It's not that I'm not totally happy-I am-but it's almost like sometimes I have to keep running over and over in my head why I liked him in the first place, like if I don't I'll somehow forget. Thankfully there are a million good reasons: the fact that he has black hair and a billion freckles but somehow they don't look stupid on him; that he's loud but in a funny way; that everyone knows him and likes him and probably half of the girls in the school have a crush on him; that he looks good in his lacrosse jersey; that when he's really tired he lays his head on my shoulder and falls asleep. That's my favorite thing about him. I like to lie next to him when it's late, dark, and so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. It's times like that when I'm sure that I'm in love.

I ignore Rob as I get in line to pay for my bagel-I can play hard to get too-and then head for the senior section. The rest of the cafeteria is a rectangle. Special ed kids sit all the way down, at the table closest to the cla.s.srooms, and then there are the freshman tables, and then the soph.o.m.ore tables, and then the junior tables. The senior section is at the very head of the cafeteria. It's an octagon lined completely with windows. Okay, so it only looks out over the parking lot, but it's still better than getting a straight view of the short-bus brigade dribbling their applesauce. No offense.

Ally's already sitting at a small circular table right by the window: our favorite.

"Hey." I put down my tray and my roses. Ally's bouquet is sitting on the table and I do a quick count.

"Nine roses." I gesture to hers and then give my bouquet a rattle. "Same as me."

She makes a face. "One of mine doesn't count. Ethan Shlosky sent one to me. Can you believe it? Stalker."

"Yeah, well, I got one from Kent McFuller, so one of mine doesn't count either."

"He looves looves you," she says, drawing out the you," she says, drawing out the o o. "Did you get Lindsay's text?"

I pick the mushy center out of my bagel and pop it in my mouth. "Are we really going to go to his party?"

Ally snorts. "Afraid he'll date-rape you?"

"Very funny."

"There's gonna be a keg," Ally says. She takes a tiny nibble of her turkey sandwich. "My house after school, okay?" She doesn't really have to ask. It's our tradition on Fridays. We order food, raid her closet, blast music, and dance around swapping eye shadows and lip glosses.

"Yeah, sure."

I've been watching Rob come closer out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly he's there, plopping into a chair next to me and leaning in until his mouth is touching my left ear. He smells like Total cologne. He always does. I think it smells a little like this tea my grandmother used to drink-lemon balm-but I haven't told him that yet.

"Hey, Slammer." He's always making up names for me: Slammer, Samwich, Sammy Says. "Did you get my Valogram?"

"Did you get mine?" I say.

He swings his backpack off his shoulder and unzips it. There are a half dozen crumpled roses in the bottom of his bag-I'm a.s.suming one of them is mine-and besides that, an empty pack of cigarettes, a pack of Trident gum, his cell phone, and a change of shirts. He's not so much into studying.

"Who are the other roses from?" I say, teasing him.

"Your compet.i.tion," he says, arching his eyebrows.

"Very cla.s.sy," Ally says. "Are you going to Kent's party tonight, Rob?"

"Probably." Rob shrugs and suddenly looks bored.

Here's a secret: one time when we were kissing, I opened my eyes and saw that his his eyes were open. He wasn't even looking at me. He was looking over my shoulder, watching the room. eyes were open. He wasn't even looking at me. He was looking over my shoulder, watching the room.

"He's getting a keg," Ally says for the second time.

Everyone jokes that going to Jefferson prepares you for the total college experience: you learn to work, and you learn to drink. Two years ago the New York Times New York Times ranked us among the top ten booziest public schools in Connecticut. ranked us among the top ten booziest public schools in Connecticut.

It's not like there's anything else to do around here, though. We've got malls and bas.e.m.e.nt parties. That's it. Let's face it: that's how most most of the country is. My dad always said that they should take down the Statue of Liberty and put up a big strip mall instead, or those golden McDonald's arches. He said at least that way people would know what to expect. of the country is. My dad always said that they should take down the Statue of Liberty and put up a big strip mall instead, or those golden McDonald's arches. He said at least that way people would know what to expect.

"Ahem. Excuse me Excuse me."

Lindsay is standing behind Rob, clearing her throat. She has her arms folded and she's tapping her foot.

