God, she's pathetic. Is she stalking me now? I guess after Brielle's posts today, Emma is-what? I don't even know. I link through and I'm about to just deny her-I'm not really on Twitter that much, but this is creepy-but first I decide to check her feed, just to see.

And that's when I see that maybe Emma isn't actually on Twitter that much, either. Maybe not at all. I mean, not the real Emma.

Her photo is of a pig. And the posts are all the photos Brielle took today, with captions like "The guy I stole prefers nice girls." They're all tagged #EmmaPutnamisaSLUT.

Yikes. I know Brielle is trying to have my back. But this . . . this is bad timing. Dylan's going to think it was me, or at least that I knew about it. And Brielle might think it's funny, but maybe it's not anymore. Maybe it's just making everything worse.

My chat window pops open. Of course it's Brie.

#emmaputnamisaslut, bitches!!!

I shake my head and type back, You can't. Dylan will think it was me.

thbbbbbt. yr no fun.

And then she's offline again-she just hangs up on me. I glance back over at Twitter and see a new Emma post pop up.

I don't have any friends boo hoo cuz #EmmaPutnamisaSLUT.

This is not good.

I close the computer and put it down on the floor next to my bed, hoping that Brie will stop soon and this will all just go away. For now, I'm going to sleep. I'm going to dream about Dylan, and about my life, which is finally back on track.

October.

"ORDER UP! EXTRA chips!"

"That's me, that's me!"

"Okay, now, here you are . . . Let me just get your salsa . . ."

"Nooo! Not on pancakes!"

"No? You don't take salsa with your extra chips?"

"They're extra chocolate chips!"

"Oh, I see. Well, if that's really what you want . . ."

"Daa-aad!"

Alex shrieks and giggles like he's gone back in time five years. I roll my eyes, but it's okay, because no one can see me-I'm still in the hall, out of sight, not in the kitchen with everyone. It's nice to hear Alex laughing, but without even being able to see them, it's painful to witness Dad doing that thing where he pretends to be all fatherly. It's hard even to listen to.

I can also hear that he's turned back to the stove. The pan sizzles with more butter and the spatula scrapes, and then I hear him say, "Tomcat, you're a salsa man, right? Puts hair on the chest!"

Alex laughs even harder at this, but Tommy just says, "No, I'll take just plain chocolate chips, too."

He sounds a little weary. Like me. I want Tommy to like his dad-our dad-but a part of me is glad that I'm not the only one who sees what a fake he can be, how not enough this all is. Besides, it's way too early to deal with all of it. And it's Saturday-it's supposed to be our day off. Or, I mean, it's supposed to be the boys' day off. I'm already practically vibrating with nerves about my own plans for the morning, which include an extra fun trip to Natalie's office.

Another scoop of batter hits the pan, making the butter hiss, and my stomach drops a little lower. I feel like I've had ten cups of coffee or something. I don't think I can go in there without throwing up on everybody.

"Doug, you know where the fields are, right?"

At the sound of my mom's voice, I jump. I thought she was still upstairs, or out-anywhere but having a cozy pancake breakfast with Dad. Her tone is suspiciously friendly.

"Of course. Been there a million times. Right, guys?"

"Yep!" Alex says, his words muffled by a mouthful of food, I'm guessing. I don't hear Tommy answer. It's not like he has to-just like with our rides to school, he's perfected the art of letting his little brother talk for him. Kind of like I figured out a long time ago, when these little visits from Dad first started to make me upset instead of happy.

"Julia, you want more?" I hear Dad ask my mom. His voice has that edge to it-they can't say anything to each other without it sounding vaguely like a threat.

"God, no. But thank you for cooking," she says, and there's a clatter of dishes in the sink.

I take a deep breath and peek around the doorframe. I don't know why I can't just go in there, but I can't. There are so many reasons why not, but mostly, right now, it would just be impossible to have the chocolate-chip pancake discussion one more time. I don't like them, and no one, particularly my little brothers, can understand why. And Dad will think I'm just being a brat to spite him, like I live my whole life to thwart his crappy efforts at playing Good Father. I can't explain that there's nothing to even thwart, so why would I bother trying?

And Mom will want to say something about my outfit or whatever. She's been really nice since the other night in my room, but it's basically an addiction with her, to look at me and immediately find something that needs improvement. And of course everything about me needs improvement. I just don't need to talk about my T-shirt and cutoff shorts right now.

I can't see very far into the kitchen, but I watch Mom at the sink, her hair pulled back into a loose, pretty-but-weekend-y ponytail. I'm surprised to see she's wearing jeans too-usually when we go to Natalie's she wears something she'd wear to work. They're nice jeans, of course, with a nice shirt.

