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the back of his head.  Andy Vandevander had a cowlick right at the spot where the top of his head curved to the back.  He had a birthmark right behind his left earlobe.  He wore the same silver chain all the time; she had seen him without it once, and where it had been was white and pasty, whereas the rest of his skin was a nice bronze color.
    She had the back of his head memorized, but it did not compare to the front of him.  He sat down and stowed his saxophone case underneath his seat before turning around to face her.  His eyes were a beautiful color of aqua.  His rich brown hair framed a long, oval-shaped face with perfect features.
    “What lunch do you have?” he asked.
    “Third,” she responded.
    “Damn it,” he answered.  “I have second.”
    “You’re a junior, Andy.  You get a little higher priority than I do.”
    “Well, who the hell am I supposed to hang out with?”
    “I’m sure you have other friends.”
    “None as fun as you.”  His face was aimed down toward the green schedule clutched in his hands, so he could not see the color rise in Melody’s face.  “Man, this sucks.  Why couldn’t you have been a year older?”
    “Why don’t you fail this year?  That would solve everything.”
    He fiddled with his schedule, looking off into the distance as if he was seriously contemplating purposely flunking eleventh grade.  But when he spoke, it was about something completely different.  “Do you know Amanda Teller?”
    “I know of her,” Melody replied.
    “What do you know about her?”
    “I know that she’s a cheerleader and that she had sex with Shane Stolarz,” she responded.
    He looked at her in alarm.  “How do you know that?”
    “Because she cheers at the games,” Melody answered dryly.
    “No, I mean—”
    “I know what you meant.  Cadie told me that Amanda had had sex with Shane.  I assume she found out from Felicia.”
    “She’s in your grade, right?”
    “Felicia?” Melody asked, smiling.  “She’s in yours.”
    “No, Amanda,” Andy shot back, sounding frustrated. 
    Evidently he did not find her deliberate obtuseness as amusing as she did.  “Yes, she’s a sophomore,” Melody said defensively.
    Andy nodded, looking pensive, but before Melody could ask him what was on his mind, their band director came out of his office and Andy turned back around in his seat.
    Second period would mean band rehearsal for Melody until she graduated.  Today and Thursday, the band room would be crowded; Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, it would only be half-full, because those were the days that the chorus rehearsed, and a good portion of the kids who were in band were in choir as well.  Melody was one of those people.  However, this year she was considering dropping it.  Last year, almost all of their songs had been of the dragging, depressing, Jesus-praising variety.  Not that Melody had anything against praising Jesus, but it was typically more exciting if it was upbeat.
    Melody preferred being in the band.  She would rather play her trumpet than use her voice.  Mr. Bell, their director, was skilled at choosing music that was more interesting for their marching shows.  For their Christmas concerts, he tended to lean toward cheerful carols instead of dissonant hymns.  He was also a lot mellower than Mrs. Abernathe, the choir director, whom many kids were convinced snorted a line of cocaine before every rehearsal.
    Mr. Bell clapped his hands together, a typical sign that he was ready to start rehearsal.  “Okay, gang,” he said.  “Apparently Mrs. Abernathe has something she needs to speak to the choir members about, so if that means you, head on over to the auditorium for a quick meeting, but be back here when you’re done.”
    Melody watched about half the band rise and depart the band room.  Andy shifted in his seat.  Mr. Bell caught Melody’s eye and looked at her quizzically.
    “Melody, aren’t you doing chorus this year?”
    She shook her