"I'm parked on the street," Mom says, standing up again. "You just need to get out of the driveway for a second, it won't kill you. Where are your shorts?" She's shaking out my towel and hurrying out of my room.

I guess we're done talking too.

The thing that sucks about summer school is everything. All the things about it suck. The school itself just feels totally sad-the parking lot is practically empty; the halls are only half lit; the grown-ups wear clothes so casual you realize they were actually trying to look professional during the regular year. And the airconditioning isn't turned on all the way, so the whole place is sort of sticky and smelly all the time.

Brielle's parents worked something out where she doesn't have to be here, but when you can barely afford to pay your lawyer, much less make a donation to the school board or whatever they did, you don't get special tutors. So it's just me and the usual slackers, the kids you don't see during the year because they're skipping to smoke weed or drink or play video games all day at, like, their older brother's apartment.

Dylan and the other guys didn't miss very much school this spring, and Dylan didn't get kicked off the baseball team. The charges were filed in April but things didn't really get going until almost the end of the year, so I guess no one saw the point of derailing the boys' senior year. And anyway, people weren't as mad at them, Dylan especially, as they were-are-at me and Brielle. I don't know why. I'm mad at him. I think. My mom used to say he was just as responsible as anyone; that he and Jacob and Tyler should take more of the blame. But lately I think she blames me and Brielle the most too.

Of course, Tyler is up on his own charges, since Emma was under eighteen and he wasn't. So maybe the guys are getting their share of punishment, I don't know. Natalie says we won't see Tyler even if we go to court.

No one seems to care anymore that Emma was messed up. I mean, who starts at a new school and within three months has had that many hookups? Obviously someone who came to that new school because she'd been messed up at her old one-someone who was already in therapy, already on antidepressants, already a head case.

Seriously, if what happened with Emma pushed everyone to suicide, every high school in America would be empty.

"Okay, people, follow the steps on the board. And write down your work. One of you does the work, one of you writes it down, got it?"

I'm sitting in summer school Chem class and wishing Irish O'Irish was here. And I wish I was still good at this class-or that I still cared enough to try to be good again. Ms. Enman isn't here; a guy from the university, Mr. Rodriguez, is our teacher for the summer version of almost all our classes. He's really young, like just out of college, and always kind of sweaty, like this job is already wearing him out.

Today we're doing a titration experiment-basically just pouring stuff into beakers. Less boring than taking notes, but still pretty freaking boring. My lab partner isn't here half the time-little-known fact: it's just as easy to skip summer school as it is the fall-winter-spring kind-but today he shows up. Carmichael. That's his last name, but no one calls him by his first name, ever. He's like a character from a TV show or a book or something: tattoos even though he's underage, crazy hair, the whole one-name thing. He'd be good-looking if he wasn't trying so hard to look terrifying. He's tall and under his black T-shirt you can see he has decent biceps and probably really flat abs. But the T-shirt itself is black and ripped and says DISCO KILLS ART, whatever that means, and the whole look just screams I'm too cool to talk to you.

It's not a look that goes well with safety goggles. But they probably look just as ridiculous on me, so I try to concentrate on the acid and base beakers on the table in front of us. I can see a blurry Carmichael out of the corner of my eye, silently staring at the instructions.

Once I've got the burette set up, Carmichael wordlessly hands over the funnel and waits while I start pouring the acid. Then I turn the knob on the burette, letting the liquids mix, waiting for it to turn pink like it's supposed to. I close the stopper and watch as the acid slows to a drip and the base goes clear again.

"Lot of weird words in this thing," Carmichael says, almost under his breath. I'm surprised by his voice but I keep my hand steady as I open the stopper again. The mixture turns pink and stays that way. I turn to make sure he's writing down the volume on the assignment sheet.

Then without thinking I say, "What words?"

He puts his goggles up on his head, pushing his hair back, even though we're not done with the experiment. Then he puts a finger on the instruction page. "Titration," he says, like it's obvious what he means. "And meniscus. And that thing"-he lightly taps the knob on the burette-"is called a stopcock."

His voice is totally matter-of-fact, but I feel my cheeks go red. I can't tell if he's trying to make me uncomfortable, but I am.

During the school year I wouldn't have talked to Carmichael under any circumstances. Back in junior high I actually had kind of a crush on him-I thought his wild hair was the sign of an artistic soul, and back then I wanted to be an artistic soul too. But Brielle saved me from all that. Turns out when you actually have fun things to do on the weekends, moping around reading poetry and listening to indie rock totally loses its appeal.

I figure I should probably go back to ignoring Carmichael now. And then at the front of the room Mr. Rodriguez says, "Five minutes," and there's too much noise to say anything else anyway. Carmichael takes our whole beaker set to the sinks, leaving me at our table to put my book back in my bag.

