Slide

Dedication

For my mother,

who instilled in me a love of words;

and my daughter,

for whom I hope to do the same.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

I’m slumped at my desk, fighting to keep my eyes open. A drop of sweat meanders down my back. It’s got to be eighty-five degrees in here, though it’s only October. When we complained, Mrs. Winger mumbled something about waiting for a custodian to come fix the thermostat.

Beside me, hunched over his desk, Icky Ferris stumbles over the words in Julius Caesar. We’re supposed to be reading in partners—but his monotonous tone, paired with the unintelligible Shakespearean language that gets English teachers all hot and bothered, makes me feel unbearably sleepy.

Heat is one of my major triggers—and, apparently, so is Shakespeare. Warmth crawls up my spine like a centipede. It reminds me of the time I was sitting in my dad’s car in August with the seat warmer accidentally on.

All the words in my book mush into blurry gray lines, and I know it won’t be long before I lose consciousness. The room starts to turn inside out, the seams pulling apart. I pick something in the room to focus on and end up staring at an inspirational poster with a picture of a kitten hanging off of a tree branch. The caption reads: HANG IN THERE, BABY! As I watch, the kitten’s face starts to melt off. I slip down in my chair.

There are certain signs I’m about to pass out: drooping eyelids, muscles gone slack like spaghetti, a blank look on my face. My classmates have seen it happen enough times to be able to tell what’s happening.

“Sylvia,” Icky hisses, and then he claps in front of my face. “Snap out of it.” I blink and focus on him. Icky has a mullet and an unhealthy obsession with firearms, but I like him. He certainly shows more compassion than most of the kids at my school. “You okay?”

By now, everyone’s staring. It’s not really a big deal anymore, me passing out in the middle of class, but it is something to break up this boring October day. There hasn’t been any new gossip since the drug dogs found a bag of weed in Jimmy Pine’s locker—and that was two weeks ago. I’d like to avoid losing myself completely in front of these vultures if at all possible.

I hoist myself out of the chair and approach Mrs. Winger, my English teacher. She’s totally engrossed in something on her computer—probably solitaire. She’s the only one who didn’t notice me almost pass out. Her big desk is tucked in the very back of the room so she can ignore us. Pair by pair, my classmates’ eyes drop away from me and go back to their reading.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” I make my words small and humble.

She doesn’t bother to remove her eyes from the computer screen. If she did, she might see that it’s me, Sylvia Bell with the narcolepsy issue, and remember she’s been asked to let me leave the classroom whenever I need to.

Come on. Just let me go. LEMME GO.

The room spins and my knees start to buckle.

“Can’t it wait until class is over?” Mrs. Winger’s voice is snippy, cutting me into tiny pieces she can easily brush into the trash. She moves a stack of cards with her mouse.

“Can’t your game wait until class is over?” I push a lock of pink hair behind my ear. I know it’s a bitchy thing to say, but screw it. It’s the only way to get her attention.

She finally looks my way, irritation deepening the lines around her eyes. “Fine. Go. Five minutes.”

I don’t respond because I’m already out the door. I should go to the nurse, but she’s required to notify my father of any episodes, and I don’t feel like dealing with the questions. Not today. I’m so tired. Sleep might stalk me throughout the day, but it evades me at night. Last night, I might’ve gotten a total of four hours of sleep.

On my way to the bathroom, I pray it’s empty. No such luck—when I push open the door, I see a girl on her knees in the last stall, alternately sobbing and retching. I recognize the silver flip-flops. It’s Sophie Jacobs, the only one of my little sister’s friends I can stand. At least she won’t tell anyone about my episode. She has her own secrets to keep, anyway, like the breakfast she was probably just getting rid of.

I lean against the wall and search the pockets of my hoodie for the little orange bottle—the one that’s labeled Provigil. My doctor prescribed it to keep me awake, but in actuality it doesn’t do crap. I’ve dumped out the Provigil and filled the bottle with cheap caffeine pills, the only drug that seems to work for me—and then only if I take about six of them at once. The Provigil makes me feel like I’m fighting my way through a fog, but the caffeine brings everything into focus. My hands shake as I fish out a few of the ovals and pop them into my mouth, even though I have a feeling it’s too late.

The toilet flushes, and the stall door behind me swings open. Sophie just stands there, glassy-eyed, wiping her mouth with the back of a trembling hand. Her glossy black hair has a chunk of something yellow in it. I have to look away.

