“So, if I get a part,” Well says, “which I will, because this cast is huge and our class is not and also because I am awesome, you’re going to be bossing me around?”

“Yep.”

“Huh. All right. Actually, that’s excellent.” He jumps up again. “Will you promise to tell Mary Katherine every single time she misses a high note?”

“I swear.” I hold my hand to my heart. I guess I am taking the job.

“No.” He turns to me and holds out his hand. “Pinky promise.”

His nail is emerald green. He must have done that tonight. I look at it, and my heart trips over itself. I can’t take it. Even this kind of small contact is too hard. It’s not that I think his hands are dirty or sweaty. It’s just too unknown, like an alien offering a high five. It could be awesome, or it could be terrible. My heart starts thumping. I push my knuckles against the fabric of the chair until I hear the threads creak. Well’s still waiting, like he has all the time in the world, while I panic.

The moment stretches and stretches until it’s almost like an out-of-body experience. I can see myself, sitting crisscross-applesauce, looking up at a boy who actually thinks I’m not a freak show. His hand casts a shadow across the patio. Just do it, I want to yell. Just wrap your finger around his and make a promise. It’s the easiest thing in the world. But I jump to my feet instead.

“It’s freezing! How’d you get here, anyway?”

Well’s hand falls. And then he gives me a wicked grin. “Well, Suzy Lee, I may have ‘borrowed’ my dad’s golf cart.” I follow where he’s now pointing and spot a white golf cart half in the grass, half on the sidewalk.

“You drove that all the way here?”

“It’s just a few miles.”

“You drove a stolen golf cart a few miles down the road in the middle of the night?”

“Borrowed golf cart.”

I bet the police wouldn’t see it that way, I think, remembering the night of the crash. If Well wrecked it and hurt himself, I wonder if his dad would get in trouble like my mom. Probably not. People with enough money to own golf carts as toys don’t get investigated for neglect.

“Your dad is going to freak.”

Well shrugs, his favorite gesture, and pulls the hood from his sweatshirt up so his face falls into shadow. “Nah. One”—he holds up a finger—“he’d have to notice me first to notice I’m gone. And two”—he counts off—“he’d have to be home.”

“Is your mom there?”