Then my dad comes striding into view, carrying the skillet to the sink. He's in chinos and a polo, the Saturday uniform of absentee fathers everywhere. I didn't even know he was coming today, and actually it seems like he must've gotten in last night-his hair still looks a little wet from a shower. Wait, is he staying here?

"Thank you," Mom says to him, taking the pan and adding it to the pile she's rinsing and then putting in the dishwasher. "And thanks for cooking, this was nice."

"Of course. I'll get the boys to their games and then meet you at the lawyer's office."

"Okay, but no rush, stay with them as long as they need. Tommy's just a couple fields away from Alex today, so you can go back and forth, maybe, and then bring them home."

They're talking like they're still married, like it's just another weekend. Most people probably wouldn't hear the tension in their voices, or see the way my mom isn't really looking at my dad. But still. I realize how much easier this last six months would've been if we were a two-parent household. Even two parents who still pretty much hate each other.

My stomach does another sloppy flip, like a broken, half-cooked pancake. I take one last look at my parents and finally back away, unseen, going around the long way to the front door. I have my keys and my bag already. I guess we could drive together, Mom and me, but my car is in the driveway, and Dad's isn't blocking it-he parked on the street, his bulky black car looking like the FBI came to stay with us or something. I take that as a sign, and without really thinking I get into my car.

I don't want to go straight to Natalie's-if for no other reason than I'll be way too early-but I need to go somewhere. When I pull up to the intersection with the Albertsons on the corner, I make a split-second decision to turn. I'm not even expecting Dylan to be there, but then I see his car, and I park hastily, not giving myself time to think.

The store is freezing, as always. Outside the temperature has dropped fifteen degrees, an early preview of what fall will feel like, if we get more than a couple of days of it before winter sets in. But it always takes a few days for places like school and the grocery store to catch on and turn their thermostats up. I haven't caught on, either-even my emergency Teresa sweater is still in the car. Goose bumps pop out on my arms as soon as I walk through the automatic sliding doors.

The sight of Dylan doesn't make them go away, that's for sure. He's right at the front, unloading boxes of apples, standing with his back to me at one of the first tables inside the produce section. It's been a long time since I've seen him-outside of stalking his Facebook page, I mean-and the sick-excited feeling I've had since I woke up gets even more intense. Just watching his back as he leans over and opens another cardboard box, pulling a tray of Granny Smiths up and setting them on the table, makes me dizzy.

Plus I realize I have no plan here, no agenda, no point. Did I just want to see him? Just one last look before he goes to college, which I'm assuming is what he'll be doing next-starting late, or moving to some off-campus housing until spring semester, or- I don't have a chance to decide what I'm doing, though. Suddenly he turns, looking at me so directly and immediately I wonder for a second if I didn't say his name out loud. We're staring each other in the eye, me shivering in short sleeves, him in his dumb blue apron.

He doesn't look surprised to see me, really. We're standing too far away from each other to talk without yelling, so I kind of angle my head back, toward the door I just walked in, trying to silently ask him to come outside. This makes him raise his eyebrows, maybe because we're usually in the back, hiding from everyone. But maybe that's not what he's thinking. I don't think I've ever really understood how Dylan thinks.

"Hey, dude," he calls out to another blue-apron guy, who's stacking cartons of caramel apples a couple of tables over. "I'll be right back."

The other guy looks like he wants to argue, but Dylan's already walking toward me, untying his apron, running a hand through his hair. For another minute I just stand there, letting Dylan walk right past me and through the sliding doors. Then I turn and follow.

Yep, still cold outside. Brisk, my mom would say. Dylan has found a bench to sit on, one of the ones that line the outside walls of Albertsons and the half-dozen other stores in the strip mall. There's an overflowing ashtray/garbage can at the end of the bench, and between that and the cold I want to suggest we go sit in my car, but instead I sit down, still shivering.

"What's up," he says dully. His apron is crumpled in his hands, one escaped string dangling down as he rolls the fabric into a tighter and tighter ball.

Now that I'm here I can't remember what I wanted to say. If there was anything at all. So I go with the truth, or part of it.

"I just wanted to see you," I tell him. We don't look at each other-we're both staring out at the parking lot, or down at the cigarette butts crushed on the ground.

"Good timing, then," he says. "I'm moving to Lincoln next week."

"Really?" I'm surprised it's so soon. And-suddenly-really disappointed.

"Yeah, you know, with Rob and them, they have an apartment."

"Oh, right. That sounds good."

"Yep."

We're silent for a minute, staring off some more.

"So," Dylan says finally. "You guys got a plea."

"Not as good as you," I say without thinking. "You're off the hook completely."

