“I’m glad you’re in the world.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he smiles at that before leading me down the bleacher steps and onward to the industrial arts building, which, true to his word, is about as far from the ball field as you can get and still be on campus.

He stops in front of the main doorway into the building, which is completely dark. It takes a moment to find the nearest light, which illuminates only the worktable nearest the entry. Beyond us, a room full of welding equipment and band saws disappears into the shadows.

We can’t find any more switches, so we’re left in the semidarkness to try and find the supply closet. We’re almost tiptoeing—we’re not doing anything wrong, but there’s something about the shadowiness surrounding us that makes us both nervous. I can’t help it, and start giggling; so does he. “We’re the fog creeping in on little cat feet,” he whispers. Apparently, Ms. Silverthorn has been teaching that poem forever.

We can’t open the first door, but the second one seems to be unlocked. There’s even less light once we’re inside, and we have to feel the walls for a switch. I think, now we’re both in the closet, which makes me giggle more, and soon we’re both dying of laughter while still in the dark.

Maybe not being able to see me is what lets him speak directly. “You don’t have a girlfriend, do you?”

“No.” I stop trying to find a light. I hesitate. “But you do.”

“Yeah …” He lets out a sigh so full I can picture it as plumes of smoke curling into the air. “I really like Tawny.” I don’t think he’s trying to convince me.

“Cool.”

“Yeah?” We’ve both stopped looking for a light. “So why’d you send that note?”

Wow. He’s really going for it.

“Because it’s true. Your eyes are flawless. And …” Where do I take this? “I’m far away from home, and I miss my boyfriend, and I was hoping I wasn’t alone, and I guess I was wrong.”

Good thing it’s dark, or he’d see that my eyes are brimming. Cheng. Why did I have to think of him right now? His strong arms. His calm when I’m flying off over the latest thing. His kiss. The matter-of-factness of us. How long will it be before I know what it is to be me again? Oh my god, I’m halfway to a good cry.

Poor Chaz. He so wasn’t expecting me to do an emotional dump. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re not the only one who … who thought that about me. I guess people just see me that way …” There is a pause, a silence that sounds like a struggle. “Sometimes … I—”

He can’t go on.