“Gah, I’m glad it’s you,” she says. She comes forward and twists the one knob above the sink. Our school doesn’t so much have hot or cold water, just one temperature: arctic. She scoops some water into her hands and splashes her face. “I’ve been feeling sick lately.”

I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is this weird rasp. My head aches. The room darkens, and I press my palms into my forehead, sinking to the floor.

I can never get used to the feeling of looking through someone else’s eyes. It’s as if each person sees the world in a slightly different hue. The tricky part is figuring out who the person is. It’s like putting together a jigsaw puzzle— what do I see, hear, smell? Everything is a clue.

What I smell now: mildew and hair spray.

I’m in the girls’ locker room. Hideous pink lockers flank me on either side. The girl I’ve slid into pulls black ballet flats onto her orangey, fake-tanned feet. Her toes are painted robin’s-egg-blue with little daisies in the center.

Gym class must be over. Half-naked girls rush around, wiggling out of shorts way too skimpy for October, brushing their hair, discreetly swiping on powdery-smelling deodorant.

A few feet away, I recognize a blond girl sliding a pair of skinny jeans over her hips. She has a little white patch in the shape of the Playboy bunny on her hip, where she puts a sticker when she tans. The girl is Mattie. She is my sister and my exact opposite in every way. If she’s the pink glitter on your valentine, I’m the black Sharpie you use to draw mustaches on the teachers in your yearbook.

I feel my mouth open, and out comes the voice of Amber Prescott, my least favorite person in the galaxy. “Ugh. I just got the worst headache. It came out of nowhere. Do you have any aspirin?”

My mind races. How could I have slid into Amber? I wasn’t touching anything of hers. Was I?

Mattie fastens her silky ponytail with an elastic band. “Nope. Sorry. Anyway, it’s really none of my business if Sophie wants to hook up with Scotch. She can go around acting like a whore if she wants.”

“Personally, I think it’s disgusting the way she’s throwing herself at him. I mean, that’s not what a good friend does. She knew you had a crush on him.”

Scotch? As in Scotch Becker? The biggest prick in the junior class? The mere mention of his name makes me feel like puking. When did Mattie start liking Scotch, head quarterback and douche extraordinaire?

Mattie’s face puckers as if she’s eaten a whole box of Lemonheads, which it always does when she’s trying to act like something doesn’t bother her.

“Well, what am I supposed to do? I can’t force him to want me. And, duh, why wouldn’t he like Sophie? She’s . . . like . . . amazing-looking.” Mattie drops onto the bench and covers her face with her hands.

Amber slithers closer to Mattie and pats her back. “Don’t give me that shit, Mattie. Scotch is crazy for choosing that heff over you. I mean, Sophie can’t go five minutes without sticking her finger down her throat. Just because she’s lost about half her body weight doesn’t mean she’s not still fat inside. Guys don’t forget. She’s still Porky Pie from the sixth grade.”

Porky Pie. Sophie’s old nickname brings back memories, none of them good. Kids throwing oatmeal cream pies at her on the bus. The time in the computer lab when Scotch Becker pulled up the dictionary website and made the robotic voice say “hippopotamus” at her, over and over. I can’t believe Sophie would even speak to Scotch after the things he did to her in middle school. In fact, I can’t believe she speaks to Mattie or Amber. They only started hanging out with her after she lost weight, and even now Amber’s favorite pastime is thinking of new ways to torture Sophie. Amber is forever pulling crap like telling Sophie her (nonexistent) ass looks fat or asking if Sophie should really be eating that slice of pizza. It’s obvious she’s completely jealous that Mattie and Sophie have become such close friends. She’s seizing this opportunity to drive the two apart.

Mattie peeks at Amber through her fingers. “Do you really think so?”

“Don’t worry,” Amber says, pulling out a hot-pink cell phone. “I’ve got a plan to put her back in her place.”

“Sylvia? Vee! Are you all right? Should I get the nurse?” Sophie hovers over me, twisting her hands in worry.

The bathroom tile is cool against my cheek. I wonder when they last mopped it. Pushing myself into a sitting position, I banish the visions of squirming bacteria from my thoughts.

“Ugh, no. I’m fine.”

“Oh, god. Your forehead!”

I reach up and feel a huge lump.

