Relief spreads through my veins.

I give him the thumbs-up.

As we’re about to break for lunch, Kiera swivels around to grab a pencil she dropped.

I clear my throat before coughing into my elbow. I’ve studied her all morning, looking for some kind of difference in her attitude, but the only difference I find is the new lavender beads she added to the ends of her braids. Maybe she hasn’t even read the paper yet today.

She reaches into the front zipper of her backpack and hands me a cherry cough drop. “Here,” she says.

I take the wax wrapper off. “Thanks.” I grin, a little taken aback by her show of goodwill. “Tastes good too.”

“Anything to stop you from coughing down my neck and clearing the snot out of your throat. You’re not contagious, are you?”

I shrink back a bit. “It’s just allergies.”

She nods. “I’m sorry,” she finally says. “That stinks.”

I shove the wrapper in the pocket of my shorts. “Thanks again.”

She turns back around without another word and heads off to lunch.

Did . . . Was . . . she . . . I think Kiera Bryant was just nice to me? Maybe a little?

Is this real life?

Chapter Nineteen

Risky Business

After school, I’m not quite ready to go home. It’s not that Mom’s home or anything like that, but my brain is just buzzing. All I can think about is how my letter—something I wrote all on my own—ran in the Valentine Gazette. And when I’m not thinking about that, my brain is in one giant tangle over Kiera.

I take the bus home with Oscar and walk with him to his house.

“You swear you’re not mad at me?” I ask again.

He puffs out a sigh. “I’m not mad, but you know if something’s going on, you can just tell me.”

I hate keeping secrets from Oscar, but for whatever reason, it’s impossible for me not to follow Miss Flora Mae’s rules. Maybe it’s because her advice column is so good, or maybe she really is a vampire and I’m scared of her. But either way, she doesn’t want anyone knowing her business. Not even Oscar.

“I know,” I say too brightly. “Nothing to report.”

With his parents at work, Oscar’s house from the hours of three p.m. to five p.m. is a lawless place where anything goes. That probably sounds fun, but when you’re the youngest kids in the house, there might as well be a target on your back.

Oscar’s middle brother, Jorge, sits on the porch with two of his friends, cracking jokes. “Hey, Sweet Peaches!” he calls.

I roll my eyes. “You know my name,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “Whatever.” I’d be offended, except that this is almost an inside joke between us at this point, and one time at Green’s Grocers last year, Jorge told off an older boy who called me a roly-poly.