"A psycho who wants his son to be a stud, maybe. Did I ever mention he got voted Best Looking and Most Datable in high school?"

"About a thousand times," she drones.

"He expects me to be just like him," he continues.

"Furry, fat, and bald?" she asks. "Honestly, try the self-tanner. Then we'll work on getting you a date."

When I arrive home, Matt is already waiting at the dining room table for our study session.

"Am I late?" I ask, checking my watch. It's barely six thirty.

He shakes his head. "Your mom let me in. I just thought we'd get a head start."

"Didn't you have a date earlier?"

He nods and flips a page in his book, snacking from a bowlful of what appears to be soy b.u.t.terdrizzled popcorn, my mother's signature snack.

And so, before I can even say, "parlez-vous pain-in-the-b.u.t.t?" we get right down to it, our elbows deep in pain-in-the-b.u.t.t?" we get right down to it, our elbows deep in la grammaire fantastique la grammaire fantastique.

"It just doesn't make any sense." Matt sighs.

"Why don't we move on to vocab?" I suggest, after a good hour and a half of phrase-and-clause h.e.l.l.

Matt agrees, and we spend the next half hour going over la liste la liste. "I think you're ready," I say, slamming his book shut.

"I don't." He lets out another sigh.

"Quick, how do you say 'movie star'?"

"Cinephile?"

"No." I flick a popcorn kernel at his forehead. "A cinephile cinephile is a person who frequents the movies. A is a person who frequents the movies. A vedette vedette is a movie star." is a movie star."

"Right." He nods.

"Speaking of movies," I segue, "how was your hot date with Rena this afternoon? Did she do that hyena giggling thing?" Last year in gym cla.s.s, she practically had to get mouth-to-mouth from laughing so hard at Mr. Muse in his spandex biker shorts.

"Do I detect an air of jealousy?"

"What you detect is mere curiosity," I say, correcting him.

"How do you you think it went?" He glances at my mouth as I chew. think it went?" He glances at my mouth as I chew.

"I don't know," I say, remembering how Kimmie said she didn't believe they were dating at all. "You're eating my mom's popcorn, aren't you?"

"And what does that have to do with anything?"

"Who eats the soy-b.u.t.tered organic blend after going to the movies, where there's tubfuls of the good stuff? Not to mention the fact that you were here early. . . ."

"So?"

"So my guess is that you didn't even go. Am I right?"

"Nope," he says with a smirk. "Rena and I caught an early show and feasted on gummy worms and nacho chips. But I'll give you an A for effort."

"I guess there's no kissing and telling with you, huh?"

"I think your parentals do enough kissing for the both of us." He gestures to the sofa in the next room, where my mom and dad are snuggled up. Dad is stroking my mom's hair and nuzzling her neck, but my mom has this faraway stare, like she's someplace else entirely.

"Seriously, could my parents be any more mortifying?" I ask, trying to keep things light.

"Your dad's a lucky guy."

For environmental reasons, they only had one child- me-but at the rate they were going, I'm guessing they could have had dozens.

"Remember when we caught them making out in the backseat of your mom's SUV?" he continues.

"My parents have this philosophy that Americans are way too reserved. And so they feel a social responsibility to display themselves pawing all over each other whenever the occasion arises-to cure America of its prudishness."

"Makes sense to me." He smiles and wipes a stray piece of popcorn from my cheek.

"Very glamorous," I joke, grabbing a napkin.

He smiles a little more broadly. His teal blue eyes match his shirt.

"Want to watch TV?" I suggest, suddenly sensing a bit of awkwardness between us.

"Actually, I should probably get going."

"Are you sure?" I ask, almost reluctant to see him leave.

He nods and fishes through the side pocket of his backpack. "Before I forget, I have something to show you." He pulls forth not one, but two article clippings that detail the events of the so-called murder that Ben was allegedly involved in. "I told you I'd get the scoop."

"Wait-where did you get these?"

"First, answer my question. Is it true about what happened in lab-did he really grab you?"

