"I...I don't know what you're talking about." My voice comes out sounding thinner, younger, than I wanted it to.

"The s.h.i.t back there-right there, in front of everybody. What were you thinking?"

I stand up so I'm not just sitting there looking up at him like a little kid. My legs are wobbly, and I have to steady myself with one hand against the desk. I take a deep breath, trying to pull it together. It doesn't matter: all of it will be erased, cleaned away.

"I'm sorry," I say, feeling a little bit stronger. "I really don't know what you're talking about. Did I do something wrong?"

He looks toward the door and a muscle twitches in his jaw. Just that, that little twitch, returns all my confidence. I want to reach out and touch him, put my fingers in his hair.

"You could get in a lot of trouble, you know," he says, not looking at me. "You could get me me in a lot of trouble." in a lot of trouble."

The first bell rings: cla.s.s is officially over now. The singing feeling returns to my blood, to the air. I step carefully around my desk and walk straight to the front of the cla.s.sroom. I stop when we're only a few feet away from each other. He doesn't back away. Instead he finally looks at me. His eyes are so deep and full of something it almost frightens me off. But it doesn't.

I lean casually against Becca's desk, tipping backward and resting on my elbows so I'm totally laid out in front of him, chest, legs, everything. My head feels like it has floated away from my body; my body feels like it has floated away from my blood, like I'm just dissolving into energy and vibration.

"I don't mind trouble," I say in my s.e.xiest voice.

Mr. Daimler is staring into my eyes, not looking at the rest of me, but somehow I know that it's an effort. "What are you doing?"

My skirt is riding so high I know my underwear is showing. It's a pink lace thong, one of the first I've ever owned. Thongs always make me feel like there is a rubber band up my b.u.t.t, but last year Lindsay and I bought the same pair at Victoria's Secret and swore to wear them.

The words come to me from a script, from a movie: "I can stop if you want." My voice comes out breathy but not because I'm trying. I am no longer breathing-everything, the whole world, freezes in that moment while I wait for his response.

But when he speaks he sounds tired, annoyed-not at all what I was expecting. "What do you want want, Samantha?"

The tone of his voice startles me, and for a second my mind spins blankly. He's staring at me with a look of impatience now, as if I've just asked him to change my grade. The second bell rings. I feel like at any moment he'll dismiss me, remind me about the quiz on Monday. I've somehow lost control of the situation and I don't know how to fix it. The vibration in the air is still there, but now it feels ominous, like the air is full of sharp things getting ready to drop.

"I...I want you." I don't mean for it to come out so uncertain. This is is what I want. This is what I've been wanting: Mr. Daimler. My mind keeps spinning in a blind panic, and I can't remember his first name, and I feel like laughing hysterically; I'm stretched out half naked in front of my math teacher and I don't know his name. Then it comes to me. Evan. "I want you, Evan," I say, a little more boldly. It's the first time I've ever used his first name. what I want. This is what I've been wanting: Mr. Daimler. My mind keeps spinning in a blind panic, and I can't remember his first name, and I feel like laughing hysterically; I'm stretched out half naked in front of my math teacher and I don't know his name. Then it comes to me. Evan. "I want you, Evan," I say, a little more boldly. It's the first time I've ever used his first name.

He stares at me for a long time. I start to get nervous. I want to look away or pull down my skirt or cross my arms, but I force myself to stay still.

"What are you thinking about?" I finally ask, but instead of answering he just walks straight to me and puts his arms on my shoulders, pushing me backward so I tip over onto Becca's desk. Then he's bending over me, kissing me and licking my neck and ear and making little grunting noises that remind me of Pickle when he has to pee. Pressed against him I feel tiny; his arms are strong, groping all over my shoulders and arms. He slides one hand up my shirt and squeezes my b.o.o.bs one after the other, so hard I almost cry out. His tongue is big and fat. I think, I'm kissing Mr. Daimler, I'm kissing Mr. Daimler, Lindsay will never believe it, I'm kissing Mr. Daimler, I'm kissing Mr. Daimler, Lindsay will never believe it, but it doesn't feel anything like I've imagined. His five o'clock shadow is rough on my skin, and I have this horrible thought that this is what my mom feels when she kisses my dad. but it doesn't feel anything like I've imagined. His five o'clock shadow is rough on my skin, and I have this horrible thought that this is what my mom feels when she kisses my dad.

