"s.h.i.t," Melanie says. "Caitlin, do you you have a cigarette?" have a cigarette?"

I a.s.sume that she's already asked everyone else there. I'm her last chance.

"Sorry," I tell her.

And for some reason, that breaks the ice.

"So, you were, like, best friends with Ingrid Bauer, right?" Metallica Girl asks.

"Yeah."

Oily-Hair Guy asks, "Did you know she was gonna do it? Like, did she tell you about it first?"

He says this like it's a completely normal question, like it's fine to ask people you don't know to tell you the details of the worst things that ever happened to them. It catches me off guard. I don't know how to react, so I just answer him.

"No."

"Too bad for you," says Metallica Girl.

The guy says, "I heard she slashed her wrists, right? That's awesome. It's not like just offing yourself with a gun or like carbon monoxide or something. Cutting yourself that f.u.c.king deep takes b.a.l.l.s, you know?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

One of the cardplayers, still looking down at his cards, says, "My cousin's boyfriend threw himself off the Golden Gate Bridge, which is pretty sick, but I agree: it's easier than wrist slashing. You have to cut all the way through the tendon, you know. Most people get weak and pa.s.s out while they're doing it."

"What makes you such an expert?" Metallica Girl snaps.

"I was seriously considering doing it," the boy says, pushing up his gla.s.ses. "In eighth grade. I did a little research."

"You f.u.c.king loser," says the other cardplayer. "You f.u.c.king s.h.i.thead loser. No one does research research."

I have no idea who these people are. I look at Melanie. She's digging through Oily-Hair Boy's backpack now.

"Stop it," he whines.

The baseball field stretches in front of us-perfectly mowed lawn, neat brown mounds of dirt at the bases. I imagine myself walking to the middle of it and collapsing there. I see a scene play out like in those movies where they speed up time; where you see a plant sprout through dirt, bloom, and die in less than a minute. Except this time it moves backward. I fall asleep on the field; the blue sky turns gray then purple then black. The stars come out. The moon goes down. The sun rises. A year undoes itself. I move a little. I'm wearing different clothes, last year's clothes. The warning bell rings. I stand, reach for my backpack. It's lighter. I walk to first period, sit down next to Ingrid.

Melanie jumps to her feet, shattering my fantasy. She yells, "I need a cigarette!" "I need a cigarette!" And I have no idea what pa.s.sed between us that day at the mall, because I don't feel anything now. And I have no idea what pa.s.sed between us that day at the mall, because I don't feel anything now.

I don't want to hear another word that any of them say, so I lift my heavy backpack to my shoulders and start down the bleachers.

"See you later," I mumble, and manage to get through the fence without snagging anything. It isn't much of a victory, but at this moment it feels close.

3.

Dylan isn't in cla.s.s yet when I walk into English. I sit in my usual seat, get out the anthology, and force myself not to look up when people enter the room. They walk right past me, and I still keep my head down. Then I hear footsteps, and I know they're hers. She pauses right by my desk, probably waiting for me to look up. When I don't move, she sits behind me where she usually does.

"Hey," she says. "Where were you?"

She doesn't sound angry, and I realize that it isn't too late to turn back-I could think of some convincing excuse. I could say I'm sorry.

But I stay concentrated on the page. I don't even know what I'm looking at. Some poem. My eyes are so tired they won't focus on the words.

"I ran into some people," I say, and with that sentence, the damage is done.

"Who?" Dylan asks, now sounding p.i.s.sed off.

"Just some people."

She doesn't say anything. I know that I should turn around and face her, but I don't.

Finally, I hear her mutter, "Whatever." The metal creaks as she leans back, hard, in her chair.

Soon Mr. Robertson comes in and starts lecturing. All through cla.s.s Dylan swings her foot back and forth, kicking the leg of her desk with her boot, and even though I can hardly feel it, I want to flinch each time she makes contact.

The period pa.s.ses agonizingly. As soon as the bell rings, Dylan grabs her stuff and storms out without looking back. I take my time getting to my locker, and by the time I make it to the science building, Dylan is gone.

4.

Vista High School has tons of money, way more money than it could ever need. Because all the parents in Los Cerros are so rich, they're always writing checks to the school to fund the musicals, or the dances, or the smart kids' trips to Europe, where they tour museums by day and get drunk and go dancing at night. On one hand, it's pretty nice that we can have basically everything we want, but on the other, it makes me kind of uncomfortable. Amanda, Davey's fiancee, teaches history in the city and the books they use are so old that the covers have fallen off.

Sometimes, I feel a little guilty about all the stuff we have-our brand-new textbooks, the indoor swimming pool, the never-ending supply of photo paper and film. But at this moment I'm feeling pretty good about it all, because I'm hiding out in a shiny new bathroom that no one seems to know about yet. It seems completely unnecessary. It's between the math hall and the science hall, both of which also have bathrooms. But I'm not complaining. I'm sitting in an impossibly clean stall with the door shut, just in case someone comes in. Lunch is half over, and I'm a few pages into my treehouse book. It says that I'm going to need bolts, because nails and screws aren't strong enough.

On a piece of binder paper, I've sketched a plan. It's a view from the top of the tree, looking down. The trunk is in the middle, and around it is the floor-a hexagon. I'm not sure yet how long each side will be, or how wide, but I want it to be pretty big, not the kind of treehouse you feel like you have to get down and crawl around in. I want to be able to walk from side to side, to have an armchair in one corner, and a table with two more chairs against a wall. I know I want it to have lots of openings so daylight and air can come in. I'll have to think of a way to close the openings, though, in case it rains.

When the bell rings, and lunch is over, I decide to come back here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. I tell myself it really isn't that bad.

5.

Taylor and I sit on the soccer field, looking through one of the huge mathematician books he checked out from the library.

