Inside the Mall I can't help but go on a weirdo watch. Paige is right. Potential freaks loiter everywhere, and they come in all shapes, sizes, genders, and ages. "Hey, Paige.

Check that out." I point to a boy, maybe six, staring, drop-jawed, through the window of Victoria's Secret. "Future weirdo, for sure."

We crack up, but when we're well down the aisle I glance back over my shoulder. He's still there.

Paige doesn't notice, could care less anyway. Let's go to the Gap. I need some jeans.

Her focus shift is immediate, intense.

Mind on her goal, she picks up her pace. So much for people watching. Faces, bodies, and packages blur. Motion sickness threatens.

Finally, Gap in sight, she slows a little. Enough for me to notice a really cute guy sitting outside the door, waiting for someone, at least that's my guess. As we approach, he notices us, too, and the smile he gives me could melt an entire iceberg in two seconds flat.

Weirdo? Maybe. I mean, he's at least ten years older than me, and he's def taken an interest. Do weirdos come this hot? My guess is no, but I'm not here to pick up a guy (yeah, Lucas, remember him?), especially one who could be my-what? Big brother?

Wow, it might be cool to have a big brother hot enough to be a rock star.

No, wait. All my friends would want me to introduce them. Then they wouldn't be my friends any more, because they'd be doing it with my brother. Scratch all that. Don't want a hot brother, or any brother at all.

Don't even want my sister, and why the heck am I thinking all this, anyway, just because some pervert guy sitting outside the Gap might or might not have checked me out?

Warped But who's warped, him or me?

Okay, I'm pretty sure I know the answer. Pretty sure I've gone from appreciating some nice-looking (hot) older guy to imagining I have some fictional brother who is doing unmentionable things with my best friends. I steal a covert glance at Paige, who is def not noticing the guy (who is def not my brother) at all, let alone having s.e.x with him.

I need food. Haven't eaten today.

As Paige and I go inside, I can feel not-brother's eyes crawling all over my back. I nudge Paige. "Psst. Did you see that cute guy checking us out?"

What guy? She turns, and I follow her eyes, only to find his eyes locked on me. Well, he's def checking you out. Talk about robbing the cradle, or wanting to.

Like, totally tasteless. C'mon. There's a pair of skinny jeans with my name on them right over there.

Someone Should Tell Paige that "skinny jeans" are most def not her best friend.

She and I are the same age, and about the same height.

But she's got a lot more curves. In a way, I envy that.

Paige looks more like a woman.

I, on the other hand, look like a girl.

Skinny jeans work better for girls.

Still, Paige manages to pour herself into a pair. Do they make my b.u.t.t look big?

Well, duh. But I'm not about to say so. Friends don't tell friends they look fat. Or even curvy. "Nah."

Cool. So what are you waiting for? Try some on. Check it out: Thirty percent off. She stands, hands punctuating well-defined hips.

Debate is useless. I slip into a pair and have to admit they look pretty good. Oh, why not?

What's a trip to the mall for?

Shopping with Paige Reminds me of that TV show: TLC's What Not to Wear.

Paige has spent big bucks, and what does she have to show for it?

A couple of pairs of too-tight jeans, three blouses guaranteed to show too much tummy and/or cleavage, and a pair of hot pink sneakers with soles as thick as six hundred-page novels.

Now we're leaving Claire's, where I'm pretty sure Paige took advantage of a five-finger discount. Not that she can't afford a cheap pair of earrings. But ripping them off gives her a total rush.

Hurry up, she urges, glancing nervously over her shoulder as we hustle toward the food court. Talk about obvious!

Still, by the time yummy scents of fat-laden foods entice our noses, we see no sign of security on our tail. Way to "borrow," Paige.

What do you want to eat? asks Paige, sniffing the air. Subway?

Pizza? Hey, you know what sounds delish? A hot dog on a stick.

The built-in joke is just too good to pa.s.s up! "d.a.m.n, girl. You really do need a boyfriend, you know?" We both snort into gut-busting, pee-your-pants laughter. "Oh ... my ... G.o.d!"

I stutter. "I have so got to pee."

I turn, ready to run. And who's sitting at a table nearby, grinning like an orangutan-a very hot orangutan? The guy. The cute not-my-brother weirdo. And he's checking me out again. Is he, like, stalking me?

I Still Have to Pee But before I do, I have to say something to the hot monkey.

Ooh. That was a very bad thought.

Wonder how hot his monkey is.

Okay. Way worse thought.

What's up with me? "That guy is over there, staring," I tell Paige. "Let's go talk to him."