When I open my eyes I see the plain speckled ceiling tiles of the cla.s.sroom-the ceiling tiles I've spent hours and hours staring at this semester-and my mind starts circling around them, counting, like I'm a fly buzzing somewhere outside my body. I think, How can the same ceiling still be here while this is happening? Why isn't the ceiling coming down? How can the same ceiling still be here while this is happening? Why isn't the ceiling coming down? All of a sudden it's not fun anymore: all those sharp glittery things drop out of the air at once, and at the same time something drops deep inside of me. I feel like I'm sobering up after drinking all night. All of a sudden it's not fun anymore: all those sharp glittery things drop out of the air at once, and at the same time something drops deep inside of me. I feel like I'm sobering up after drinking all night.

I put my hands on his chest and try to push him off, but he's too heavy, too strong. I can feel his muscles under my fingertips-he used to play lacrosse in high school, Lindsay and I found out-and above that, a fine layer of fat. He's leaning on me with his full weight and I can't breathe. I'm crushed underneath him, my legs split apart on either side of his hips, his stomach warm and fat and heavy on mine. I wrestle my mouth away from his. "We-we can't do this here."

The words just pop out without my meaning them to. What I wanted to say was, We can't do this. Not here. Not anywhere. We can't do this. Not here. Not anywhere.

What I wanted to say was, Stop Stop.

He's breathing hard, still staring at my mouth. There's a tiny bead of sweat at his hairline, and I watch it trace its way across his forehead and down to the tip of his nose. Finally he pulls away from me, rubs his hand over his jaw, and nods.

The moment he's off me I scrabble up to my feet and tug down my skirt, not wanting him to see that my hands are shaking.

"You're right," he says slowly. He gives a quick shake of his head, as though trying to rouse himself from sleep. "You're right."

He takes a few steps backward and turns his back to me. For a second we just stand there, not speaking. My brain is all static. He's only a few feet away from me, but he looks hopelessly, impossibly far, like someone you can just make out distantly, a silhouette in the middle of a blizzard.

"Samantha?" Finally he turns back to me, rubbing both eyes and sighing, like I've exhausted him. "Listen, what happened here...I don't think I need to tell you that this has to stay strictly between you and me."

He's smiling at me, but it's not his normal, easy smile. There's no humor in it. "This is important, Samantha. Do you understand?" He sighs again. "Everyone makes mistakes...." He trails off, watching me.

"Mistakes," I repeat, the word pinging around in my head. I'm not sure whether he thinks he made a mistake, or I did. Mistake, mistake, mistake. A strange word: stinging, somehow.

Mr. Daimler's mouth, eyes, nose-his whole face seems to be rearranging itself into unfamiliar patterns, like a Pica.s.so painting. "I need to know that I can count on you."

"Of course you can," I hear myself say, and he looks at me, relieved, like if he could, he would pat me on the head and say, Good girl. Good girl.

After that I just stand there for a bit. I'm not sure if he's going to come around and kiss me or give me a hug-it seems insane just to leave leave, to pick up my stuff and go as though nothing's happened. But after he blinks at me for a bit, he finally says, "You're late for lunch," and now I know I really am being dismissed. So I grab my bag and go.

As soon as I'm out in the hall I lean up against a wall, grateful for the feeling of the stone against my back. Something bubbles up inside me, and I don't know whether I should jump up and down or laugh or scream. Fortunately the halls are empty. Everybody's already at lunch.

I take out my phone to text Lindsay, but then I remember that we're in a fight. There's no text from her asking if I want to go to Kent's party. She must still be mad. I'm not sure whether I'm fighting with Elody, too. Remembering what I said in the car makes me feel horrible.

I think about texting Ally-I'm pretty sure she's not mad at me, at least-and I spend a long time trying to figure out how to word it. It feels weird to write I kissed Mr. Daimler I kissed Mr. Daimler, but if I write Evan Evan she won't know who I'm talking about. she won't know who I'm talking about. Evan Daimler Evan Daimler feels wrong too, and besides, we did more than just kiss. He was on feels wrong too, and besides, we did more than just kiss. He was on top top of me. of me.

