"No. I'm just antic.i.p.ating this huge change. And I've never been great with change."

I've been thinking about MIT a lot. Just six months away. I know better than anyone how much can change in six months.

Sadie's watch beeps. "Run!" she yells, and we run, and I stop thinking for a while and focus on survival.

Walk.

Run.

Walk.

Run.

I'm out of breath. I have a st.i.tch in my side. I'm pretty sure I hate Sadie. For each step of the routine, the run parts seem longer and the walk parts seem shorter. After six of these, I feel like I'm going to die.

"Walk," she says finally. "Last leg."

Thank G.o.d. If I believed in G.o.d.

"How's your mom?" Sadie asks between pants as we cool down. "I saw her at the grocery store yesterday, and she looked-"

"Slightly better," I fill in.

"Yeah. She looked better."

"She's doing okay. She laid off the wine and the pills, and she's going to church again, which seems to give her some energy, so yes. She's doing better."

Mom and I haven't talked about my little speech in the car on the way home from Graceland, but I feel like she heard me. That's something.

"It's such a cliche, the whole 'time heals all wounds' thing, but it's true. Cliches are cliches for a reason, I guess," Sadie says as we drag ourselves into her front yard. "Hey, do you want a ride to school later?"

I check my watch. "You mean in like fifteen minutes later? Sure."

It would rock to not ride the bus.

"Okay, so shower, do something with that hair-I'm just saying-or whatever you need to do, and meet me back here in fifteen minutes."

Fourteen minutes later I'm back at the McIntyre house. Sadie comes out, hair still wet but eyeliner perfectly in place, and unlocks the doors to her old Jeep Grand Cherokee with its peeling red paint.

I'm still thinking about MIT.

"Are you okay?" she asks me.

"Fine. I'm just jealous that you have a car that actually works." I glance at the dashboard. "You're almost out of gas, by the way."

She shrugs. "Gas is expensive."

"The light is on. Do you even have enough for us to make it to school?"

She rolls her eyes, annoyed that I have to be so darned practical, and turns the car off. Then she unbuckles her seat belt. "Wait here."

She leaves the door open and the keys-in-the-ignition alarm ringing, goes into the garage, and reappears a few minutes later lugging a big red gasoline can.

"Seth always keeps extra for his motorcycle." She reaches under the seat to pop the gas door.

As if on cue, Seth and said motorcycle pull into the driveway. He sputters to a stop next to the Jeep and removes his helmet. His spiky hair is smashed, and he runs his hand over it as he watches Sadie struggle to pour the gas into the tank.

"Um, may I ask what the h.e.l.l you're doing?" he asks.

"I'll fill it up for you after school."

"You be sure to do that." He looks like he wants to say more, but he's noticed me sitting there. He smiles. I roll down my window as he walks around to my side of the car.

"Hey, Lex," he says. "Still hanging out with this loser?"

This is the most awake I've ever seen him look.

"Yes." I try but can't think of a clever quip. "Did you just get off work?"

"Yep. Time for the party to begin." He smiles again.

Sadie scoffs and says something I don't catch but is undoubtedly an insult, which seems doubly rude since she is stealing his gasoline.

He leans against the window.

"So," he says casually. "Seen any ghosts lately?"

I stare at him, frozen, until I remember the ghost story he told us. "Uh, yeah," I try to counter. "I saw one just last month, as a matter of fact."

"Cool," he says.

Sadie slams the gas compartment shut and sets the empty gas can on the floor behind her seat. "All right, Sethy, we have to go now," she says in a singsong voice. "We don't want to be late for school."

Seth ignores her. "I could still give you that ride."

I stare at him. "What, now?"

"How about it, Lex? You, me, Georgia, the wind in your hair . . ."

Sadie jumps in and starts the Jeep. "Not today, Seth. She's covered, ride-wise," Sadie says. "Bye. Have a nice sleep."

Seth looks at me like he's still waiting for an answer. I cough.

"Not today," I say as the car starts to move. "Thanks."

"Someday, though," he says.

"Sure."

"I'm going to hold you to that," he calls after us as Sadie and I back out of the driveway.

I'm sure he will.

We blast down the road toward school. Sadie is a definite lead foot.

"Hey, about Seth," I venture.

"Yeah?"

"Was he . . . flirting with me? I'm terrible at interpreting these things. But he keeps trying to get me to ride his motorcycle."

