"Morning."

"I don't know how your accuracy is so high on that tiny screen."

Adam shrugs. "I miss my flat-screen from home sometimes."

He lies across my legs. I grunt at the weight, wiggling my toes against his side. "Was it, like, your TV?"

"Yeah. I guess. I bought it with Christmas money last year."

"If it's yours, you should go get it."

Adam looks down at me, frowning behind his mop of dark hair. "Should we...?"

"I don’t know." I squint. "Wouldn't your mom have a problem with that?"

"She's never home. I still have a key. It is technically mine. So is the computer, for that matter."

I push myself up to my elbows, amused. This is something Corey and I would have done. Like when we broke into her ex-boyfriend's car one summer and took his stereo because he refused to give back her CDs. (It startles me to realize I am thinking about her and it doesn't feel like my heart is being carved from my chest.)

But Adam, who couldn't even look his mother in the eye and tell her to go to hell until only recently? I marvel at the small differences between this Adam and the Adam I met months ago. Maybe it's bad that I'm almost giddy at the idea of going back to his place, but—"I did really want to smear jam on the carpets."

#

All is silent at Adam's house. The maid only comes on Thursdays. With Mrs. Rockswell's car absent from the driveway, we're golden. Adam lets out a sigh of relief when he unlocks the door. Guess he was worried his mom had changed the locks.

We take the stairs to his room. He tries the door and—

"It's locked." He steps back. Stares. Tries again. Jiggles the handle. "She fucking locked the door to my room."

"So you wouldn't come back for your stuff, I'd bet," I say. Adam looks at me, lost, before a defiant and frustrated scowl crosses his face. He turns back to the door, plants a foot into the carpet, braces his shoulder against the wood, and slams into it with enough force to rattle the artwork hanging on the walls.

I can't help but laugh.

Adam tries again, wincing. I move up beside him, pressing my side to the door. "On the count of three..."

Our weight combined cracks the door jamb and it swings open so fast we end up in a tangle of limbs on the bedroom floor. When we pick ourselves up, I head straight for the TV to start unplugging cables. He goes for his computer desk and laptop to do the same.

"This isn't stealing, right?" Adam mutters. "I mean...I'm breaking into her house."

"It's not breaking and entering if you have a key," I say, slinging the power cord over my shoulder. "I think."

"You think?"

Shrug.

I meander around the room, fetching any little thing I think Adam might want. An Elvis pen from his desk drawer. A rolled-up Beatles poster from a top shelf in his closet. The jacket he complained about not having awhile ago when the one he usually wears didn't match his outfit and Casper told him he was worse than a girl about his clothes.