"It was nothing," I say, anxiously perusing the articles.

Both of them basically state that two minors, a male and a female, both age fifteen, went on a hiking trip one day, two years ago, and that the girl fell from a cliff and died instantly. "So, it was an accident."

Matt shrugs. "I hear there's a lot more to it."

"Like what?" I ask, noticing there are no names listed in the articles. "And how do you even know it's him?"

"Like I said, I've been hearing stuff."

"Hearing from who?"

"Whom, not who," he says, to be funny. "I may suck at French, but I'm good in English." not who," he says, to be funny. "I may suck at French, but I'm good in English."

"And?"

"And I don't know." He shrugs again. "Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley, Princ.i.p.al Snell's secretary, has a friend who lives in the town where it happened. That's how all the details leaked out in the first place."

"What details?"

"That Ben pushed her, that he has a history of violence. And that this wouldn't have been the first time he laid his hands on her."

"He laid his hands on her?" I repeat, the words getting caught in my throat.

"I don't know," Matt repeats. "That's just what I heard."

"So, why isn't he in jail?"

He shakes his head. "He was arrested, and there was a trial, but there were no witnesses, and they didn't have enough proof."

"Even with a history of violence?"

Matt shrugs. "I know. It doesn't make sense, which is why everyone was p.i.s.sed about the outcome. They thought he was guilty."

"But the judge and jury didn't?"

"Not that it mattered. Ben got so ridiculed after the trial that he ended up dropping out of school. What he's doing here is beyond me."

I sink back in my seat, feeling a knot form in my gut.

"Are you okay?" He reaches out to touch my arm.

I nod and look away.

"Just keep your distance," Matt continues, his eyes full of concern.

"He's my lab partner, remember?"

"So, can't you ask to switch?"

"Don't worry," I say, getting up from the table. "I won't let him lay a hand on me." And just as the words escape my lips, I can't help noticing the irony of it all- since it was just a couple of days ago, when Ben clasped my wrist and made my heart swell, that I didn't want him to ever let go.

18.

It's Tuesday morning, just before the first bell, and I'm sitting outside on one of the benches that overlook the Tree-Hugger Society's prize-winning garden, eating the remainder of the whole-grain granola bar that my mother insisted I take with me this morning. A bunch of people pa.s.s by me on their way inside and, though I've resolved to put the whole photo issue out of my mind, I can't help wondering who the jokester is, and whether he or she might be lurking somewhere now, camera in hand.

John Kenneally, Kimmie's flavor of the week, waves to me as he drives around to the parking lot behind the school. And so does Kimmie herself, her 1920s flapper boa flailing out the window of Wes's car.

With only two bites left, I hear it-him. Ben's motorcycle pulls into the traffic circle with a rumble. But, instead of driving past me, he stops, removes his helmet, and raises his hand to wave.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks, approaching me.

I flash him my granola bar. "Just having a little breakfast before the bell rings. Want a bite?"

He shakes his head. "I was actually hoping we could talk."

"Sure," I say, thinking back to everything Matt told me last night, and suddenly feeling a slight twinge in my stomach.

Ben sits down beside me on the bench.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, trying to sound calm.

He nods and looks off toward the garden. "I just wanted to say, sorry about what happened the other day in chemistry."

"Did you get in trouble?"

He shrugs. "Detention for a week, starting tomorrow."

"That seems harsh."

"Everything at this school seems harsh."

I bite my lip, unsurprised by his perception of this tiny-town place.

"So, I suppose you've heard some stuff about me," he continues.

"A little."

"Care to elaborate?"

I shrug and follow his gaze, still focused on the garden. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Maybe another time," he says, finally turning to look at me. "I just thought, since we have to work together and all, we should probably start over."

"What do you mean?"

He gazes at my hair, noticing maybe how I've got it pulled into two artfully messed-up braids. "You know, like we never met."

"Like you never saved my life?"

He smiles slightly; the corners of his pale pink lips curl up. "Something like that," he says, staring at my mouth now.