"This guy looks kind of cool," he says. "He was obsessed with clocks."

I'm trying to pay attention to what he's saying, but whenever I glance at the book I end up noticing how his eyelashes turn white at the tips. I keep forcing myself to resist touching them.

"Oh, crazy! This one guy went to prison for fraud!"

I reach over to grab one of the books and my knee presses against his. He doesn't pull away, doesn't even seem to notice. I feel my face getting hot. I open the book and try to focus. All I can do is wonder if Taylor knows that our knees are touching. I move mine away, just the tiniest bit.

Taylor and I already decided that we don't really care about finding a mathematician who discovered some amazing concept, we just want to find one who had an interesting life. I look down at the millimeter of s.p.a.ce between Taylor's knee and mine, and start to read.

These books are full of boring information, like where certain mathematicians were born, and who they married, and what concepts they thought of and named after themselves. Then a word captures my attention: pirate pirate.

"Hey, look at this," I say, and Taylor pushes his knee back against mine, leans closer until we're touching in so many places, puts his face so close to my face that I can feel him breathing, and starts to read where I point. I can tell that he's concentrating, but there's no way I I can with him so close to me, so I glance up from the book for a second. Dylan is walking toward the parking lot with Marjorie Klein. can with him so close to me, so I glance up from the book for a second. Dylan is walking toward the parking lot with Marjorie Klein.

There are three kinds of outsiders at my school: the outsiders who everyone thinks are lame and nerdy, the outsiders who everyone looks at and thinks, That kid looks That kid looks vaguely vaguely familiar, familiar, and the outsiders who are only outsiders because no one else is quite like them. Marjorie is the third kind, the best kind. Last year she tied with Ingrid for "most artistic." and the outsiders who are only outsiders because no one else is quite like them. Marjorie is the third kind, the best kind. Last year she tied with Ingrid for "most artistic."

Dylan and I haven't talked for over two weeks now. She's started sitting across the room from me in English, and ignores me whenever we're at our lockers together. Now she and Marjorie are gesturing like they're having this really great conversation, and I feel my body sink into the ground. Dylan says something and Marjorie laughs, and I wonder what great joke she made, and suddenly everything that was good about sitting here with Taylor is ruined. All I can think of is Dylan's boot kicking her desk, and the way she left cla.s.s that day without looking at me.

"This guy looks awesome," Taylor's saying. "We should definitely choose this guy."

I look back down at the page. Jacques DeSoir Jacques DeSoir.

"How cool is this," Taylor says. "A French renegade pirate mathematician."

Dylan and Marjorie are getting farther and farther away.

"I have to go," I say.

"Already?"

"My parents will want me home," I tell him, but really, I just need to get this image of Dylan and Marjorie out of my head.

"Want a ride?" Taylor asks.

"Okay," I say. "Thanks."

We head toward the parking lot, following far behind Dylan and Marjorie. Once we get there, I lose sight of them in the rows of cars.

"So we should have a map," Taylor says, "and, like, plot the course of Jacques DeSoir."

I nod and try to spot Marjorie's van. I wonder where they're going. I think of them at the noodle place, Marjorie ordering the most exotic thing on the menu, and I feel so replaceable.

Taylor and I stop. We're standing in front of his ancient, yellow Datsun hatchback. I haven't been paying attention to where we've been walking, and I realize that I'm standing by the driver's door and he's standing by the pa.s.senger's.

"Here!" Taylor says, and tosses a set keys over the car.

I catch them.

"You don't mind driving, do you?" he asks.

"Why?"

He grins and shrugs. "Unlock us?"

I do. I climb into the well-worn driver's seat, lean over to the pa.s.senger side, and pull the lock up. Taylor gets in. The inside of the car is warm and it smells like chocolate. We sit, looking at each other for a minute.

"I don't have my license."

"But you know how to drive, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you live nearby?"

"Right off of Oak."

"So that's not far."

"True," I say. "Not far at all."

"So I don't mind."

"Well, if you don't mind . . ." I say. I put the key in the ignition and the car spits and shakes to life. Taylor leans forward and rests his cheek against the dashboard. "Good, Datsun," he says. "Good little car."

I laugh at him and release the emergency brake. I wonder what the f.u.c.k I'm doing. If we got pulled over I could get arrested, I could lose the right to ever drive, I could get grounded for the rest of my high school life. But I can't stop myself. This is just happening. I'm just doing what I want to do and it feels good. I adjust the rearview mirror and see Marjorie's Volkswagen van pulling away from the sea of shiny, adult cars that kids around here get for their sixteenth birthdays: brand-new Accords and Pa.s.sats and Maximas. I put Taylor's car in reverse.

"Careful when you switch to drive," Taylor says. "It gets kinda stuck sometimes."

I drive carefully out of the parking lot and down the street to the main road. It's a red light; I look for oncoming cars and then turn right. I expect Taylor to be all nervous that I'm behind the wheel, but he's leaning back in his seat, just smiling at me.

"You look good driving my car," he says.

We pa.s.s the hills and the strip mall and so many other cars. I glance at Taylor and find his eyes still on me. I've been so used to sitting still in the backseat that I've forgotten how much I liked the feeling of making a car move, take me somewhere. I'd forgotten how I called Ingrid one night after practicing for the test with my dad and told her, This summer I'll drive us anywhere. Where do you want to go? Name a place and I'll drive us. This summer I'll drive us anywhere. Where do you want to go? Name a place and I'll drive us.

At a stoplight, a car blaring hip-hop pulls up next to us.

A girl shouts, "Taylor!"

Alicia McIntosh is leaning out of her convertible Mustang.

He turns to me and rolls his eyes. The light turns green and he whispers, "Go!" I accelerate hard and Alicia's car gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

6.