He smiles, only fifteen watts, and I wonder if I’ve failed some test, if he was expecting more from me. Or maybe less. “Okay.” Lifts off from the lockers. “See you after.”

After class? After school? But he’s leaving, a head taller than most of the other kids he moves through, everybody hurrying to get where they’re expected to be, where routine demands. And I guess I’m one of them, part of the hive mind, an ant with a bread crumb. “Hey,” I call after him, because I don’t want to leave it like this, “how’d you know where I live, anyway?”

He doesn’t turn. “I asked Trace.”

I can’t help but laugh, remembering Sage’s advice on the bus that day while Bree and I schemed together. But that means the guys have talked about me. Which means Trace knows more about Kincaid’s feelings than I do.

Trace’s text is waiting for me at morning break: Tomorrow. 6:30 p.m. Behind the teachers’ lot.

It’s the next evening. Dusk. I know I shouldn’t be here, that this can’t be leading anywhere good. But Kincaid’s meeting us behind the school, and my need to see him trumps all. Trace has the princess mask tucked into his back pocket. Not a good sign.

Trace leaves the old-man car in the athletic field lot; then we hurry down the footpath leading behind the middle school, through the smokers’ woods, and out behind the high school teachers’ parking area. I’m telling myself that if Trace has anything too crazy planned, I’m out. They’ll have to fill me in on how it went at the flotsam table tomorrow.

Kincaid is already there, sitting on a log dragged up alongside the path. His head is down, hands in his coat pockets; he looks huddled, deep in some internal process, until he hears our approach and looks up. I saw him at the park yesterday afternoon as usual, but we haven’t been alone since Monday. After I failed the skipping school test yesterday, I wonder what he’s thinking, if he sees me differently now, as some Goody Two-shoes. I’ve been wondering about the girlfriends at the park, too; if they jump whenever their boyfriends snap their fingers. Because you know what? I’ve decided that’s not me. Not even close. And maybe that’s not what Kincaid expects, either—impossible to find out, since we don’t seem to be able to steal a second to ourselves. “About damn time.” His eyes are on me, but he speaks to Trace. “You were right. Crack’s still here.”

“Every night, man, every night. I’ve driven by and seen his car parked out here at, like, ten.” Trace grins. “This is what he gets for being an eager little beaver.”