"You're in my seat, c.o.kran," she says. She's only pretending to be hard-core. Rob and Lindsay have always been friends. At least, they've always been in the same group, and by necessity have always had to be friends.

"My apologies, Edgecombe." He gets up and makes a big flourish, like a bow, when she sits down.

"See you tonight, Rob," Ally says, and adds, "bring your friends."

"I'll see you later." Rob leans down and buries his face in my hair, making his voice deep and quiet. That voice used to make all of the nerves in my body light up like a firework explosion. Now, sometimes, I think it's cheesy. "Don't forget. It's all about you and me tonight."

"I haven't forgotten," I say, hoping my voice sounds s.e.xy and not scared. My palms are sweating and I pray he doesn't try to take my hand.

Thankfully, he doesn't. Instead he bends down and presses his mouth into mine. We make out for a bit until Lindsay squeals, "Not while I'm eating," and throws a fry in my direction. It hits me on my shoulder.

"Bye, ladies," Rob says, and saunters off with his hat just tilted on an angle.

I wipe my mouth on a napkin when n.o.body's looking, since the bottom half of my face is now coated with Rob's saliva.

Here's another secret about Rob: I hate hate the way he kisses. the way he kisses.

Elody says all my stressing is just insecurity because Rob and I haven't actually sealed the deal yet. Once we do, she's positive I'll feel better, and I'm sure she's right. After all, she's the expert.

Elody is the last to join us at lunch, and we all make a grab for her fries when she sets down her tray. She makes a halfhearted attempt to swat our hands away.

She slaps her bouquet of roses down next. She has twelve, and I feel a momentary twinge of jealousy.

I guess Ally feels it too because she says, "What did you have to do for those?"

"Who did you have to do?" Lindsay corrects her. did you have to do?" Lindsay corrects her.

Elody sticks her tongue out but seems pleased that we noticed.

All of a sudden, Ally looks at something over my shoulder and starts giggling. "Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est."

We all turn around. Juliet Sykes, or Psycho, has just drifted into the senior section. That's how she walks: like she's drifting, being blown around by forces outside of her control. She's carrying a brown paper bag in her long pale fingers. Her face is shielded behind a curtain of pale blond hair, shoulders hunched up around her ears.

For the most part, everyone in the cafeteria ignores her-she's the definition of forgettable-but Lindsay, Ally, Elody, and I start making that screeching and stabbing motion from Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Psycho Psycho, which we all watched at a sleepover a couple of years ago. (Afterward we had to sleep with the lights on.) I'm not sure if Juliet hears us. Lindsay always says she can't hear at all because the voices in her head are too loud. Juliet keeps up that same slow pace across the room, eventually reaching the door that leads out into the parking lot. I'm not sure where she eats every day. I hardly ever see her in the cafeteria.

She has to shove her shoulder against the door a few times before it will open, like she's too frail to make it work.

"Did she get our Valogram?" Lindsay says, licking salt off a fry before popping it in her mouth.

Ally nods. "In bio. I was sitting right behind her."

"Did she say anything?"

"Does she ever ever say anything?" Ally puts one hand across her heart, pretending to be upset. "She threw the rose out as soon as cla.s.s was over. Can you believe it? Right in front of me." say anything?" Ally puts one hand across her heart, pretending to be upset. "She threw the rose out as soon as cla.s.s was over. Can you believe it? Right in front of me."

Freshman year Lindsay somehow found out that Juliet hadn't been sent a single Valogram. Not one. So Lindsay put a note on one of her roses and duct-taped it on Juliet's locker. The note said: Maybe next year, but probably not. Maybe next year, but probably not.

Every year since then we've sent her a rose and the same note on Cupid Day. The only note she's ever received from anyone, as far as I know. Maybe next year, but probably not. Maybe next year, but probably not.

Normally I would feel bad, but Juliet deserves her nickname. She's a freak. Rumor has it that she was once found by her parents on Route 84, stark naked at three A.M. A.M., straddling the highway divider. Last year Lacey Kennedy said she saw Juliet in the bathroom by the science wing, stroking her hair over and over and staring at her reflection. And Juliet never says a word. Hasn't for years, as far as I know.

