“Gee,” she says, “a pun. I came to your rescue because I like Cassie.” She glares at me. “You didn’t fall off your ATV a few days ago—Snyder and his gang caught up with you. Is that what you do in your spare time, go looking for fights?”

I zip my lip. Better that Tully thinks Snyder is responsible than have her guessing the truth. I squeeze Cassie’s arm so she’ll keep her mouth shut.

Tully’s gaze hardens. “No,” she says, “you wouldn’t pick a fight with someone bigger than you. So it must be d-r-u-g-s ... we don’t want Cassie knowing what you’re up to, do we? Did you double-cross them? They don’t like it when kids knuckle in on their profits.”

I hate being labeled a druggie. Especially by Tully Langille. But if it ever got out about Floyd—he’d kill me and ask questions afterward. My lip stays zipped.

“Funny,” she says, “I’d have thought you were too smart to go the crack route.”

“You spend a lot of time trying to figure me out?”

She flushes. “Why didn’t you run the other way when you saw them near your ATV? Instead, you put Cassie in danger.”

“Hindsight’s twenty-twenty—gee, a cliché.”

As Cassie gives a little hiccup, Tully’s face softens. “Those guys aren’t worth a single tear, Cassie,” she says. “Take it from me.”

She’s wearing cutoffs, her legs smoothly muscled. Words force their way out.

“Be careful, Tully. Snyder doesn’t like girls.” I don’t want to say rape in front of Cassie, which is what he’s supposed to have done to Charlene Gottrich last fall, only she wouldn’t press charges.

“Huh,” Tully says, turns in a tight circle, pulls a wheelie, and peddles away.

*

BY NOW, you should have solved the following equation:

biceps, quads, and abs worth zilch + lousy hockey player + no expensive toys, therefore no Facebook, texting, Twittering, surfing, or handheld movies + can’t bring anyone home + surrogate parent for a four-year-old who carries a stuffed skunk wherever she goes + wouldn’t spend money on a girl even given the opportunity, such opportunity being as likely to occur as a monsoon in the Gobi Desert + bully + alleged drug-user = no girlfriend.

Sure I’m pissed off with Tully. But underneath the anger is hurt, and for some reason this makes me even angrier. So why did I bother with the stupid equation? It’s not as though I want Tully Langille for my girlfriend; all the girls her age in Hilchey Bay outgrew wheelies years ago.

Something else. The thought of turning into Floyd gives me the creeps. But if Lorne Meisner was standing in front of me right now, would I be able to stop myself?

5.4 [hurt and humiliation]