booze.

  “An art field trip, huh? What does that even entail?” I ask, still trying to guess what he’s up to.

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  “Will it magically produce an art project for us by Friday? That’d be sweet.”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  He parks in an empty parking lot, and I exit the car after him, wondering if I should have brought my pepper spray. I hold my breath as we scoot past a dumpster and stop in front of a black metal door in the back of a brick building.

  Cale fumbles through his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys. He swipes a small blue fob against the metal handle and pushes the door inward.

  “Where are we?” I whisper, afraid to alert any drug dealers of our arrival. He motions for me to go first. What a gentleman.

  I step into a dark, narrow hallway, expecting to be ambushed any moment. “What is this place?”

  “Can’t you tell yet? Smell.”

  I sniff, catching the whiff of something potent—but in a good way. It reminds me of . . . books. New books. “A bookstore?” “Nope.”

  Cale enters behind me, pulling the door closed after him. As he reaches around me, searching for the light switch, his body presses up against mine, crushing me with his “Cale”

  scent. He is so close, so overwhelming. I hold my breath as he steps around me and flips on the lights. And I breathe again.

  The hallway empties into a large brick room filled with drafting tables, computer screens, metal cabinets, wooden drawers stuffed with paper, desks covered with ink bottles, colored pens, old-fashioned woodblocks, and trays filled with glass tiles.

  “What is this place?” I ask, zigzagging through the maze of creativity.

  “My dad’s studio,” he says, sliding past me and stopping in front of a large metal table. A hinged wooden square with a window screen stretched tight across the opening lay on top of table, and behind that, a big bin holding a pile of T-shirts.

  I reach into the bin and pull one out, holding it up in front of me. White and red letters cover the front of a black T-shirt, only part of the phrase readable: DANGER! POLICEMAN WAS CHASE. RUN A . . . The other half of the phrase dissolves into a splotch of gray. And then that’s it.

  I look up at Cale. “What’s this?”

  “Just a mess-up,” he says, grabbing the shirt from me and tossing it back into the bin.

  “You mean—you make these?” I ask. “The funny T-shirts you wear every day—they’re your creation?”

  He nods, looking a little embarrassed and turning away from me.

  “Wow. Freaking wow, Cale.” I can just imagine him in here late at night, all tired and serious, shirt off . . . sweaty from the heat of the lights, specks of paint dappling his skin—

  “It’s just a thing I do,” he adds.

  “So, is there a story to your T-shirts? I mean, it’s like every time you show up I spend half the day trying to decipher another inside joke.”

  He laughs. “I don’t know. I guess I got the idea in Japan last year. Sort of a ‘lost in translation’ thing.”

  Japan. He’s been to Japan.

  I’ve been to Nevada. And Oregon.

  Oregon’s cool.

  “But that’s just me messing around. Look at this,” he says, lifting a sheet of black poster board and handing it to me.

  It’s a bunch of triangles and squares that look like they’re twisting in motion, all circling inward toward a lone red triangle at the bottom corner of the page.

  “You did this too?” I ask, rubbing my hand across the image, barely detecting a miniscule layer of ink sitting atop the paper.

  Cale nods, offering up a flattened smile. “It’s a rough version. I got the idea from the album cover you showed me.”

  “Wait. This is rough?” I ask, feeling like more and more of an art slacker the longer I stand here beside him. “You could turn this in as is, you know.”

  “I know, but it’s our project, hello? Not just mine.”

  “Yeah, but this is so good, Cale. Like, way better than anything I could ever come up with. Why’d you pair up with me, anyway?”

  “Whatever, Love. Cry me a river—I’m not letting you get off with doing nothing. What would Mr. Tabish think about that?” he says, blinking his eyes at me and poking me with his finger like I’m in trouble.

  “I’m so holding you back, though. Who’s the genius that put us together, anyway?”

  “Shut up already. And stop being such a whiner.” He touches my shoulder, sending chills up my neck.

  I push him away, wondering where that chill came from. His face falls briefly, his shoulders a little more slumped than before. He looks so breakable staring at me like that . . . the first time I’ve ever seen him so raw. So vulnerable.

  Cale is usually so strong. So fearless and resilient.

  I feel the urge to rush back to him. To do something drastic and impulsive and daring to bring the cool and casual Cale back to the surface. Anything to shatter this strange tension I feel teetering between us.