When he comes back he looks at me and says, "Good job."

His eyes are really green. I never notice that kind of thing, but they are, and they're actually really pretty. And I'm so surprised by how serious he is that I say, "Thanks," forgetting all about my decision to not talk to him. He shrugs and smiles. "I like that shirt," I add. I'm completely lying to him, and I don't even know why. Two seconds ago I thought he was a freak. Maybe I still do. But it feels good to talk to someone. If this counts as talking.

We switch rooms for our next class, but we still have Mr. Rodriguez. We just don't need to be in the lab for English. Some of the courses, like Chem, just cover the same stuff from the school year, or mostly the same. And others, like this one, do different stuff, I guess so we can't cheat. So instead of reading Macbeth we're doing Hamlet. I can barely follow it-I didn't understand a word of Macbeth, either, and Mrs. Thale was a way better teacher. Mr. Rodriguez says we'll watch the movie when we're done, but I have a hard enough time with Shakespeare when I have the book and a dictionary and SparkNotes in front of me. Watching the movie will be either torture or a good chance to nap.

Carmichael sits next to me again, and for a second I wonder if I've made a mistake talking to him. I know what Brielle would say-he's a loser, a slacker. She wouldn't be impressed with the tattoos or almost-bad-boy vibe. She'd call him a Carless, her term for guys who don't have cars and thus are not worth a second look. Or a first one.

But I'm a loser too.

Mr. Rodriguez starts talking about how Hamlet is too introspective to get revenge right away, how he has to think about everything before he takes action. I sneak a glance at Carmichael, at the infinity symbol inked on the inside of his right wrist. There's another tattoo just visible under the left sleeve of his T-shirt; looks like a curled snake or something. He's nodding a little, his book open, like he's good at Shakespeare. And he's not actually that bad at Chem. I wonder why he's here-I mean, I know he skips class a lot, even now, but he seems kind of smart.

Suddenly he looks over and I jerk my eyes back to the book in front of me, my cheeks burning again. God, am I really so desperate to hang out with anyone my own age that I'm drooling over Carless Carmichael now?

When we're finally done for the day, I practically sprint to the parking lot. There are two other girls ahead of me already: Beth, who got mono last year (but in one of those sad, non-hookuprelated ways), and Cherrie, who's just a slacker. "Cherrie" is short for something Latina, but we all pronounce it like the fruit. She used to correct everybody, I guess because we were saying it wrong, but the name just stuck. I suddenly wonder if maybe she skips school all the time because it's hard to get picked on every day, or called the wrong name or whatever, like you don't belong. Like I've been feeling. But then she turns to Beth and they start laughing about something. They get into Beth's car together and I remember: even among the outcasts, I'm the biggest loser.

I'm pulling my Honda around the side of the building when I spot Carmichael on his bike. He's standing up on the pedals, jumping the front tire up and off the curb. He actually looks like he knows what he's doing. I'm already braked at the stop sign, and I pause there for a minute, watching his crazy black hair and the muscles flexing under his T-shirt. He jumps again, turning the front wheel, but he comes down awkwardly and has to jump off the bike and sort of dance away while it crashes to the ground. It's surprisingly goofy and sudden, and I don't realize I'm laughing until he turns-my window is rolled down, trying to cool off the car, so I guess he heard me-and scowls. Like I was laughing at him, even though I totally wasn't.

"Sorry, I just-" I start to call out, but he already has the bike back in his hands and he's jumping on and pedaling out of the other end of the lot.

Fine. Who needs these delinquents anyway.

"We haven't really talked about Dylan. Would you want to tell me about that?"

"I don't know," I say with a shrug. Then I add, cattily, "Do you want to talk about Dylan?"

It seems funny right before it comes out of my mouth, but once it's said I have to look away. I look down at my nails and say, "I wish I could get a manicure."

"Why can't you?" Teresa asks.

I pick at a flake of the glittery gold color I have on now. It's all coming off, like I've been out partying nonstop, instead of the exact opposite.

"It's expensive. And people look at me funny."

Brielle used to drag me to the salon at the nice strip mall, the one with the Anthropologie and Williams-Sonoma. But I can't really afford that one on my own. After we had to stop hanging out, I tried the cheaper place in the crappy strip mall, next to Taco Bell. That's when I started noticing that going out in public was going to be impossible. Actually, anyplace where you sit down for more than five minutes is a pretty bad idea-and way worse if they have a bunch of local newspapers.

I can see Teresa nodding out of the corner of my eye. "It can feel like a pretty small town sometimes," she says.

