The next day in the middle of class, my name wafted through the loudspeaker. I was to report to the school counselor’s office. My first thought was that they’d found out I was the graffiti artist and now I might be in trouble. A follow-up article had been done in which they’d mentioned just how illegal it was to paint over a national road. And then another thought hit me, worse than the first—that something bad had happened to Zac. I stood up and rushed out, twenty pairs of eyes staring at me. I walked up to the counselor’s door and knocked nervously.

“Come in,” a male voice returned.

I pushed the door open and stared at the man behind the desk. I hoped my face didn’t betray what I was thinking—I was thinking a lot. He was standing behind the desk, bleached-blond hair, bright-orange tan, and teeth a new shade of white: uber-hyperwhite. He was also wearing an offensively bright Hawaiian T-shirt and was lifting weights.

“Twelve, thirteen,” he counted as the weights moved up and down. “Take a seat. Pull up a chair. Just finishing my reps . . . fourteen, fifteen . . .”

I sat down and watched him as he pumped the weights, hard.

“Twenty!” he declared finally. He walked over to the water dispenser in the corner and turned to me. “H2O?”

“Huh?” It took me a second. “Oh. Water. Right. No. Thanks.”

“Cool beans.” He poured himself a cup and then strode back to the desk. Who said cool beans?

He sat loudly, collapsing into his chair. He downed the water, scrunched up the plastic cup and then, as if rehearsed, as if he was trying to show off, he tossed it over his shoulder where it fell into the trash can. He looked so pleased with himself I almost expected him to jump up and say “Booya!” But he didn’t. Thank goodness for small mercies.

He crossed his leg and a big, orange calf muscle bulged. I guess in some circles, some women might find this kind of thing attractive. I tried not to stare, but his shorts were so short that I was sure I could see up them. They were the kind that a ball—or two—might pop out of. And suddenly, I found myself wondering if his balls were as orange as his legs.

“So, Lori Palmer.” He placed his hand on the desk in front of us. “I’m Xander Brown.”

Xander Orange was more like it. “Nice to meet you,” I said and looked down at his fingers, which he was now tapping against the desk. I blinked a few times when I noticed the unusual negative space on the table.