“The interview. The parent-teacher thing. It’s been written on the fridge for weeks. At eight. I have to get my ass reamed out by the science teacher, and you’re supposed to be there for it. You and Mom said you were gonna go? And now she’s been called in to work and you have to do it solo.”

The air seemed to be thinning. “I can’t do it,” I said.

Paul did a combination rolling-of-the-eyes, sigh, and shoulder-rolling-head-slumping thing which, if it were an Olympic gymnastic move, would have earned him a 9.9. “You have to go. If you don’t show up for this, I’m dead. Ms. Wilton will kill me. She wants me dead already. She hates me. Maybe if she gets a chance to talk to you, she’ll let up on me a bit. You could tell her to stop giving me a hard time.”

“Maybe you need people giving you a hard time.”

Another eye-roll. “We have to be there in less than ten minutes.”

“Where are your friends?”

“They took off. We’re going to get together later at Andy’s house.”

“You don’t have any homework?”

“Nothing.”

“No science homework?”

“Look, are we going to go or what?”

I swallowed. “I’ll meet you at the front door in two minutes.” Paul vanished and I turned back to the computer. I was about to close the mail program, when the computer beeped.

“You have mail,” it said.

Shit. Was this guy sitting by his computer? The number guy from Hotmail was back. I opened the message. It read:

“Don’t jerk me around, asshole. There can’t be that many Z. Walkers in the phone book.”

And that was it.

“I’m ready!” Paul shouted from the front door. “Let’s roll!” I closed the letter, exited the mail program, and turned off the computer before grabbing my jacket and my cell. I flew past Paul on the way to the car, and he pulled the front door shut.

On the short drive over to the school, Paul said, “What’s with you tonight, anyway?”

“I’m okay. I just have some things on my mind.”

“You just seem, I don’t know, weird.”

“Really, I’m fine. Let’s worry about you and Ms. Winslow.”

“Wilton.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s Ms. Wilton. Not Ms. Winslow. That’ll make a really good impression, Dad, going in and calling her by the wrong name. Like I’m not in enough shit already.”

We said nothing else to each other. The school parking lot was nearly full, and many other parents were walking into the building, some accompanied by their teenage children, some not. But they all assumed a kind of condemned-prisoner gait.