"Try all the time," I say. It's psychotic how many pictures of Emma have been plastered everywhere. My mom says the media loves when bad things happen to pretty girls. You'd really think there weren't any, like, wars or elections or random shootings to talk about, given how much ink has been devoted to printing and reprinting Emma's last school picture.

"And you don't see Dylan anymore?" Teresa asks, trying to bring it back to her original question, I guess.

I look up. "I'm not supposed to, remember?" I say bitterly. "But whatever. It's really complicated. I mean, it got really complicated. I don't think it was Dylan's fault, I just . . . I mean, you had to know Emma. She was such a . . ."

"She was such a . . . what was she, Sara?"

I puff out my cheeks, pushing out a whoosh of air. "She was one of those girls, you know, who are always hanging out with guys, who don't have any friends who aren't guys. Because all the other girls at school knew she'd steal their boyfriends."

"She stole boyfriends?"

"God, yes. Like, daily."

"Including Dylan?"

I scrunch my shoulders up to my ears, curling my arms around my chest. I push my breath out in another big sigh and let everything drop and finally say it. "Yeah. Including Dylan."

"That must have been hard for you," Teresa says.

"Uh, yeah," I say, but then I have to bite my lip. "I don't really want to talk about this anymore."

"Okay. Why don't we wrap up for the day?" Teresa says, setting down her notebook.

"Great." I stand up and take off the cardigan I finally remembered to bring, since it's about fifty degrees warmer outside than it is in here.

I'm stuffing the sweater into my bag when Teresa adds, "Love is a really complicated thing. I know it must still hurt."

I look down at her and pause. "Okay," I say. I can't think of anything else, so we just stare at each other for another second. And then I leave.

When I pull up to school on Wednesday, Carmichael is riding his bike through the parking lot, his dark hair flying out behind him. He hasn't been to classes in a few days and my stomach knots, remembering how I accidentally laughed at him last week. I pull into an empty space as slowly as possible. I don't know if I'm trying to go slow so I'll run into him, or so I can avoid him. But then I remember: either way, I'm going to see him in class.

Or right now. I'm walking toward the doors just as he's locking his bike, and he looks up.

"Hey," I say, for lack of anything better.

"'Sup," he says easily, but he goes back to fiddling with the bike. I'm frozen there, pinned to the sidewalk like a weed growing out of it. The clouds overhead are heavy and dark-it's another hot, sticky day, the kind that makes you wish it would just rain already-and I feel pinned down by the humidity, by the fact that any movement will make me even sweatier than I already feel.

"So . . . ," I say, staring at his back. There's an old black JanSport at his feet and his copy of Hamlet is falling out of it. "You like the book?"

He turns back around, kind of squinting at me, confused.

I point awkwardly to his feet, the backpack. "Or, I mean, the play?"

"Oh, right," he says. He grabs his bag and pulls the zipper closed, hiding the thing I was just pointing at. "Yeah, it's okay, I guess."

I nod. God, I haven't talked to anyone in a really long time. Not anyone my own age, anyway. And now I keep talking to Carmichael, of all people, like I can't help myself. He's so weird. And he really does scare me a little bit, with the tattoos and everything.

It's just-he's the only one who doesn't give me that look. That You're the one who killed Emma Putnam look.

I realize I'm still nodding and standing there, staring at him. Carmichael isn't giving me the look, but he's looking right at me, and I let out a short, self-conscious laugh. "Sorry," I say. "I don't know-I mean-" I turn toward the doors to the school, which feel really far away, and hold my hand out, gesturing. "You going in? I mean, of course you are, I just-should we go?"

"Well, we've already come this far," he says. "Why not just enter the mouth of hell?"

I laugh again, almost a snort. "Yeah," I say. I feel like I'm just making sounds at this point, not anything even remotely like conversation. I know Brielle would completely lose it if she saw me like this. She'd probably throw me back in the car and drive away, fast, to save us all from the embarrassment. I wish she could.

But Carmichael is still standing there, a little half-smile on his face. Finally, like an act of charity, he says, "I liked Catcher in the Rye better."

"Oh," I say. Then, before I can get my spaz under control, I add, "I hated that one."

"Seriously?" he says, genuinely startled.

"Sorry," I say again, wishing I'd just walked past him instead of getting myself into this mess of a conversation. "I mean, I can see why you'd like it-I mean, I can see why people like it, not just you-"

"But especially me, right?" he says.

"No! Not-I mean-ah, shit."

I don't realize I've said this last part out loud until Carmichael's face breaks into a smile. A real one.

"You're weird, you know that?" he asks me.

"Easy for you to say," I reply, but I'm joking, and I'm smiling too. And this time it actually sounds like a joke, the way I mean it to sound.