In the end I drop my phone back into my bag without writing anything. I figure I'll just wait until I've made up with Lindsay and Elody and tell them in person. It'll be easier that way, easier to make it sound better than it was, and I'll get to see their faces. The thought of how jealous Lindsay will be makes the whole thing more than worth it. I put some concealer on my chin to cover the red spots where Mr. Daimler's face gave me an exfoliation I didn't need, and then I head to lunch.

YOU CAN'T JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS STEEL-TOED COMBAT BOOTS When I march into the cafeteria ten minutes late, our usual table is empty, and I know that I have been officially and deliberately ditched.

For a fraction of a second I can feel everyone's eyes lift in my direction, staring. I bring my hand up to my face without meaning to, suddenly terrified that everyone will see the rawness on my chin and know what I've been doing.

I duck out into the hall again. I need to be alone, need to pull it together. I head for the bathrooms, but as I get close, two soph.o.m.ores (Lindsay calls them s'mores because they're always stuck together and more than two will get you sick) come bursting out of the door, giggling, arm-in-arm. Lunch is prime bathroom traffic time-everyone needs to reapply lip gloss, complain about feeling fat, threaten to upchuck in one of the stalls-and the last thing I need right now is a steady stream of stupid.

I head to the old bathroom at the far end of the science wing. Hardly anyone uses it since a newer bathroom-with toilets that don't clog 24/7-was installed last year between the labs. The farther I get from the cafeteria, the more the roar of voices drops away, until they sound just like the ocean from far away. I get calmer with every step. My heels beat a steady rhythm on the tile floor.

The science wing is empty, as expected, and smells, as always, like chemical cleaners and sulfur. Today there's something else, though: the smell of smoke and something earthier, more pungent. I push against the bathroom door and for a second nothing happens. I push harder and there's a grating sound; I jam my shoulder against the door, and finally it swings open, carrying me inside with it. Instantly I hit my knee on a chair that has been propped up against the doork.n.o.b and pain shoots up my leg. The smell in the bathroom is much stronger.

I drop my bag and lean over, clutching my knee. "s.h.i.t."

"What the h.e.l.l?"

The voice makes me jump. I didn't realize there was anyone else in the bathroom. I look up and Anna Cartullo's standing there, holding a cigarette in one hand.

"Jesus," I say. "You scared me."

"I scared scared you you?" She leans up against the counter and taps her ashes in the sink. "You, like, forced forced your way in. Don't you know how to knock?" Like I've just broken into her house. your way in. Don't you know how to knock?" Like I've just broken into her house.

"Sorry I ruined your party." I make a halfhearted move for the door.

"Wait." She holds up a hand, looking nervous. "Are you going to tell?"

"Tell what?"

"About this." She inhales and blows a cloud of smoke. The cigarette she's smoking is extra thin and it looks like she rolled it herself. Then it hits me: it's a joint. The weed must be mixed with a lot a lot of tobacco because I didn't recognize the smell immediately, and I come home with my clothes reeking of it after every party. Elody once said it was lucky my mom never came into my room, or she would think I was dealing pot out of my dirty laundry hamper. of tobacco because I didn't recognize the smell immediately, and I come home with my clothes reeking of it after every party. Elody once said it was lucky my mom never came into my room, or she would think I was dealing pot out of my dirty laundry hamper.

"So what? You just come in here and smoke your lunch?" I'm not saying it to be mean, but it comes out that way. Her eyes dart to the floor for a second, and then I notice an empty sandwich bag and a half-eaten bag of chips sitting on the tiles. It occurs to me I've never once seen her in the cafeteria. She must eat her lunch here every day.

"Yeah. I like the decor." She sees me looking at the sandwich bag, stubs out the joint, and crosses her arms. "What are you doing here, anyway? Don't you have...?" She stops herself, but I know what she's about to say. Don't you have friends? Don't you have friends?

"I had to pee," I say. This is obviously a lie since I've made zero effort to use the toilet, but I'm too tired to come up with a different excuse, and she doesn't ask me for one.