She pulls her eyes away from the Hot Dog on a Stick sign.

What? Hey. No. That's stupid.

He might get the wrong idea.

Or exactly the right idea. "Yeah, maybe. But don't you want to know where he's coming from?"

I don't wait for her to answer.

I pull myself up very tall, take dead aim at my stalker. Behind me comes the sound of Paige, scrambling to catch up. Wait.

Almost to his table, my courage dissolves and I think seriously about turning around, grabbing Paige, and hauling buns out of there.

Too Late The guy looks up, and the warmth of his smile melts all thoughts of running. h.e.l.lo. One word out of his killer mouth, I think I'm lost.

"Oh. Hey." Now what do I say?

"I ... uh ... just wondered if you were looking at anything special."

Totally brilliant. Set myself up.

But he knows just what to say.

Well, actually, yes. I was looking at you, wasn't I? You're quite special. But then, you know that.

Is he saying I'm stuck-up?

Beside me, Paige chokes on a half laugh. Guess that's what she thinks he was saying.

He studies my face with amazing eyes, the blue of robin eggs. You are, in fact, the most special young woman I've seen in a long time.

He so is a stalker. But a stalker who knows how to make a girl feel ...

uh ... special. "I'm sorry, but I don't get it. What do you want?"

His grin widens. Now that's a loaded question. I want more than you'll probably give me.

But I'll settle for your name.

Paige elbows me and clears her throat, like I don't have enough sense not to give my name to a stranger. A totally luscious, completely random, too-old- for-me-to-even-consider-him, somehow hypnotic stranger.

I find myself saying, "Whitney."

Whitney, he repeats, nodding.

The name fits you. Well, Whitney, pleased to meet you. I'm Bryn.

Care to sit down for a few?

This Is Insane For some stupid reason, I really, really do want to sit down with him for a few.

What is the big attraction?

It's not like a guy has never put the moves on me before.

And I'm pretty sure that's what this is, even though he's smooth.

But Paige isn't taking the bait.

We were going to get something to eat, remember? And I thought you had to go-She catches herself.

Fact is, I do have to go. Now.

"I'd like to sit, Bryn, but Pai- uh ... my friend is hungry.

Maybe another time?"

His smile slips a little. But he says, Of course. Then he reaches into his pocket. Here's my card. Call me sometime.

A Poem by Ginger Cordell Reach They say you should reach for the stars, and I'd like to, but my arms are much too short.

They say to reach out for hope, but I don't understand what hope is. They say to reach for goals, but I don't know how to define mine, and so I won't listen.

But if you only tell me how to love you, I'll reach into the depth of me and find a way to hold you.

Ginger

School Sucks

Don't even know why I try.

We've moved around so much, I've always been behind.

I'm not going to graduate without a h.e.l.la lot of summer school or something. And I don't plan to spend summer vacation locked up in Barstow High, trying to figure out algebra. Who needs it, anyway?

Not like I'm going to college. I'll be happy waitressing. Minimum wage and tips isn't such a bad life.

Would be nice to settle into a town.

(Not that Barstow's the one-it's not!) Have a nice, steady job. A friend or two. Maybe even fall in love, if there is such a thing, and if I can ever get past ... Anyway, we've never stayed in one place long enough for me to make friends.

All I've had to hang with are sisters.

Actually, I've Kind of Connected To one girl, Alex. She's in my creative writing cla.s.s, and she's totally goth. Black clothes, black fingernails. Heavy black eyeliner, which somehow makes her seem innocent, like a little girl, trying too hard to look all grown up. There's something about that-something about her-that is really attractive to me. More than once since I've gotten to know her, I have thought about what it might be like to hold her. I've even fantasized about kissing her. It's major weird and kind of messed up, I guess.

I've never kissed anyone, guy or girl. Been kissed, but it was never my idea, and I hated it. Hated them.

I want to know what a real kiss is like. But why I keep thinking about doing it with Alex is a mystery. She has never even halfway come on to me. That's cool. Who needs complications? It's good enough to have a friend.

And anyway, I'm guessing it isn't easy for her to get close to people. She has had a tough life, maybe tougher than mine. Her mom's doing hard time for armed robbery, and she lives with her loser stepdad, who's a bartender at some sleazy club out on Old Highway 58. Wonder if I should try to set him up with Iris. A pair of low-life druggies. The perfect couple.

Alex and I Are hanging out downtown, scoping out people, scoping us out. I take a deep drag off a b.u.mmed Kool, cough like a dweeb on the exhale. "Does your stepdad have a girlfriend?"