"Yeah, I'm weird too," he says. "That's why they keep us separated from the general population, right?" Carmichael turns and I fall into step beside him, wondering if he even knows why I'm in summer school. Maybe not-maybe he spent last year in another country, and that's why he's here. Or maybe he doesn't watch the news. Carmichael definitely seems too cool to pay attention to gossip. And lawsuits.

We've just stepped inside the half-lit hallway when I see Beth and Cherrie at a locker up ahead. At first glance you'd think they were just standing there, talking, but I know that locker. This whole hallway makes my stomach clench. In fact, the one not totally sucktastic thing about summer school has been that I can avoid this hall, and that even if I have to walk down it, I don't have to see flowers and stuffed teddy bears and candles piled up on the floor next to locker 8043. All that stuff got cleaned up at the end of the year. And it's still gone, but here are Beth and Cherrie, their heads bent toward each other, like they're sharing a secret or praying or something. Beth's shoulders rise and shudder in a big, weepy sigh. I'm not surprised, but I have to grind my teeth together to keep from yelling at them.

Beth and Cherrie weren't nice to Emma either. They wanted to be friends with Brielle and me as much as anyone-more, even. They laughed when Brielle made jokes at Emma's expense. They actually sent friend requests to Fat Beyotch before the page got shut down. And the whole thing on Valentine's Day . . . I remember watching Beth roll her eyes that afternoon, when Emma sat down on the floor next to her locker, hugging her knees and crying. Megan Corley got down there with her and put an arm around Emma's shoulders, but Beth had said something bitchy to try to suck up to me and Brielle.

And now she's back at that damn locker, playing the distraught BFF. I watch as Cherrie pats Beth's arm, and a loud snort escapes me despite my locked jaw.

Beside me, Carmichael kind of jumps. And I remember-everyone knows. And at the same time, no one knows anything.

"Sorry," I say to him, again. "I just . . . Those girls are such freaking hypocrites."

Carmichael studies them for a minute. "Yeah, everyone's a phony," he finally says, softly.

I look over, surprised he's agreeing with me, but he's just staring at Beth and Cherrie. Or maybe he's staring past them-it's hard to tell.

"The world is full of phonies," he reiterates, but it doesn't seem like he's talking to me anymore. It sounds more like he's reminding himself of something. Something he'd actually rather forget.

January.

"DO YOU HAVE a-thing?"

The floor pounds beneath me as Dylan shifts to the side and reaches for his jeans. He doesn't even answer my question; he just gets his wallet out of his back pocket and I hear the crinkle of foil.

It's happening. It's happening on the floor of Brielle's parents' guest room. The party's still going on-the music is what's pounding through the floor, through the walls. I practically had to yell about the condom, which kind of killed the mood. I think.

Though honestly, there wasn't much mood to begin with. I started drinking around seven, I guess, well before anyone got to the party. Irish came through with the keg, but even before that, Brielle had gotten out the bottle of vodka she has hidden in her room for "special occasions."

"Liquid balls," she'd told me, pouring way more than a shot into a Solo cup. She poured one for herself, too, smiled wickedly, and downed it. I gulped mine. When I almost choked, she laughed and poured some more. "It's your special night!" she crowed.

Now it's, I dunno, ten? I'm wasted. I feel sleepy and wired at the same time. I feel like I love Dylan. I feel like he's kind of crushing me into the carpet in a not completely romantic way. He hasn't said much since we came into the guest room. He pushed a dresser half in front of the door. We were kissing and then we stumbled on our way to the bed, so here we are, on the carpet. Which is light blue. We should get on the bed, I think hazily-what if we stain the carpet? With . . . whatever?

Oh my God, he's putting on the condom. I see his hands moving and quickly turn my head away, which makes the room spin. It's dark in here, but not dark enough. Suddenly I feel really nervous and I wonder if I want to stop, if I'm about to throw up, if my life is turning into a crappy made-for-TV movie, if- He's on top of me again, and my last thought as a virgin is After this I won't have to worry about it anymore.

It doesn't hurt as much as I was afraid it would, but maybe that's because it doesn't take very long. I think I'm supposed to make sounds or something-like the movies, where it's all screaming and moaning, isn't that the way it goes?-but I'm still thinking about the carpet and then I'm kind of embarrassed for Dylan because he's grunting and then- That's it.

He rolls off of me, still panting.

My bra is kind of wet from where he was sweating on it. I wonder if we should've taken it off first. It seems weird that he's taken it off other times, while we were just making out, but didn't for this.

The ceiling fan isn't on, but it's vibrating a little from the music, the long tassels swinging gently. I try to think about the song that's playing, the song that played when I lost my virginity, but I can't focus. I felt sober for a second, while everything was happening, but now I feel really drunk again.

"Dude," Dylan says. He's not talking to me; he's fumbling with the condom. He curses under his breath.