Sadie snorts. "Don't take this the wrong way, Lex, but no. Seth doesn't know how to talk to women without flirting. But when he really likes a girl, he gets all tongue-tied."

I don't know whether to be insulted or relieved. "Good to know."

She frowns and taps at the gas gauge, which is still moving toward empty.

"You know, if you're planning on going to college," I can't help but inform her, "it might be wise to start riding the bus more regularly. There are"-I do a quick calculation in my head-"sixty-three days of school left. That's a hundred ninety-three dollars and forty-one cents. That could buy your books next semester."

She looks at me like I've lost my mind.

I take eighth period off, which is starting to become a bad habit of mine. Instead, I sit in the gym and watch the cheerleaders practice. So I'm present for that one moment that Ashley Davenport looks up and sees me, and waves, and I wave back, and my wave says, Thank you.

I shouldn't be surprised when Damian comes to find me.

"Hey," he says, appearing at the top of the bleachers. "I have some pictures for you."

I flip through them. They're mostly in black and white, stills of Ty about to make a shot on the basketball court, one where he is lifting a water bottle to his lips, sweat gleaming off his brow. One where he is smiling at a very particular cheerleader.

And then, at the bottom of the pile, a picture of Damian, a selfie, shot at a strange, lopsided angle so I can see his torso and his face but the top of his head is chopped off.

In the picture he's wearing the shark tooth necklace.

My chest gets tight. "This is nice," I murmur. "You're talented."

He clears his throat. "Thanks."

"I read The Metamorphosis," I report. "You were right. It's an amazing book. Talk about absurdity, right?"

"You read it already?"

"I did." I stayed up all night with it a couple nights ago, no CliffsNotes this time. It was actually pretty cool.

Damian shoves his hands in his pockets and beams at me. "I love that we never get an explanation of why one day he wakes up as a bug. He simply is."

"It's brilliant how he shows us the way our bodies can become disconnected from our minds," I add. "Gregor's a bug, but he always manages to keep a part of his humanity, even when being a bug makes everyone hate him. He's still human, inside."

"But he's alone," Damian says softly. "He's always going to be a bug on the outside. Until they decide to get rid of him."

I clear my throat. "Anyway, I was thinking, we should meet up sometime and talk about this stuff. Books, I mean. You seem to know so much about literature, and I'm going to MIT next year-and I am really intimidated by the English requirement. I feel like every time I open my mouth I'm going to end up saying something completely stupid."

"You won't," he says. "You're so smart, Lex. Come on."

"I'm not smart about books," I argue. "Not like you. So, can you help me?"

He brushes his long hair out of his eyes, but it falls right back in his face. Then he straightens up his hunched shoulders and says slowly, "We could meet at Barnes and n.o.ble. I could show you some more books you might like."

"That sounds perfect," I say. "How about tomorrow night?"

He looks startled. "Sat.u.r.day night?"

"Yeah. After dinner, maybe. Seven?"

He gives a little laugh. "Okay. The SouthPointe Barnes and n.o.ble, that's the one I always go to."

I'd prefer to avoid that particular B&N, for reasons I don't want to explain to him, but it is what it is. "Okay. Do you need a ride? My car's always a bit of a gamble, but I think I could get us there."

He shakes his head quickly. "I can drive myself. I live in the boonies, and I wouldn't want to make you go all the way out there. I'll meet you at seven at the bookstore."

"Tomorrow. Seven. We'll talk bugs," I say.

"And books."

"And books."

"Right now I have to go catch my bus, unfortunately."

"Right. Bye. Have a good night."

He stands a little straighter as he walks off.

ON SAt.u.r.dAY MORNING I get a phone call from a junior at MIT.

"My name is Amala Daval," she tells me. "I'm a math major."

"Great," I stammer after an awkward pause. "How are you?"

"I'm studying theoretical mathematics at MIT," she says, dead serious by the sound of it. "How do you think I am?"

"So . . . good, right?"

"For the right kind of people," she says, like she hasn't made up her mind yet that I am the right kind of person. "It is amazing."

"Who's that?" Mom asks me from across the breakfast table.

MIT, I mouth, and her eyes widen. She takes her coffee cup and disappears into the living room.

"So it looks like you haven't RSVP'd to the campus visit next month," Amala continues.