We stand there in awkward silence for a bit. I've never spoken a word to Anna Cartullo in my life, at least in the life I had before the car crash-beyond one time when I said, "Don't call her an evil wench," after she called Lindsay an evil wench. But I'd rather stay here with her than go out into the hall. Finally I think, Screw it Screw it, and I sit down in the chair and prop my leg up on one of the sinks. Anna's eyes are slightly unfocused now, and she's more relaxed, slouching up against one of the walls. She nods at my knee. "Looks swollen."

"Yeah, well, somebody stuck a chair right inside the door."

She starts giggling. She's definitely stoned. "Nice shoes." She raises her eyebrows at my feet, which are dangling over one of the circular sinks. I can't tell if she's being sarcastic. "Hard to walk in, huh?"

"I can walk," I say, too quickly. Then I shrug. "Short distances, anyway."

She snorts and then covers her mouth.

"I bought them as a joke." I don't know why I feel the need to defend myself to Anna Cartullo, but I guess nothing is the way it's supposed to be today. All the rules have pretty much gone out the window. Anna's relaxing, too. She acts like it's not weird that we're hanging out in a bathroom the size of a prison cell when we should be at lunch.

She hops up on the counter and wiggles her feet in my direction. Unsurprisingly, she's not wearing anything Cupid Dayrelated. She has on a couple of layered black tank tops and an open hoodie. Her jeans are fraying at the hem and have a safety pin through the fly where they're missing a b.u.t.ton. She's wearing enormous wedge round-toe boots that kind of look like Doc Martens on crack.

"You need a pair of these." She clicks her heels together, a punked-out Dorothy trying to get home from Oz. "Most comfortable shoes I ever owned."

I look at her like, Yeah, right. Yeah, right. She shrugs. "Don't knock 'em till you try 'em." She shrugs. "Don't knock 'em till you try 'em."

"Okay, then, pa.s.s them over."

Anna looks at me for a long second, like she's not sure if I'm serious.

"Look." I kick my shoes off. They hit the ground with a clatter. "We'll trade."

Anna bends over wordlessly, unzips her boots, and wiggles out of them. Her socks are rainbow-striped, which surprises me. I would have expected skulls or something. She peels these off next and b.a.l.l.s them up in one hand, starting to pa.s.s them to me.

"Ew." I wrinkle my nose. "No, thank you. I'd rather go commando."

She shrugs, laughing. "Whatever."

When I zip into her boots I realize she's right. They are super comfortable, even without socks. The leather is cool and very soft. I admire them on my feet.

"I feel like I should be terrorizing children." I knock the bulging steel-tipped toes together, which make a satisfying clicking sound.

"I feel like I should be turning tricks." Anna has maneuvered her way into my heels and is now teetering experimentally around the bathroom, arms out like she's on a tightrope.

"Same size feet," I point out, though it's obvious.

"Eight and a half. Pretty common." She glances over her shoulder at me, like she's considering saying something else, then reaches under the sink and pulls out her bag, a beat-up patchwork hobo thing that looks like she made it herself. She extracts a small Altoids tin. Inside there's a dime bag of weed-I guess Alex Liment is good for something-rolling papers, and a few cigarettes.

She starts rolling another spliff, carefully balancing her life studies packet on her lap to use as a tray. (Side note: so far I've seen the life studies packet used as (1) an umbrella, (2) a makeshift towel, (3) a pillow, and now this. I have never actually seen anyone study with it, which either means that everyone who graduates from Thomas Jefferson will be totally unprepared for life or that certain things can't be learned in bullet-point format.) Her fingers are thin and move quickly.

She's obviously had practice. I wonder if that's what she and Alex do together after they've had s.e.x, just lie there side by side, smoking. I wonder if she ever thinks about Bridget when they're doing it. I'm tempted to ask.

"Stop staring at me," she says without looking up.

"I'm not." I tilt my head back and stare at the vomit-colored ceiling, am reminded of Mr. Daimler, and look back at her. "There aren't too many other options."

"No one asked you to come in here." Some of the edge returns to her voice.

"Public property." There's a split second when her face goes dark and I'm sure she's going to freak out and this will be the end of our shiny, happy time together. I rush on, "It's seriously not that bad in here. For a bathroom, you know."

She looks at me suspiciously, like she's sure I'm only baiting her so I can make fun of her afterward.