Lindsay hates her. I think Lindsay and Juliet were in a couple of the same elementary school cla.s.ses, and for all I know Lindsay has hated her since then. She makes the sign of the cross whenever Juliet's around, like Juliet might somehow go vampire and make a lunge for Lindsay's throat.

It was Lindsay who found out Juliet peed her sleeping bag during a Girl Scout camping trip in fifth grade, and Lindsay who gave her the nickname Mellow Yellow. People called Juliet that forever-until the end of freshman year, if you can believe it-and stayed away from her because they said she smelled like pee.

I'm looking out the window and I watch Juliet's hair flash in the sunlight like it's catching fire. There's darkness on the horizon, a smudge where the storm is growing. It occurs to me for the first time that I'm not exactly sure why Lindsay started hating Juliet in the first place, or when. I open my mouth to ask her, but they've already moved on to other topics.

"-catfight," Elody finishes, and Ally giggles.

"I'm terrified," Lindsay says sarcastically. Clearly I've missed something.

"What's going on?" I say.

Elody turns to me. "Sarah Grundel is going around saying Lindsay ruined her life." I have to wait while Elody folds a fry expertly into her mouth. "She can't swim in the quarter finals. And you know she lives for that s.h.i.t. Remember when she forgot to take her goggles off after morning practice and she wore them until second period?"

"She probably keeps all of her blue ribbons on a wall in her room," Ally says.

"Sam used to do that. Didn't you, Sam? All those ribbons for playing with horsies." Lindsay elbows me.

"Can we get back to the point?" I wave my hands, partly because I want to hear the story, partly to take the attention off me and the fact that I used to be a dork. When I was in fifth grade, I spent more time with horses than with members of my own species. "I still don't get why Sarah's p.i.s.sed at Lindsay."

Elody rolls her eyes at me like I belong at the special ed table. "Sarah got detention-she was late to homeroom for, like, the fifth time in two weeks." I'm still not getting it and she heaves a sigh. "She was late to homeroom because she had to park in Upper Lot and haul a.s.s-"

".22 miles!"

We all bust it out at the same time and then start giggling like maniacs.

"Don't worry, Lindz," I say. "If you guys throw down I'm totally putting money on you."

"Yeah, we've got your back," Elody says.

"Isn't it kind of weird how that stuff happens?" Ally says in this shy voice she gets when she's trying to say something serious. "How everything spirals out from everything else? Like, if Lindsay hadn't stolen that parking s.p.a.ce..."

"I didn't steal it. I got it fair and square," Lindsay protests, bringing her hand down on the table for emphasis. Elody's Diet c.o.ke sloshes over the side of the can, soaking some fries. This makes us start laughing again.

"I'm serious!" Ally raises her voice to be heard over us. "It's like a web, you know? Everything's connected."

"Have you been breaking into your dad's stash again, Al?" Elody says.

This is all it takes to really get us going. This is a joke we've had with Ally for years because her dad works in the music industry. He's a lawyer, not a producer or manager or musician or anything, and he wears a suit everywhere (even to the pool in the summer), but Lindsay claims he's secretly a hippie stoner.

As we're laughing, doubling over, Ally turns pink. "You guys never listen to me," she says, but she's fighting a smile. She takes a fry and throws it at Elody. "I read once that if a bunch of b.u.t.terflies takes off from Thailand, it can cause a rainstorm in New York."

"Yeah, well, one of your farts could cause a ma.s.sive blackout in Portugal." Elody giggles, throwing a fry back.

"Your morning breath could cause a stampede in Africa." Ally leans forward. "And I do not not fart." fart."

Lindsay and I are laughing, and Elody and Ally keep throwing fries back and forth. Lindsay tries to say they're wasting perfectly good grease, but she's snorting so hard she can barely get the words out.

Finally she sucks in a deep breath and chokes out, "You know what I heard? That if you sneeze enough you can cause a tornado in Iowa."

Even Ally goes crazy at this, and suddenly we're all trying it, laughing and sneezing and snorting at the same time. Everybody's staring at us, but we don't care.

After about a million sneezes, Lindsay leans back in her chair, clutching her stomach and gasping for breath.

