I called Sarah and asked her what she thought. But I could tell she wasn’t listening. She said she was in the middle of writing a “cheating poem.” That’s so SARAH!

“But if you were Rob,” I persisted, “would you think it was BAD or GOOD that I told your mum?”

“How should I know?” Sarah said. “Let your conscience be your guide, Katie Potatie.” Then she hung up.

My conscience? I hunted around for it, in my brain. First I found: A) Pity for Rob’s poor mum. And B) Pity for ROB for being afraid to tell his mean old dad. But then I found C) Maybe Rob’s dad will get so scared by Rob’s disappearance that it’ll make him nicer when and if Rob comes home. (Actually, that was more about Rob’s dad’s conscience than MINE, right?)

I kept sorting through my brain until I found D), which was a snarky voice in there that said, “Butt out, Katie. This is none of your beeswax!”

Then THAT voice was drowned out by E), which said that if anything really horrible happened to Rob, it would be partly my fault for not letting his mum know what I knew. I’d hate to be one of those kids who don’t take it seriously when their friends tell them things, then later wish they’d spoken up.

But ANOTHER inner voice—F)—reminded me that I only caught one quick look at Rob in the office. And I haven’t really talked to him in ages. HE didn’t tell me ANYTHING. So it’s not at all the same as those kids who have to feel guilty forever, wondering if they could’ve changed history and saved a life.

And then there was G), that pesky, leftover-crush voice that I’d been trying to smother since fifth grade. The one that still suspected that Rob is my natural-born fate-mate, my destiny, determined by the stars.

How the heck was I supposed to know which one of those voices was my conscience? Why did everything have to be so COMPLICATED?

Rob

Watch a guy toss his burger scraps and drink in the garbage. Bright orange trash can, not beat-up and dirty. But people going in and out of the diner. Cars going by.

Go over and peer into the can. Almost whistle, casual the way a cartoon character would be. That makes me laugh out loud. Then, hearing myself laugh makes me feel like a crazy street person. Which, I guess, I am.

Feel all the strings cut loose—Pinocchio when he becomes a real boy. If I can reach in, pick out that man’s leftovers, and eat them—I’ll be a different person than the guy I was yesterday.