Sophie tears several paper towels from the dispenser and holds them under the faucet. She gently compresses the cool, wet paper to my head. She’s so freaking maternal. Last fall, when she and Mattie shared a birthday party, she made a chocolate cake from scratch. She covered it with chocolate icing and M&M’s and wrote “Mattie” with the candles. Mattie gave Sophie a Twinkie on a paper plate.

Just thinking about that party depresses me. Sophie is so sweet, really, despite her friends—including my sister, who used to be innocent and kind but in the last year has turned into such a bitch. I blame it on Amber.

Poor Sophie. She has no idea that, right this second, her two so-called BFFs are talking shit about her. And evidently planning something to “put her in her place.” I want to warn her to be careful around those two, but how would that look—me bad-mouthing my own sister? Would she even believe me?

Sophie pulls me to my feet. I lean against the sink and pull the paper towel away to assess the damage in the mirror. My forehead doesn’t look too bad. I feel the bump gingerly. A minor contusion. Maybe my father won’t notice.

Sophie meets my eyes in the mirror. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I turn to face her. Her shoulders are hunched over, her head bowed. Her legs are two sticks beneath her cheerleading skirt. She can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Really. How are you?”

She gets this funny look on her face, and I’m not sure if she’s about to start laughing or bawling.

“It’s my birthday,” she says finally, shrugging. “Mattie hasn’t said anything. You can give this to your sister. I made it.” Sophie holds out a braided friendship bracelet, the kind you make at summer camp. It’s red and gold to match their cheerleading uniforms.

I can guarantee with near certainty Mattie hasn’t done anything special for Sophie’s birthday. Again, I’m struck with the urge to tell Sophie to wise up and get some better friends. Thinking of how to phrase my words, I push the bracelet onto my wrist so I won’t lose it.

“Sophie . . .” I say, taking a step toward her, but she ducks into the hallway before I can reach her, tears streaming from her eyes. I crumple the paper towel in frustration and aim for the garbage can. It misses by a mile. When I lean over to retrieve it, a dollar bill falls out of the pocket of my hoodie. It’s stained and almost torn in half.

Crap. That must be why I slid into Amber.

Suddenly it all comes rushing back—Amber running up to me before first period, waving the crumpled dollar bill in my face.

“The stupid pop machine isn’t taking my money,” she’d wailed. “Caffeine is urgent. Do you have change?” She was completely freaking out, enough to leave an emotional imprint on the money she was holding, enough for me to pick up on less than an hour later.

I’d found a few coins for her and accepted the dollar in return, which I stuck in my jacket pocket. I must have brushed against it when I reached for the Provigil bottle— just when I was feeling faint, just when I was vulnerable. If I put the money back in my pocket, I could accidentally slide into Amber again later.

Unwilling to take the chance, I use a paper towel to pick up the dollar, and then I toss it into the trash. I never want to be inside Amber Prescott’s head again.

I speed-walk past the student entrance and almost run into Rollins, my best friend, who has a tendency to show up at school about halfway through first period.

“Vee!” He laughs and grabs my arm. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“Back to class,” I say, turning my face away from him so he won’t see the bump on my forehead. It’s no use, though. Rollins sees everything.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Stop.”

I let him look me over, waiting for the inevitable questions. Things between us have seemed strained lately. It’s as if Rollins senses that I’m hiding something. He keeps pushing, and I keep pulling away. If only he’d just let me be . . .

Rollins shakes his long brown hair out of his eyes. “Are you okay? Did you just—”

“Mr. Rollins,” a smug voice calls out. “Little late today, I see.” Mr. Nast—“Nasty,” to the students— strolls toward us, his thumbs tucked casually through his belt loops like he’s in some kind of western. It’s the last face-off—Nasty the principal and us, the delinquents.

Nasty glares at Rollins, whose face has settled into a smirk. Rollins’s snarky attitude hasn’t won him any favors with the administration—that’s for damn sure. He gets busted once a week on average. It’s pretty much Nast’s hobby, trying to nail Rollins for smoking in the parking lot or cutting class.

When Nast sees me, his face kind of wavers. I’m a tricky one. With my strange disability and permanent hall pass, there’s not much he can do to me. Rollins, however, is a totally different story. I know for a fact he’s only one tardy away from suspension.

Rollins’s grip on my arm tightens for a moment, and then he lets go. He prepares himself for battle, crossing his arms across his chest and tightening his jaw.