His head snaps around fast and suddenly we're looking eye to eye, but it's awful. He looks so mad. Betrayed.

"I didn't do anything," he says.

I think of those times this summer, those days I'd visit him on the other side of this same building, those pointless hookups. It had felt so good to hang on to each other in the middle of everything falling apart-or maybe it hadn't felt good, but it had been a little raft of not-awful in the freaking ocean of very-awful. And we'd been together. We were the wrongfully accused, the innocent.

And now I can tell from his eyes that it wasn't that way at all. He'd been innocent, and I'd been . . . not.

"Did you ever even like me?" I ask him.

"C'mon, Sara, what kind of question is that?" He shakes his head a little, then sits back on the bench and faces forward again with a big sigh. The apron drops out of his hands, onto his lap, one big blue wrinkle. "Not everything is about you."

"I know . . . ," I say, but my stomach is twisting itself into another knot, and the pain makes me just angry enough to defend myself. "But it's partly about me. I mean, I'm on trial too-or making a deal, or whatever-and I was the one you . . ." I trail off, unsure again of what to say. Dylan is innocent. Or at least, he hasn't done anything you can put on paper, and that's basically the same thing.

There's a long pause while we go back to staring forward, like we're in a car, like the view in front of us is important, like it's going to change. A few people pass by on their way into the store, ignoring us. I don't see them, either.

Finally Dylan says, "I'm glad you guys aren't going to trial. That would've been really hard."

"I wasn't exactly looking forward to it," I say honestly.

"Yeah, well, I kind of meant, you know, Emma's parents. It was gonna be really hard on them."

I frown. "They're the ones who wanted a trial, though. They started this whole thing."

He turns to me, his eyes locked onto mine. His hair got longer over the summer but now it's freshly cut, leaving his ears a little too exposed. He has a little nick on his chin from shaving. He smells like the aftershave he always uses, a sharp, boyish scent mixed with that other smell that's just . . . him. He shifts on the bench and his shoulders are like a swinging door, blocking everything else out, closing me in. I want to lean on them. I can't.

But I see his face clearly, like it's the first time. Except I'm pretty sure it's the last time.

"Nobody wanted this," he says slowly, evenly. "Nobody."

Then he stands up and walks away.

March.

WHEN I WAKE up Sunday morning-not late, like I wanted to, but insanely early, before it's even eight, because my nerves are still wired-the first thing I do is go online and find that the Emma Twitter is still active. There are lots of "I'm pathetic"type posts, and lots of followers and replies. Who's online that much on a Saturday night? Everyone, apparently.

And on Facebook, a bunch of people are talking about how cute Dylan and I are together, how we make a better couple than he and Emma do. There are even a few "Good for you, bro" posts on his wall, though I have no idea what that means exactly. That they're happy he's back with me (or that it looks like he is, anyway)? Or that they think he's a stud for having two girlfriends at the same time?

It's still the weekend. The boys have more sports stuff. Mom is still mad at me for being out late Friday and then all day yesterday and probably won't let me go anywhere. But there's got to be a way to see Dylan again. If I see him I can explain that I'm not doing this, that everything I said yesterday is still true. If I can see him we can . . . I don't know. I just want to see him.

So when my phone buzzes, I grab it, my heart leaping into my throat, so sure he's texting me.

It's Brielle, though.

911 my house now!!!!!

Brielle is a lot of things, but she's not an abuser of the 911 text. I throw on some jeans and a sweater and hurry downstairs, bracing myself for a flurry of lies to get out of the house. If I can get out to see her, maybe I can get over to Dylan's house too.

"You're a pinhead," I hear Alex shouting as I come into the kitchen.

"Language," Mom says, but her voice is tired and doesn't sound very threatening.

"Yeah, pinhead, language," Tommy snarks.

"You started it!" Alex shrieks.

"Yes, he did," Mom agrees. "And I don't know why, but you're both going to your room now."

"But Mom-" Tommy starts to say.

At the same time, Alex goes, "I'm still eating my cer-"

But then Mom drops her coffee cup into the sink so loudly that they both stop talking at once. The clatter of the metal cup in the metal sink is momentarily deafening, and way scarier than anything she could say right now. In the perfect silence that follows, my brothers get up from the table and leave the kitchen. Alex gives me big googly eyes as he leaves, but Tommy smiles, like, She's all yours.

I'm stuck in the doorway, not sure if I should still try to get my keys from the hook by the back door or just retreat to my room. But when Mom sees me, she just goes, "You're up." Then she turns back to the sink and starts washing the dishes.

Slowly, I walk over to the other side of the counter, between Mom and the back door. "Yeah," I say. "And I kind of have to . . . go . . ." I gesture lamely at the door, waiting for her to start yelling at me.