  Instead I cough and spin around the room, ignoring him altogether. “You have a dock?” I ask, trying to avoid thinking about it. About him. “I need a beat if we’re going to crank this out tonight.

  “That’s the spirit,” he says, pulling down a speaker dock from the shelf as I hand him my phone.

  He’s back. Smile and all.

  When we finish two hours later, I’m covered in ink—mostly black and red. Cale has noticeably less ink on him. While the poster dries I step back to admire our work. Cale grabs a stepstool and pulls me up with him, where together we check out our completed project from atop the stool. I’m taken aback by it—a bunch of abstract shapes, all of which appear to be in motion, all gray or white except for two red squares twisting into a funnel at the bottom of the paper. That’s where my eyes fall . . . on the red squares. “It looks different from up here,” I say, in awe of this sick piece of artwork I had a hand in.

  I jump off the stool to view it at ground level and then climb back up again next to Cale, grabbing onto his shoulders for support. Trying not to notice the way tingles are shooting through me.

  “See—it’s constantly changing, depending on where you’re standing when you look at it,” I say.

  He turns around and high fives me. His face is right beside mine. “Nice work, Love,” he says, his hand lingering over mine. “See? You’re not a total failure.”

  “Thanks.” I smile, feeling pretty snug.

  Feeling like I could stay in this spot all night.

  eleven

  I’m under the impression that a typical mile run in PE mostly involves Brecke trying to keep up with me, and me forcing myself to slow down. In my previous life, I always kept to myself in order to get through the mile quickly . . . because that’s the whole point of the exercise, right? To get it over with as fast as possible?

  In this life, however, it appears that putting sociality ahead of rationality is the norm. And I haven’t figured out a way to ditch my so-called best friend without looking like a jerk yet, so here I am.

  The track weaves around the trees, paralleling the creek for a stretch before looping around the parking lot and back up to the field. Three laps is a mile; it usually takes me two minutes to complete a lap by myself, but with Brecke at my side, it’s closer to three minutes because apparently she likes to walk most of the way.

  Redwoods tower above us as we run/walk, their thick, cinnamon-colored trunks lining the track like spectators cheering us on. A low fog still clings to the trees and drips into the ground, magnifying the earthy scent of pine needles and eucalyptus leaves littering the ground.

  We finish our second lap, when Brecke starts walking again. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, the front half of it loose and hanging in her face. I stop and wait for her, drilling her for information when she reaches me. I mean, if we aren’t going to make decent time out here today, I might as well try and get something else out of this exercise.

  “James has been acting weird ever since lunch yesterday,” I say when she reaches me. “Do you have any idea why?”

  “Nope.” she answers abruptly while staring straight ahead—almost apathetic.

  “He never even showed up at my locker this morning. I think he thinks something’s going on between Cale and me.”

  She lets out an exaggerated laugh and throws her arm out on her hip. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s finally catching up to you, that’s all,” she says, still trying to catch her breath from her so-called “run.” “I told you James would lose it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You and Cale.”

  I force a laugh for show, although my stomach is all knotted up at her accusation because I’m starting to worry that maybe everybody has a point. “Me and Cale?” I say. “There is no me and Cale.”

  “Kenzie, knock it off. You guys have been dancing around each other since August. I’m surprised James didn’t figure it out sooner.”

  I have to convince her—me—that she’s wrong about this Cale business. “It’s just how we are with each other, Brecke. He makes jokes a lot and I . . . I . . . ”

  She cuts me off. “I saw you two at the Pumpkin Ball. You know I saw you.”

  Wait a second. “What do you mean saw us? Saw us doing what? Talking? Dancing? Laughing? Seriously, Brecke, you guys all hate him for no reason. Why did you even invite him at all if he was so repulsive to you?”

  “You know I didn’t have a choice. You think my dad’s boss would let that fly?”

  “Huh?” I say, trying to put two and two together. And then in a blink I understand, as if I’d always known: Brecke’s dad’s boss is Mr. Blackburn—Cale’s dad.

  Oh.

  Which explains why Cale didn’t necessarily want to be there, either.

  After that, the memory comes without warning. I am there . . . inside my own memory . . . as we walk side by side, climbing over the rope when nobody is looking. Ducking down the dark hallway leading to the piano room.