I throw myself between them. “Mr. Nast, Rollins was just walking me to the nurse. I’m feeling faint.” I make my voice wobbly and grasp Rollins for support.

Mr. Nast looks from me to Rollins and back again. I see in his face that he doesn’t believe me, but there’s nothing he can do. Finally, he throws us a severe look and mutters at us to hurry up.

Rollins and I bustle away from him, arms linked, heading toward the nurse’s office. When we round the corner, we burst into laughter, and any tension there might have been between us before has dissipated.

“I never knew you were such a fine actress,” Rollins says, snorting.

“Oh, that wasn’t an act. I really am feeling faint,” I say, pretending to swoon. “I’m such a delicate flower.”

“My ass,” Rollins says, nudging me with his elbow. “You’re about as delicate as an AK-47.” His snicker fades as he catches sight of my forehead. “Seriously, though, what happened?”

I shake my pink hair so it covers my wound. “It’s nothing. I just passed out in the bathroom. But I’m fine. No big deal.”

Rollins can’t hide his worries, though he tries. His eyes narrow. “If you say so.”

I squirm. Concern makes me itchy.

“Look, I gotta get to class. See you later?”

Rollins nods. “Later, Vee.”

When I get back to English, it looks like someone released sleeping gas in the classroom. Almost everyone is draped over their desks, holding their copies of Julius Caesar at odd angles in front of their faces so it’s not completely obvious they’re asleep. Mrs. Winger is still absorbed in her game. She doesn’t look up when I ease into my seat.

Samantha Phillips, her hair framing her face in straight red sheets, eyeballs me from across the room. Her cheerleading skirt is yanked up to show off her fake-baked thighs. I can’t believe I once wore one of those skirts. I can’t believe I was ever friends with the girl who is now captain of the squad. Sophomore year seems like a lifetime ago.

She looks at my Oasis T-shirt and sneers. “Nice outfit. What is it, like, 1994?”

I give her a death glare until she looks away and goes back to inconspicuously tapping the screen of her iPhone.

My gaze falls on the crisp, clean copy of Astronomy: The Cosmic Perspective, which peeks out from my black school-bag. I had to order it brand-new to avoid the possibility of sliding when I flipped through the pages. People have emotional ties with books more often than you think, and I try to play it safe.

With Mrs. Winger so enthralled by her computer game, it would be easy to pull my book out and continue the section on black holes I was reading the night before. There probably won’t be any questions about black holes on the Julius Caesar test, though, sadly enough.

I turn to Icky. “What’d I miss?”

“Hmmm . . . Well, the conspirators stabbed Caesar. You missed about the only good part in this play.”

“Aw, crap,” I say, in mock annoyance. I lean over his desk, careful not to touch the book, and scan the part I missed. Yada yada yada, the conspirators surround him, Caesar is history.

One of the questions on the study guide: What were Caesar’s last words?

I look back at the book, searching for the answer. Aha! Right after Brutus plunges the knife in, Caesar says, “Et tu, Bruté?—Then fall Caesar.”

I think of Caesar going to the Capitol, surrounded by men he thought were his friends, only to be stabbed repeatedly in the back. And there’s Brutus, holding the bloody freaking knife. The only thing left for Caesar to do is die, thinking he’s such a shitty person even his best friend wants him dead.

Sophie’s face pops into my head. What will she think when she finds out her two best friends are plotting against her? On her birthday, no less?

People suck.

I shake my head, writing down the answer.

“Pretty sick stuff, eh?” Icky grins.

“I’ll say.”

The bell rings, and everyone jumps to life.

Lunchtime.

I sit in my usual place, underneath the bleachers, and wait for Rollins. From my spot, I spy an empty Coke can, half a Snickers bar, and a Trojan wrapper. Fumbling in my backpack for my lunch, I wonder who in their right mind would want to have sex under the bleachers. Maybe they did it on the football field and the wrapper just blew over here—not that that’s much better.

The brown sugar Pop-Tarts I packed this morning have crumbled to bits, so I eat the big pieces and then tilt my head back and dump the rest of the crumbs into my mouth.

I expect Rollins to sneak up on me and make a snarky comment about my ladylike table manners, but he doesn’t show. This is the third lunch he’s stood me up for. After a few minutes, I pull out my astronomy book and read about black holes in between swigs of warm Mountain Dew.

