limit wouldn’t count. Not with him. “Why don’t you ask me something normal? Like … my favorite kind of music?”
“I’m not going to ask what I can guess.”
“You do not know the type of music I listen to.”
“Baroque. With you, it’s all about order, control. I bet you play … the cello?” He said it like he’d pulled the guess out of thin air.
“Wrong.” Another lie, but this one sent a chill rippling along my skin.
Who was he really? If he knew I played the cello, what else did he know?
“What’s that?” Patch tapped his pen against the inside of my wrist.
Instinctively I pulled away.
“A birthmark.”
“Looks like a scar. Are you suicidal, Nora?” His eyes connected with mine, and I could feel him laughing. “Parents married or divorced?”
“I live with my mom.”
“Where’s dad?”
“My dad passed away last year.”
19
“How did he die?”
I flinched. “He was—murdered. This is kind of personal territory, if you don’t mind.”
There was a count of silence and the edge in Patch’s eyes seemed to soften a touch. “That must be hard.” He sounded like he meant it.
The bell rang and Patch was on his feet, making his way toward the door.
“Wait,” I called out. He didn’t turn. “Excuse me!” He was through the door. “Patch! I didn’t get anything on you.”
He turned back and walked toward me. Taking my hand, he scribbled something on it before I thought to pull away.
I looked down at the seven numbers in red ink on my palm and made a fist around them. I wanted to tell him no way was his phone ringing tonight. I wanted to tell him it was his fault for taking all the time questioning me. I wanted a lot of things, but I just stood there looking like I didn’t know how to open my mouth.
At last I said, “I’m busy tonight.”
“So am I.” He grinned and was gone.
I stood nailed to the spot, digesting what had just happened. Did he eat up all the time questioning me on purpose? So I’d fail ? Did he think one flashy grin would redeem him? Yes , I thought. Yes, he did .
“I won’t call!” I called after him. “Not—ever!”
“Have you finished your column for tomorrow’s deadline?” It was Vee.
20
She came up beside me, jotting notes on the notepad she carried everywhere. “I’m thinking of writing mine on the injustice of seating charts. I got paired with a girl who said she just finished lice treatment this morning.”
“My new partner,” I said, pointing into the hallway at the back of Patch.
He had an annoyingly confident walk, the kind you find paired with faded T-shirts and a cowboy hat. Patch wore neither. He was a dark-Levi’s-dark-henley-dark-boots kind of guy.
“The senior transfer? Guess he didn’t study hard enough the first time around. Or the second.” She gave me a knowing look. “Third time’s a charm.”
“He gives me the creeps. He knew my music. Without any hints whatsoever, he said, ‘Baroque.’ “ I did a poor job of mimicking his low voice.
“Lucky guess?”
“He knew … other things.”
“Like what?”
I let go of a sigh. He knew more than I wanted to comfortably contemplate. “Like how to get under my skin,” I said at last. “I’m going to tell Coach he has to switch us back.”
“Go for it. I could use a hook for my next eZine article. ‘Tenth Grader Fights Back.’ Better yet, ‘Seating Chart Takes Slap in the Face.’ Mmm. I like it.”
At the end of the day, I was the one who took a slap in the face. Coach shot down my plea to rethink the seating chart. It appeared I was stuck 21
with Patch.
For now.
CHAPTER 2
MY MOM AND I LIVE IN A DRAFTY EIGHTEENTH-century farmhouse on the outskirts of Coldwater. It’s the only house on Hawthorne Lane, and the nearest neighbors are almost a mile away. I sometimes wonder if the original builder realized that out of all the plots of land available, he chose to construct the house in the eye of a mysterious atmospheric inversion that seems
“I’m not going to ask what I can guess.”
“You do not know the type of music I listen to.”
“Baroque. With you, it’s all about order, control. I bet you play … the cello?” He said it like he’d pulled the guess out of thin air.
“Wrong.” Another lie, but this one sent a chill rippling along my skin.
Who was he really? If he knew I played the cello, what else did he know?
“What’s that?” Patch tapped his pen against the inside of my wrist.
Instinctively I pulled away.
“A birthmark.”
“Looks like a scar. Are you suicidal, Nora?” His eyes connected with mine, and I could feel him laughing. “Parents married or divorced?”
“I live with my mom.”
“Where’s dad?”
“My dad passed away last year.”
19
“How did he die?”
I flinched. “He was—murdered. This is kind of personal territory, if you don’t mind.”
There was a count of silence and the edge in Patch’s eyes seemed to soften a touch. “That must be hard.” He sounded like he meant it.
The bell rang and Patch was on his feet, making his way toward the door.
“Wait,” I called out. He didn’t turn. “Excuse me!” He was through the door. “Patch! I didn’t get anything on you.”
He turned back and walked toward me. Taking my hand, he scribbled something on it before I thought to pull away.
I looked down at the seven numbers in red ink on my palm and made a fist around them. I wanted to tell him no way was his phone ringing tonight. I wanted to tell him it was his fault for taking all the time questioning me. I wanted a lot of things, but I just stood there looking like I didn’t know how to open my mouth.
At last I said, “I’m busy tonight.”
“So am I.” He grinned and was gone.
I stood nailed to the spot, digesting what had just happened. Did he eat up all the time questioning me on purpose? So I’d fail ? Did he think one flashy grin would redeem him? Yes , I thought. Yes, he did .
“I won’t call!” I called after him. “Not—ever!”
“Have you finished your column for tomorrow’s deadline?” It was Vee.
20
She came up beside me, jotting notes on the notepad she carried everywhere. “I’m thinking of writing mine on the injustice of seating charts. I got paired with a girl who said she just finished lice treatment this morning.”
“My new partner,” I said, pointing into the hallway at the back of Patch.
He had an annoyingly confident walk, the kind you find paired with faded T-shirts and a cowboy hat. Patch wore neither. He was a dark-Levi’s-dark-henley-dark-boots kind of guy.
“The senior transfer? Guess he didn’t study hard enough the first time around. Or the second.” She gave me a knowing look. “Third time’s a charm.”
“He gives me the creeps. He knew my music. Without any hints whatsoever, he said, ‘Baroque.’ “ I did a poor job of mimicking his low voice.
“Lucky guess?”
“He knew … other things.”
“Like what?”
I let go of a sigh. He knew more than I wanted to comfortably contemplate. “Like how to get under my skin,” I said at last. “I’m going to tell Coach he has to switch us back.”
“Go for it. I could use a hook for my next eZine article. ‘Tenth Grader Fights Back.’ Better yet, ‘Seating Chart Takes Slap in the Face.’ Mmm. I like it.”
At the end of the day, I was the one who took a slap in the face. Coach shot down my plea to rethink the seating chart. It appeared I was stuck 21
with Patch.
For now.
CHAPTER 2
MY MOM AND I LIVE IN A DRAFTY EIGHTEENTH-century farmhouse on the outskirts of Coldwater. It’s the only house on Hawthorne Lane, and the nearest neighbors are almost a mile away. I sometimes wonder if the original builder realized that out of all the plots of land available, he chose to construct the house in the eye of a mysterious atmospheric inversion that seems
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