"You could get some pillows for the floor." I look around. "Decorate a bit or something."

She ducks her head, concentrating on her fingers. "There's this artist I've always liked-the guy who does all the stairs going up and down at the same time-"

"M. C. Escher?"

She glances up, obviously surprised I know who she's talking about. "Yeah, him." A smile flits across her face. "I was thinking of, I don't know, hanging one of his prints in here. Just taping it up, you know, for something to look at."

"I have, like, ten of his books in my house," I blurt out, glad she's not going to stay mad and kick me out of the bathroom. "My dad's an architect. He's into that stuff."

Anna rolls up the joint, licks the seam, and finishes it off with a few twists of her fingers. She nods at the chair. "If you're going to sit in that you can at least block the door. That way it's private private property." property."

The chair grates against the tile floor as I scoot backward against the door, and both of us wince, catch ourselves wincing, and laugh. Anna pulls out a purple lighter with flowers on it-not the lighter I expected of her-and tries to spark the joint. The lighter sputters a few times and she throws it down, cursing. The next time she rummages through her bag she pulls out a lighter in the shape of a naked female torso. She presses on the head and little blue flames come shooting out the nipples. Now that that is the kind of lighter I would expect Anna Cartullo to have. is the kind of lighter I would expect Anna Cartullo to have.

Anna's face gets serious, and she takes a long pull of the joint, then stares at me through the cloud of blue smoke.

"So," she says, "why do you guys hate me?"

Of all the things I expect her to say, it's not this. Even more unexpected, she holds the spliff out in my direction, offering me some.

I hesitate for only a second. Hey, just because I'm dead doesn't mean I'm a saint.

"We don't hate you." It doesn't come out convincingly. The truth is I'm not sure. I don't hate Anna, really; Lindsay's always said she does, but it's hard to know what Lindsay's reasons are for anything. I take a hit off the joint. I've only smoked weed once before, but I've seen it done a hundred times. I inhale and my lungs are full of smoke: a heavy taste like chewing on moss. I try to hold my breath, the way you're supposed to, but the smoke tickles the back of my throat. I start coughing and hand the joint back.

"Then what's the reason?" She doesn't say, For all the s.h.i.tty things you've done For all the s.h.i.tty things you've done. For the bathroom graffiti. For the fake email blast soph.o.m.ore year: Anna Cartullo has chlamydia. Anna Cartullo has chlamydia. She doesn't have to. She pa.s.ses the joint back to me. She doesn't have to. She pa.s.ses the joint back to me.

I take another hit. Already things are warping, certain objects blurring and others sharpening, like someone's messing with the focus on a camera. No wonder people still talk to Alex, even though he's a douche. He deals good stuff. "I don't know." Because it's easy. "I guess you need to take things out on somebody."

The words are out of my mouth before I realize they're true. I take another hit and pa.s.s the joint back to Anna. I feel like everything's been amplified, like I can feel the heaviness of my arms and legs and hear my heart pumping and blood tumbling through my veins. And at the end of the day it will all be silenced, at least until time skips back on its wheel and starts again.

The bell rings. Lunch is over. Anna says, "s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, I have to be be somewhere," and begins trying to gather up her stuff. She accidentally knocks over the Altoids tin. The bag of weed goes flying under the sink, and the papers flit and flutter everywhere. "s.h.i.t." somewhere," and begins trying to gather up her stuff. She accidentally knocks over the Altoids tin. The bag of weed goes flying under the sink, and the papers flit and flutter everywhere. "s.h.i.t."

"I'll help," I say. We both get down on our hands and knees. My fingers feel numb and bloated, and I'm having trouble peeling the papers off the ground. This strikes me as hilarious, and Anna and I both start laughing, leaning on each other, gasping for breath. She keeps saying "s.h.i.t" at intervals.

"Better hurry," I say. All of the anger and pain from the past few days is lifting, leaving me feeling free and careless and happy. "Alex will be p.i.s.sed."

She freezes. Our foreheads are so close we're almost touching.

"How did you know I was meeting Alex?" she says. Her voice is clear and low.

I realize too late that I've screwed up. "Seen you sneaking back through Smokers' Lounge after seventh once or twice," I say vaguely, and she relaxes.