I’m in the middle of a really great paragraph about how nothing—not even light—can escape a black hole once it’s reached the event horizon when something above me clangs. Two people are working their way down the bleachers. I stick my finger in the book to hold my place and tilt my head up, annoyed by the interruption.

A familiar voice floats down to where I’m sitting. It makes me want to puke.

Scotch.

They sit down above me, and I hear another guy’s voice. “Dude, you have to check this out.” His tone is conspiratorial, like he’s got some drugs or a Penthouse magazine.

Quietly, I stuff my book into my backpack. Maybe I can sneak away without them noticing me.

“What is this? Where did you get this?” I hear Scotch ask.

“One of the cheerleaders sent it out this morning. Hey. Didn’t you bang this chick?”

Scotch snorts. “Yeah, once.”

Feeling like I’m going to be sick, I crawl toward the opening beneath the bleachers. Something sharp slices into my knee, and it takes everything in me to stifle my yelp of pain. When I look down, I realize I’ve cut myself on a broken Budweiser bottle. My jeans are torn, and blood oozes through the opening. I bite my lip and move toward the exit.

After emerging from my hiding spot, I risk one quick backward glance. Scotch and another football player are both staring down at a cell phone, smirking. My heart clenches for the poor girl they’re discussing, whoever she is.

In the bathroom, I clutch a wad of paper towels to my knee, but the blood doesn’t seem to be slowing. Though I’ve been avoiding the school nurse, it’s clear I’ll have to stop by her office. The beer bottle wasn’t exactly clean, and she’ll have some antiseptic cream to smooth on the wound.

Mrs. Price is sitting at her desk, rifling through papers, when I arrive. Her gray hair is falling out of a loose bun, and she’s wearing these glasses on a chain that make her look more like a librarian than a school nurse. She’s so engrossed in her work, she doesn’t even notice me come in.

A boy I’ve never seen before sits in a folding chair in the corner. He looks me up and down, his gaze pausing on the bloody paper towels I’m holding, making me feel suddenly self-conscious. He doesn’t look like the type of guy who goes for chicks with pink hair. In fact, with his perfectly tousled blond hair and green T-shirt stretched tight over his biceps, he looks like the type of guy who dates girls who resemble Victoria’s Secret models. Still, he sits there smiling as if he knows me or something.

“Uh,” I say.

Mrs. Price looks up, her eyebrows jumping when she spots the blood. “Vee! Another accident?”

“No biggie,” I mutter, avoiding eye contact with the guy. “It’s a shallow cut. Just needs to be cleaned.”

Mrs. Price frowns and pushes back her chair. She glides over to me and stoops down to examine my wound. “Did you get this during another episode, Vee?”

“No,” I say, shaking my hair over my face so she won’t notice the bump. If she finds out I’ve been passing out, she’ll have to call my father and he’ll have to call my doctors and they’ll ask about the Provigil and the whole thing will be a big pain in my ass.

Mrs. Price pulls on some latex gloves and tells me to sit down and pull up my pant leg. She wipes my knee with an alcohol pad, dabs on some Neosporin, and then wraps it with a clean bandage. The whole time, I am intensely aware of the hot guy staring at my bare leg.

Mrs. Price strips off her gloves and tosses them into the trash. She stands and looks at the guy. “All your records seem to be in order, Zane. What class do you have now? Vee here can show you the way. Sylvia, this is Zane Huxley. This is his first day.”

The guy steps forward and shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you.” He pulls a crinkled paper from his pocket and squints at it. “I’ve got AP psych with Golden.”

“Oh, good.” Mrs. Price claps her hands. “That’s where you’re going. Right, Vee?”

“Um, yeah.”

As we walk to Mr. Golden’s room, I keep my eyes straight ahead, though I can feel Zane’s eyes on me.

“So, Sylvia. Got any advice for the newb in town? Cool places to hang out? Teachers to avoid?” He reaches out and trails his finger along a poster that says STAR in bubble letters. Safe, Tolerant, Accountable, Respectful—all the things teachers wish students were, but we can’t always be because we’re human beings and not robots.

“Not really. Get salad bar on Chef’s Choice days.”

He laughs. “Well, that’s a given.” He unfolds his schedule. “I’ve got Winger first period. Have you had her?”

I risk a glance at Zane. His face is open and friendly and interested. To him, I’m a perfectly normal girl. Well, a perfectly normal girl with Pepto-colored hair. But still.

