"So what is it like?"

"Look, I don't want to talk about biology, okay?"

What I really wanted was to be kissed. Hard.

"Do you wanna fool around or what?" I blurted out.

Scott laughed again. "Are you serious?"

Not exactly the response I had been hoping for. I folded my arms across my chest and said, "Why wouldn't I be?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't have to worry," I said. "I'm not looking for a boyfriend or anything."

"So what are you looking for, then?"

I pulled him to me so suddenly and so fiercely that even I was surprised. He tasted like cherry cough drops, and man, could that cat kiss. He rolled me onto my back; I could feel his hard-on through both our pants. It made me even hotter, and I broke out in a sweat. My hands clawed at his lower back, pressing him into me.

We rolled over again, and then I was on top, my knees anch.o.r.ed on the sides of his waist. I shook out my dreads and looked down, surprised that Scott's face sported a super-serious look, like we were getting ready to take the SATs instead of maybe doing it. He fingered one of the ropy blue strands like it was alien hair.

Before I could overthink things, I grabbed the hem of my T-shirt and pulled it off over my head. Thankfully, I was wearing one of my "good" bras-a satiny turquoise underwire that pushed my droopy overgrown b.o.o.bs into something vaguely resembling hot-girl cleavage. Scott's face softened, and a smile appeared on his lips.

"Oh," he whispered.

I thought it was a good "oh," but I must've misread the situation, because when I reached behind me and started to undo the clasp, Scott said, "Wait a second."

"What?"

He propped himself up on his elbows. "Maybe we should slow down a bit."

Translation: I don't want to see you naked.

I climbed off him almost as quickly as I'd climbed on, heat seeping into my cheeks. Of course the first time I tried to play the femme fatale, I'd get rejected. I haphazardly fished around for the T-shirt I'd just taken off.

"You're angry," Scott said.

I didn't answer.

"Listen," he began. "You're cute as h.e.l.l, but honestly? I try not to sleep with a girl before I've known her . . . oh, I don't know. At least an hour." He let out a little laugh, as if to let me know that the last bit had been a joke, but it sounded totally forced.

Finally, I found the T-shirt and in my haste managed to put it on both backwards and inside out. I started to pull it off again to fix it, but before I could, the bedroom door swung open and I froze.

Critter.

"Don't you knock?" I seethed, pulling the T-shirt back down.

"What did you do with the car keys?" he asked coldly. "It's time for me to pick up Layla. Unless, of course, you'd rather do the honors."

"Screw you."

Scott stood up and said, "I guess I should be going."

"Wait!" I said. "Just give me a sec."

He shook his head. "I'll see you around, okay?" He brushed past Critter with a customary nod and left without so much as a kiss goodbye.

"Could you speed it up?" Critter asked. "You know how Layla hates to be kept waiting."

"You're unbelievable." I picked through Mount Saint Laundry, looking for the misplaced keys. "What, are you the only one in this house allowed to get your jollies?"

"Forgive me for interrupting this truly meaningful occasion," he spat. "I'm sure Layla would love to know I'm late because her daughter was too busy doing some stranger to find the car keys she stole."

"I wasn't 'doing' him," I said hotly.

"Whatever. Just get me the G.o.dd.a.m.ned keys, okay?"

I dug around for a few minutes before locating them inside a sneaker. Critter watched me the entire time, staring me down with his icy eyes. I threw the keys at him as hard as I could and yelled, "Now get out!"

He slammed the door behind him.

critter.

I Don't Want to Talk About It.

"Driving is an att.i.tude."

That was the only helpful nugget of wisdom that Frank, my long-gone sorry excuse for an almoststepfather, ever imparted to me. I was all of ten years old when he said it, but for some reason, it stuck. It was the first thing I said to myself whenever I slipped behind the wheel of a car. The words got especially loud on days like the one I'd just had. Days I got so mad I could punch a window, just to hear the crack of bone on gla.s.s.

It was almost nine and I was still a good fifteen minutes from the hospital. Mom was gonna be p.i.s.sed. Then she'd ask me why I was late, and I sure as s.h.i.t wasn't going to tell her about walking in on Sea and that dude. Or about how Sea had taken the car earlier. No need to get Mom all worked into a froth over nothing.

The sides of my head felt like they were being squeezed together. The pain was so intense I thought I might hurl, even though I hadn't eaten since breakfast. When I was just a kid I used to get these migraines, always on the left side of my head, that would get so bad I'd black out. They stopped right before I turned eleven-not so long after Frank ran off for good, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I hadn't factored in the construction on I-95. Three lanes poured into one, inching along, fan-freakingtastic. My knee jiggled under the wheel. I hated just sitting. Lately I needed movement, needed go go go. Maybe it was that girl. Sarah. She was hot enough to light anyone's engine.

It was 9:18 when I finally squealed into the parking lot. Mom was standing outside, scowling. She'd barely opened the pa.s.senger-side door when I said, "Don't even start with me."

"And a lovely evening to you, too," she said. "Want to tell me why you're such a ray of sunshine?"

"Not especially."

"Okay, then."

