Wes Markham and I were never alone again. I didn’t want it that way; in fact, after Frankie’s announcement, I conjured up a very Frankie-esque fantasy about me and Markham in the newfangled space shuttle, using it to zip from moon to planet to asteroid, never having to confront another member of our own species except for each other—and with each other we would be entirely happy. Two days after our second encounter in the practice room, I was walking along the outside of the school, heading for driver’s ed, when Markham leaped from between two portable buildings with his arm out like a lance. His fist, bony and solid, drove straight into my upper arm hard enough to fold one of my legs and knock me down onto the sidewalk. My forehead burned against the cement. I heard clapping and a small eruption of laughter. “Shit, Markham,” Seth Colby said, “you’re crazy.” Colby and Markham were with someone else, a boy with long hair who looked just as shocked and amused as Colby and who grinned down at me and blew me a kiss. Then the longhaired boy and Colby were gone. Markham was retreating, too, his hand still drawn into a fist and his eyes conveying a message that would have been crystal clear from a thousand light-years away.

I could raise my left arm—but slowly, painfully, and not without its trembling in its socket. I didn’t go to driver’s ed, but walked instead to the boys room off the main commons, where I sat in a stall and cried, angry at myself for not getting hard, that last time (though I realized now it was only because he’d terrified me); for being so pathetic; for having such a stupid family; for crying. When I left the bathroom, I headed straight for the bike racks at the front of the school, unlocked my bicycle using only one hand, and pedaled off with my left arm hanging loose at my side. I didn’t want to go home, so I rode north for a while, then west, toward Tropical Trail. I told myself I didn’t know where I was going, though I did; I just wasn’t sure if I could find it.