“Yeah. Actually, I’ve got her first period, too. Just don’t bother her when she’s playing solitaire, and you should be fine. She gets cranky.”

“Solitaire, eh? What about this guy? Golden? He cool?”

“Yeah, he’s really cool,” I say. “He’s young, which means he hasn’t burned out yet. And he always tells these weird stories, like the time he helped a woman give birth at the Omaha zoo.”

“Ew,” Zane says, but he looks fascinated.

“Yeah. So where are you from?”

A girl in a flippy skirt skips down the hall toward us, her eyes lingering on Zane, but he doesn’t even look her way. His eyes are fixed on me.

“Actually, I used to live here when I was little. But then my dad died and we moved to Chicago to live with my grandma.”

Awkward. It’s always so awkward when someone mentions death, especially when you don’t know them very well. Strangers always say they’re soooooo sorry when they hear my mother is gone, but it’s wrong that death is a loss. It’s something you gain. Death is always there, whispering in your ear. It’s in the spaces between your fingers. In your memories. In everything you think and say and feel and wish. It’s always there.

I know there’s nothing you can say to make death okay. It is what it is.

“That sucks,” I say.

He nods silently.

We’re standing in front of the door to Mr. Golden’s classroom.

“Well, here we are,” I say feebly.

“Try to contain your excitement,” he says, smiling as he pushes open the door.

The room we walk into looks more like a lounge than a classroom. Mr. Golden likes to rescue and reupholster couches and bring them in for us to sit on during class discussions. He’s decorated the walls with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Mixed in with the posters of Freud and diagrams of the human brain are old concert posters for The Doors and Jimi Hendrix. He even has a black light he turns on for special occasions. A large green plant that looks like it could swallow me hulks in the corner.

“Looks like we have a newcomer,” Mr. Golden booms. “Take a seat wherever. I’m not into seating charts.”

Zane folds himself into a beanbag chair. He’s so tall, his knees almost hit his chin. The girls who aren’t sneaking looks at him are openly gaping. A little seed of pleasure bursts within me when he looks my way and grins.

Rollins sits on an orange sofa in the corner, doodling in the margin of his textbook. I plop down next to him and pull out my notebook. Mr. Golden may let us sit wherever we want, but he draws heavily from his lectures when writing his exams. I got a C on the last one, so I figure I’d better actually try to follow what Mr. Golden is saying about classical conditioning.

“Who’s that?” Rollins asks under his breath, nodding in Zane’s direction. Rollins doesn’t bother to take notes. He’s got some kind of photographic memory; he remembers not only what he sees, but also what he reads, hears, and even smells. Ask him what was for lunch last Tuesday, and he’ll remember just how nasty the burned meatloaf smelled in the hallways.

“Uh, Zane Huxley,” I whisper back when Mr. Golden pauses to blow his nose. “He’s new. I met him in the nurse’s office. Sliced my knee open pretty good.”

Rollins’s eyes dart down to my leg. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just kneeled on a beer bottle under the bleachers. No. Big. Deal. Anyway, where were you during lunch?”

Rollins pauses before answering. I can tell he knows there’s more to the story, but I don’t want to rehash the conversation I overheard under the bleachers. It’s just too depressing.

He tugs his lip ring. “I was printing off the latest installment of Fear and Loathing in High School. My finest work, if I do say so myself.” Pride creeps into his voice. Rollins makes his own zine, in which he reviews concerts and writes articles about the suckiness that is high school. It’s completely do-it-yourself, literally cut and pasted from Rollins’s journals and drawings.

“Ooooh, can I have one?”

“They’re in my locker. I’ll give you one later.”

Mr. Golden launches back into his lecture. By the end of the period, I’ve covered a whole page with my loopy handwriting.

When the bell rings, Mr. Golden raises his voice. “Remember to read the section on the different theories of motivation tonight. There might be a quiz Monday, just so you know.”

I’m stuffing my notebook back into my backpack when Mr. Golden turns to address me.

“Sylvia, can I speak with you for a moment?”

Rollins pokes me in the back. “See you later.”

When we’re alone, Mr. Golden perches on a sofa and crosses his arms over his chest. I hover in the middle of the room, wondering what he could possibly want with me. I’m pulling an overall B in his class, despite the C I received on the last exam. I would be an utterly unremarkable student if it weren’t for my so-called narcolepsy.