Before he can answer, I reach my hand across the table. Ben closes his eyes, and I run my fingers over the lines in his palm. His skin is rough and callused beneath my fingertips.

"Don't," he whispers.

Still, I slide my hand back and forth over his, imagining what he senses right now-if he can feel the boiling inside me.

His eyes are still closed, and I can see the urgency in his hand. His fingers curl up, like he wants to grab me.

"Sorry." I pull away.

He opens his eyes. "You have no idea how hard this is for me."

"Which part . . . holding on or letting go?"

"Both."

I feel my lips part, suddenly conscious of my every move.

"You have no idea how hard it was for me that day in the parking lot," he continues. "It took everything I had not to touch you too hard."

I rest my hand over my stomach. "You didn't hurt me," I a.s.sure him.

"I'm glad." He smiles.

I take a bite of French toast, trying to get my mind off this aching inside my bones. Ben starts to eat, too. He chews in silence, staring out the window, maybe trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness between us.

But I can't ignore it. And so I drop my fork to the plate with a clang.

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

I shake my head, feeling my face flash hot before I can even get the words out. "I was just kind of wondering . . ."

"Yeah?"

"I was just kind of wondering," I repeat. "How long will I have to wait before you touch me again?"

Ben stares at me for several seconds without saying anything.

And then he touches me.

His fingers glide along my forearm and then clasp my wrist, sending an electric current down my back. He takes in a long full breath to keep himself in check. Still, his forehead is sweating, and he's shaking all over.

He stares down at our hands, clasped together like two parts of a ceramic mold. "I should probably get you home," he says, finally letting go. "It's been a long day, hasn't it?"

I agree, secretly wishing the day could be longer.

36.

It's the following morning, about twenty minutes before the warning bell, and I'm actually relieved to be in school.

I don't think Mom slept at all last night. And neither did I. While she was busy pacing back and forth in the kitchen, drinking cup after cup of her dandelion tea, I lay in bed with my light on and the door open a crack, completely freaked out.

At breakfast, I tried to ask Mom about Aunt Alexia, but she wasn't up for talking. Nor was Dad. Both just sort of sat at the table, staring off into s.p.a.ce-Dad with his coffee and Mom with more tea. Neither mentioned anything about me wanting to talk last night.

Neither ever noticed that I sneaked away.

The corridors at school are eerily deserted this morning. I look out my homeroom window, curious about whether there's been a fire drill, expecting to see rows of students lined up in the parking lot. Instead, there are swarms of people hanging around by the football field. And so I head out there, too, not quite prepared for what I see.

Polly Piranha, the school's mascot, has once again been vandalized. Someone's changed the words that float above her fins from Freetown High, Home of the Piranhas Freetown High, Home of the Piranhas to to Freetown High, Home of the Convicted Murderer Freetown High, Home of the Convicted Murderer.

I look around for Ben, wondering if he's seen it. Meanwhile, a group of freshman boys is practically in st.i.tches on the sideline. And they're not the only ones. People are laughing. Boys are high-fiving. Groups of girls are giggling between whispers.

I turn to go back inside when I spot a mob of people crowded around a freshman girl. She looks upset. Her face is red, and there are tears streaming down her cheeks. I get close so I can listen in. They're asking her questions about Ben-about the notes he's supposedly left on her locker, the way he's been following her around, and how he's allegedly been staring her down in history cla.s.s.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she says, tucking her fists into the pockets of her coat.

I move to the front of the crowd, until the girl and I are face to face.

"What?" she asks, giving me the once-over. she asks, giving me the once-over.

"Is your name Debbie?" I ask.

"Who wants to know?"

"I do," I say, taking a step closer.

She shuffles her feet and continues to study me; her deep brown eyes look me up and down.

I hand her a tissue from my bag. "Are you Debbie Marcus?" I ask.

She takes the tissue and wipes her face. There's a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. "Yeah," she says, finally.

"Well, then, can we talk a minute . . . over there?" I gesture to a spot behind a row of parked cars.