We drove back onto 95, where traffic in the opposite direction was backed up 'cause the drivers were dumb enough to stare at the idiots who were backed up on the other side. I smacked the steering wheel. Mom looked at me. "I take it you didn't have a good time at the pool," she said.

"Pool was fine."

"Did you bring that SAT book I got you? How many practice tests have you taken so far?"

"All of them," I said, voice dripping sarcasm. "Got perfect scores. Harvard's gonna waive my application, that's how smart I am."

Mom sighed. I could tell she was annoyed with me, but I really didn't feel like talking about all of the bulls.h.i.t. Instead, I said, "Are you hungry? I haven't eaten in, like, a zillion years."

"You guys didn't have dinner?"

"Not really."

"Not really or no?"

"No, okay? Everyone was in a p.i.s.sy mood, so we all went our separate ways."

"Great," Mom said. "Good thing I left you guys that tuna ca.s.serole."

"You mean the one we ate three days ago?"

She sighed again. "Pull into the Mickey D's."

I got off at the next exit and slid the Cougar into the parking lot at McDonald's. "Let's skip the drive-through," I said. I wasn't all that psyched about getting back home.

"What about Jess and Sea?"

"We'll get theirs to go." Mom shrugged in agreement.

As I tore into my Double Quarter Pounder with extra extra cheese, Mom gave it another shot: "So are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

I dropped the burger back onto its paper wrapper. "Sea and I got into a fight. A kicking-me-where-it-counts kind of fight."

"Literally or metaphorically?"

I chuckled. "Literally, of course."

"Oh."

I pushed some fries around the mountain of shared ketchup. Mom asked me if I wanted to talk about it and I said no. Then she got this sour look on her face, and I knew if I didn't say something to satisfy her curiosity, she'd keep poking at me. "It's nothing. Really," I said. "It'll all blow over in a day or two."

Her eyes narrowed. "You can't lie for s.h.i.t, so don't bother trying."

The throbbing in my head got harder. Even chewing was starting to hurt. I sighed, wadded up the rest of my burger in its grease-stained wrapper, and said, "Let's get out of here."

Dishevelment Blues.

Back at the Bat Ranch, Jess and the Sea Monster were making scrambled eggs and bacon, the smell of which filled the whole first floor. Guess they didn't need take-out after all. I was about to say something snarky when I heard Seattle's jelly-belly laugh float into the hallway. It made me feel both relieved and annoyed.

"I need a shower," Mom said, climbing the stairs. "Tell them I'll be down in a bit."

I headed into the kitchen and tossed the greasy paper sacks onto the countertop. "What's cooking?" I asked.

"What's it look like?" Jesse answered. "You want some?"

"Nah, I just ate. Brought you guys some, too."

"Awesome," Jesse said. "Looks like we got ourselves a two-course meal."

Seattle had gotten really quiet when I'd walked into the room. No jelly-belly laughs for my benefit, thank you very much. She was standing near the toaster, staring at it like the bread wouldn't toast if she didn't keep her eyes glued to it the entire time. I wanted to say something, but I wasn't sure what, so I said nothing. Instead I watched Jesse slide bacon from a skillet onto a papertoweled plate. It looked so good, I couldn't help stealing a fresh strip. It burned my fingers, and I yelped in pain.

"That's why you're supposed to wait until it cools, dumb-a.s.s," Jesse said. Just to p.i.s.s him off, I picked up the strip I'd just dropped and shoved the entire length of it into my mouth. Jess shook his head in that disapproving way of his, and I rolled my eyes and asked him if he wanted to watch a movie.

He shook his head. "I've got some stuff to take care of after dinner."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah, stuff. Don't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"There's good TV on," Seattle cut in. "A Simpsons marathon on channel four."

"Whatever," I said.

I didn't feel much like hanging with Homer, so after downing four ibuprofen I took from Sea's and my secret stash, I went into the living room and popped in the mid-nineties cla.s.sic Clueless. It was one of those movies crawling with cute girls-Alicia Silverstone, with the big doe eyes and that deliciously frowny mouth; Stacey Dash, she of the coffee-and-cream complexion and legs that refused to quit; and a pre-blond, pre-anorexic Brittany Murphy, shaking her juicy bubble to Coolio, of all people.

I must've pa.s.sed out, because the next thing I knew, the credits were rolling and the house was dark. And quiet. No lights, no radio, no nothing. I checked the upstairs and saw Layla snoozing peacefully, but otherwise the place was empty. That p.i.s.sed me off, because if anyone got left behind, it was usually Jesse. Now I was the cheese, and I didn't like it. Not one bit.

In my pocket was the slip of paper Sarah had given me earlier, after Seattle had taken off. I didn't need it anymore; I'd already committed the digits to memory. It was almost eleven-thirty, which was probably too late to call. Even if it wasn't, it wouldn't look good to call her so soon. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after that.

Thoroughly frustrated, I went back downstairs, flopped onto the couch, and fell into an angry sleep.

In a Broken Dream.

I was on a boat. A big one, the kind Frank used to take us fishing on out in the Chesapeake. It was hot out, and I wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of jeans that had been cut at the knees. All I could see for miles and miles was water that was too blue to be real.