I shrug, feeling my face flash hot.

"So, what was your inspiration?" he continues.

I wipe my hands and pull out my drawing pad, where I've sketched it all out. "It's a spiral staircase," I say, referring to the crude pencil drawing. "I was hoping I could replicate it in a pot."

"Do you always put so much time into your plans?"

I nod, trying to get my handle just so. It keeps drooping from the weight of the twist. "I like knowing where I'm going before I even begin. It's sort of like having a map."

"Maybe that's your problem."

Problem? My face falls, just as saggily as my pot handle.

"You plan too much," he continues. "You don't let the work guide you. Maybe the piece doesn't want to be a staircase. Maybe it wants to be a slide."

"In other words, my pot doesn't work?"

"It doesn't have a pulse," he says.

"I have a pulse." Kimmie offers him her wrist. "Wanna check?" have a pulse." Kimmie offers him her wrist. "Wanna check?"

Spencer shakes his head, suggesting to Kimmie that she worry less about her pulse and more about her lack of focus.

"Can you believe that a.s.s?" she says, once he's out of earshot. She murders her clay worm with a wooden spatula.

I shake my head and chew my bottom lip, my face grew hot from the sting of his words.

"Oh, puh-leeze," she says, obviously noticing my funk. "I wouldn't put much stock into what he said. He's obviously just being p.i.s.sy because you didn't play in his sandbox after school."

"Excuse me?"

"Because you didn't stick around to chat with him in the studio the other day." She rolls her eyes, frustrated at having to explain this to me.

I shrug, watching as my handle falls off completely.

"Maybe he's the one who left that gift," she continues. "I mean, he obviously wants to see you in your pj's."

"And tell me, oh, wise one, why is that obvious?"

"Hmmm. . . . I wonder," she says, nodding toward the front of the room, where Spencer is sitting at Ms. Mazur's desk, staring right at us.

26.

I'm just about to join Kimmie and Wes in the cafeteria for lunch when Matt crosses my path from out of nowhere, not even two steps past the soda machines. "A ninety-eight," he beams. "Huh?" I ask, feeling my face twist up. "On the French quiz," he explains, giving his back a good pat. "It would have been a hundred, but I screwed up with the le-la- le-la-masculine-feminine thing."

"That's great," I say, "about the ninety-eight, I mean."

"So, where have you been? I've been trying to call you.

I wanted to give you the good news."

"Right," I say, suddenly remembering how my mom mentioned that he'd been trying to reach me. "Things have been sort of intense lately."

"Anything you want to talk about?"

I shake my head and peer over his shoulder, noticing Kimmie and Wes already sitting in our designated spots.

I wave, and Kimmie gives me a thumbs-up, but Wes, obviously still miffed about our last conversation, barely even nods in what would have to be the saddest attempt at a nonverbal greeting ever.

"So, I hate to ask you this," Matt continues, "but, any chance you can help me again for the next quiz? I mean, I know it's a ha.s.sle, so if you want, I can pay you."

"No," I say. "It's fine."

"Are you sure?"

He continues to jabber on-something about not wanting to let his grades slip and some scholarship he's applying for. I'm only half listening.

Because Ben just walked in.

He takes a seat in the corner, but he isn't eating. Instead, he opens a book and starts to write something, but I can tell he's faking it, because he's staring right at me now.

"You still fixated on that guy?" Matt asks, following my glance.

I shake my head, reluctant to tell him about our date, especially since I doubt we'll be going on anymore. "I guess I didn't realize he had this lunch period," I say, practically stuttering.

"Probably because he spends most of his lunch periods in the library-at least, that's what I heard. I also heard that parents have been calling the school like crazy to get him kicked out."

"For real?"

"It's not exactly a secret. Didn't you hear about that freshman girl-Dorothy, or Daisy, or something like that. . . ? She said he was following her the other day. She made a big scene about it-started crying and saying her parents were going to sue. Everybody wants him gone."

"Apparently so," I say, motioning to John Kenneally and a pack of his soccer buddies. They're standing in a huddle just a few feet behind Ben.

"What do you think they're up to?" Matt asks.

I shake my head just as John approaches Ben, soup bowl in hand. He pauses right behind him to await more attention.

And it works. People start snickering. The lemmings are pointing. Mr. Muse, the gym teacher, turns his back, pretending not to see anything.

John raises the bowl high above Ben's head.

"No!" I shout, from somewhere deep inside me-I have no idea if the word actually comes out.

By the time Ben notices, it's too late. John has dumped tomato soup down the front of Ben's shirt. It drips down in a muted red patch, covering Ben's chest, as if his heart were bleeding out.

Someone yells out that Ben murdered another girlfriend. Someone else coughs out the words killer go home killer go home. And it's high fives all around for John Kenneally and his cohorts.

Still, Ben doesn't fight back. He merely wipes his shirt and sits there, pretending none of this bothers him.

It bothers me, though.

And so, without even thinking, I grab a stack of napkins and head over to his table. "Can I join you?" I ask Ben, sitting down before he can answer.

"I don't think I'll be sticking around," he says.

"You're not going to let them get to you, are you?" I motion to John and his friends, including Davis Miller, my guitar-playing neighbor, now sitting at the next table over. Davis glares at me with those giant brown eyes, wondering, maybe, why I'm sitting here.

And maybe I'm wondering the same thing.

"Why do you think I'm being as calm as I am?" Ben asks.

"Good question. Why are you being this calm?"

"Because they expect something else. But I won't give them that. I won't give them a reason to expel me. I need to be here."

"Need?"

He nods. "By the way, you're not having the soup today, are you?"

"I think you've probably had enough for everybody," I say, pa.s.sing him the stack of napkins.

"You don't have to do this."

"You're covered in Campbell soup heinousness," I say. "It looks like you could use a little help."

"No. I mean, you don't have to do this this-commit social suicide over me."

I glance over at Kimmie and Wes, a full five tables away. Kimmie tosses her hands up, silently asking me what I'm doing. But I look away.

"I'm not the one who needs saving, remember?" he continues.

"You mean, what happened in the parking lot?"

He stops wiping his shirt and leans in close. "I mean what's going to happen if you're not careful."

"Are you the one who called me Sat.u.r.day night?"

He shakes his head, his eyes widening. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"No," I say. "There's something that you you need to tell need to tell me me. What were you thinking by showing up at my house and telling me my life is in danger? That's not exactly normal, you know."

"I was thinking I want to help you."

"Well, you have a funny way of showing it."

"I'm not your enemy here, Camelia."

"Did you leave me that gift and the note?"

His face knots up in confusion. "What gift? What note?"

I take a deep breath, trying to be calm, but my heart is pounding, and I keep fidgeting in my seat. "Is this some weird plan of yours to try and get close to me?"

"I want to help you," he repeats.

I look around the cafeteria, noticing how the commotion has eased up a bit.

"You have something to tell me, don't you?" he asks.

"I don't know." I glance up at the clock. Only three minutes before the bell rings.

"How about we get together tonight? Will you be free around six?"

"I have to work."

"Then how about tomorrow?"

I shake my head, suddenly feeling the urge to flee.

"Just say yes," he insists.

"I can't."

"Is it because you're afraid of me?"

I bite my bottom lip, not knowing what the right answer even is. Ben tries to touch my forearm, but I pull away just in time.

"I have to go." I get up from the table.

"That isn't an answer. Come meet me tonight."

I shake my head and turn away, before he has the chance to ask me anything else.

Before I have the chance to change my answer to yes.

27.

What was she thinking with that scene in the cafeteria? I know she did it for attention.