“Yeah, that’s what Penn said.” I take my history textbook out of my locker and shove it into my backpack, and when I look up, I catch Jake’s gaze from across the hall.

He looks away immediately.

“Thanks for saving me from myself,” I tell Amira as I close my locker.

I’ve missed her, and it’s not like there were a bunch of people waiting to step into her place when she and I drifted apart. My friendship bench is not deep. These days, thanks to my dad, I basically have Jake and Penn.

Wait, no. Just Penn.

“I … um. I know we haven’t hung out in a while.” I clear my throat and stare at the front of my locker. “But if you wanna come over later, we could make spicy pretzels and study for midterms, like we used to.”

“Yeah.” Her smile relieves a tension that seems to have my entire body in its grip. “I’ll bring the pretzels.”

“Great.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jake start to move down the hall. “I’ll text you. Sorry, I gotta go …”

Then I fast-walk after Jake, hoping that’s at least a little more subtle than actually chasing him.

“Do not run away from me,” I snap when I get close enough.

Jake sighs and turns around. “I was just trying to avoid a scene.”

“A scene?” I tug him into an empty classroom and pull the door shut. “You mean like reporters calling your house all night? Strangers calling you names on Twitter? The whole world thinking you gave birth in the girls’ locker room and left your dead baby in a duffel bag?”

“I’m sorry about all that. But none of it has anything to do with me.”

“So you’re not the Crimson Cryer?”

“No!” And to his credit, he truly looks shocked by my accusation. “Why the hell would I do that? Everyone who thinks you’re the mom thinks I’m the dad! I’m getting the same weird looks you are.”

Maybe. But he isn’t getting the calls, and the threats, and the national media onslaught. This is nowhere near as bad for him as it is for me.

“Jake, no one else knows I took that picture.”

He frowns. “What does the picture have to—?” Understanding dawns, and his mouth snaps shut.

“You didn’t recognize it?”

“I only saw it that once,” he says. “I knew the one on Twitter was similar, but the police could have taken a hundred shots just like it, and without anything to compare it to …” He shrugs. “But I swear it wasn’t me.”

Maybe I shouldn’t believe him, but I do.

“The police never came for that DNA sample.” He’s whispering, even though we’re alone in this classroom, because that could change any second. It will change, once the first bell rings.