"Thirty dead in Iowa tornadoes," she gets out, "another fifty missing."

This sets us off again.

Lindsay and I decide to cut seventh period and go to TCBY. Lindsay has French, which she can't stand, and I have English. We cut seventh period a lot together. We're second-semester seniors, so it's like we're expected not not to go to cla.s.s. Plus I hate my English teacher, Mrs. Harbor. She's always going off on tangents. Sometimes I'll zone out for a few minutes, and all of a sudden she'll be talking about underwear in the eighteenth century or oppression in Africa or the way the sun looks rising over the Grand Canyon. Even though she's probably only in her fifties, I'm pretty sure she's losing it. That's how it started with my grandmother: ideas swirling around and colliding with each other, causes coming after effects, and point A switched with point B. When my grandmother was still alive we would visit her, and even though I was no more than six, I remember thinking: to go to cla.s.s. Plus I hate my English teacher, Mrs. Harbor. She's always going off on tangents. Sometimes I'll zone out for a few minutes, and all of a sudden she'll be talking about underwear in the eighteenth century or oppression in Africa or the way the sun looks rising over the Grand Canyon. Even though she's probably only in her fifties, I'm pretty sure she's losing it. That's how it started with my grandmother: ideas swirling around and colliding with each other, causes coming after effects, and point A switched with point B. When my grandmother was still alive we would visit her, and even though I was no more than six, I remember thinking: I hope I die young. I hope I die young.

There's a definition of irony for you, Mrs. Harbor.

Or maybe foreshadowing?

Technically you need a special pa.s.s signed by your parents and the administration to leave campus during the school day. This wasn't always true. For a long time one of the perks to being a senior was getting to leave campus whenever you wanted, as long as you had a free period. That was twenty years ago, though, a few years before Thomas Jefferson got the reputation for one of the highest teen suicide rates in the country. We looked up the article online once: the Connecticut Post Connecticut Post called us Suicide High. called us Suicide High.

And then one day a bunch of kids left campus and drove off a bridge-a suicide pact, I guess. Anyway, after that the school forbade anyone from leaving school during the day without special permission. It's kind of stupid if you think about it. That's like finding out that kids are bringing vodka to school in water bottles and forbidding anyone to drink water.

Fortunately, there's another way to get off campus: through a hole in the fence beyond the gym by the tennis court, which we call the Smokers' Lounge, since that's where all the smokers hang out. No one's around, though, when Lindsay and I slip through the fence and get started across the woods. In a little while we'll come on to Route 120. Everything is still and frozen. Twigs and black leaves crack under our shoes, and our breath rises in solid white puffs.

Thomas Jefferson is about three miles outside of downtown Ridgeview-or what you can call the downtown-but only about a half mile from a small strip of dingy stores we've named the Row. There's a gas station, a TCBY, a Chinese restaurant that once made Elody sick for two days, and a random Hallmark store where you can buy pink glittery ballerina figurines and snow globes and c.r.a.p like that. That's where we head. I know we must look like total freaks, stomping along the road in our skirts and tights, our jackets flapping open to show off our fur-trimmed tank tops.

We pa.s.s Hunan Kitchen on our way to TCBY. Through the grime-coated windows we spot Alex Liment and Anna Cartullo bent over a bowl of something.

"Ooo, scandal," Lindsay says, raising her eyebrows, although it's really only a half scandal. Everyone knows that Alex has been cheating on Bridget McGuire with Anna for the past three months. Everyone except Bridget, obviously.

Bridget's family is super-Catholic. She's pretty and really clean-looking, like every time you see her she's just scrubbed her face really hard. Apparently she's saving herself for marriage. That's what she says, anyway, although Elody thinks Bridget might be a closet lesbo. Anna Cartullo is only a junior, but if the rumors are true she's already had s.e.x with at least four people. She's one of the few kids in Ridgeview who doesn't come from any money. Her mom's a hairdresser, and I don't even know if she has a dad. She lives in one of the s.h.i.tty rental condos right off the Row. I once heard Andrew Singer saying her bedroom always smelled like General Tso's chicken.

"Let's go in and say hi," Lindsay says, reaching for my hand.

I hang back. "I'm going through sugar withdrawal."