Debbie tucks her curly auburn locks behind her ears and then returns her hands to her pockets. "I guess so," she says, still sniffling.

We move away from the crowd, making sure no one follows.

"Is it true what I've been hearing?" I ask once we're behind the school van.

"If you're referring to the way Ben Carter's been hara.s.sing me, the answer is yes."

"Can you be a bit more specific?"

"About the hara.s.sment?"

I nod, noticing that her neck is all blotchy with hives.

"It all started in history cla.s.s," she says. "He kept staring at me, like he was trying to psych me out."

"Did he touch you?"

"Touch me?" She c.o.c.ks her head, visibly confused.

"I mean, did he grab you, or b.u.mp into you in any weird way?"

She looks back at me, completely puzzled. "He keeps his distance. He has some bizarro phobia, you know."

I manage a nod.

"But that doesn't keep him from watching me," she continues. "It doesn't keep him from leaving notes on my locker, or following me home."

"He followed you home?"

She nods. "A friend of mine spotted him sitting in the bushes across the street from my house."

"Did you do anything about it?"

"Of course I did. I told my parents; they called the school; my dad consulted a lawyer."

"And?"

"And what's it to you?" she asks, her lips bunching up. "Why are you asking me all this?"

"I'm just trying to figure things out." I look back toward the sign-and the word Murderer Murderer.

"What's there to figure out? The guy murdered his girlfriend."

"He wasn't found guilty."

"Because the judicial system is stupid. The police told my dad there's nothing we can do about him-that he has rights, that there's nothing illegal about looking at someone or even watching their house."

"You called the police?" I ask, remembering how Ben suggested that I do the same.

"Well, yeah, we called them. He was hiding in the bushes," she reminds me.

"Did you actually see him?"

"I didn't have to." She shrugs. "My friend saw him. She said he didn't even try to hide the fact that he was there. He just sort of sat there, huddled up, watching her watch him, like part of him enjoyed it. Like he didn't even care about getting caught."

"And, so, did did you catch him? Did you go out there?" you catch him? Did you go out there?"

"My dad went out, but Ben was already gone. You could totally tell where he was hiding, though. My neighbor's bush was all mangled and broken. Apparently not evidence enough, though, even with with my friend's word. He has to do something my friend's word. He has to do something big big for the police take us seriously." for the police take us seriously."

"Something big?"

"Be careful," she warns me. "And watch your back, if you know what I mean." She peers over my shoulder, where a group of onlookers is forming.

"No." I take a step closer. "What do you mean?"

"I can't talk right now," she says, superconscious of the crowd. "But if you don't believe me about what's going on, just check this out." She pulls a note from her coat pocket and hands it to me. "It was taped up on my locker this morning."

I unfold it and stare down at the message. The words You're Next! You're Next! are scribbled across the page in black ink. are scribbled across the page in black ink.

37.

Before I go back inside, I spot Kimmie and Wes sitting outside in the courtyard across the lawn. Kimmie waves, and I head over to join them, slightly taken aback by her outfit du jour. There's a pink studded choker fastened around her neck. An actual dog leash is attached to it, which in turn hooks on to her matching pink gumball ring.

"It's from my Princess S-and-M line," she explains.

"Where were you last night?" I ask.

"Sorry," she says. "After I got back from your house, I got into a huge fight with my parents for going out at all. They sequestered me in my bedroom sans cell phone."

"What about the library?"

"Um, what library?"

"Your mom said that's where you went."

Kimmie shakes her head. "I was home. I have the designs to prove it-a strappy dress with beaded fringe and leather detail. I call it Roaring Twenties Meets Today's Vampy Vixen. "

"Or you could simply call it ugly," Wes suggests.

"I bet she just said that so she wouldn't have to come get me in my room," Kimmie continues. "The woman was a raving loony last night."

"And I have the bite marks to prove it," Wes jokes.

"I guess . . ." I mutter, not knowing what else to say- or what to believe.

"This school is lame," Wes says. "I mean, check it out." He gestures toward the sign with his Slurpee. "They didn't even spell murderer murderer right." right."

"Um, yes they did," Kimmie says.