Dad was still frowning, and Mom said, "Look at the bright side, dear. Her room has never been cleaner."

"Yeah," Dad said drily. "Before or since."

Mom snorted.

"Okay. I'll clean up my room."

"Rooms," Dad said.

"Right, rooms." I agreed. My room in New Prospect was slightly cluttered but that wouldn't take long. I licked my lips, and took a deep breath. "Dad?"

"Yeah, bunny?"

I licked my lips. "I didn't get makeup in my eyes."

Dad's mouth closed with a jerk, and he held up his hands. "Breathe, Davy," he said softly. He exhaled slowly, inhaled. "Breathe." He threaded his fingers together and settled his interlocked hands in his lap. "It wasn't pot," he said. There was no question in his voice.

"Let me take off the makeup," I said, and jumped.

When I came back down stairs, again, jumping, I was wearing pajamas and I'd removed the makeup.

This time it was Mom who went, uh, ballistic.

"Who did that to you?"

Dad was the calm one-he held his hand up-not quite the traffic halt that Mom had done before. More of a listen.

To answer Mom's question, I raised my hand, like in class, and said, "Present."

Dad's voice was almost mild compared to Mom's. "It looks like you got punched by an airbag. Were you in an auto accident?"

"No," I said. "Air, yes. Bag, no."

He frowned and leaned forward. "How fast were you going?"

"I don't know. Fast enough that it ripped off most of my clothes before I jumped away."

Mom's hands were up in front of her like she wanted to reach out and touch me, to run her fingers over my limbs to make sure I was all right.

I smiled to show I was okay, really. "I was wearing my favorite jeans, Mom. I'm going to need another pair."

"What did you do, girl?" asked Mom. "Jump outside a jet aircraft?"

The roof beams in the living room are well over twenty-five feet off the floor. I was sitting on an ottoman, my back to the fire. I pointed at the ceiling and said, "Up, up, and away."

I did the short impulse, the one I'd practice for twelve feet. I didn't bother springing to my feet or even standing. From their perspective I just shot into the air, still seated.

Dad made a small "Ha," noise. Mom gasped and jerked back against the couch cushions as I rose up.

At the apex, I just jumped back down to the ottoman. My joints still hurt and the thought of physically absorbing the landing was too much.

We're used to seeing each other jump. (At least I was used to seeing them jump.) But this was different.

Dad mouth was twisted in a strange smile.

"You can fly?" Mom said.

"You just have to have happy thoughts," I said.

Dad laughed. "We mean no harm to your planet." He shook his head. "She's not flying. She jumped." He laughed, again. "Jumped. Ha. I saw her flicker. She jumped right to where she was, don't you see? But with a change in velocity." He pointed his finger toward the ceiling. "Thataway. How fast were you going? You slowed, I thought, before you jumped back down."

I nodded. "About twenty-seven feet per second. Yeah, I was at the top, about to drop."

"Twenty-seven feet per second," Mom said. "Uh, how fast is that in real speed?"

Mom's actually fine at math, but I guess she was a little rattled. "Eighteen, nineteen miles per hour," I said.

"How fast were you going when, uh-" Mom gestured at my face.

"I was trying to do two hundred feet per second. Uh, about 130 miles per hour."

"Why that fast?" asked Dad.

"I was doing these jumps where I'd go fifty feet into the air. I calculated the velocity was about fifty-five feet per second. I wanted to quadruple it." I touched the skin below my right eye. "I think it must've been more like ten times, maybe more. Like three hundred miles an hour."

Dad shook his head. "All right. Where were you doing this?"

"Near the pit."

And Mom said, "Cent, in the desert, with a blunt instrument. Besides your face, how do you feel?"

My knees, hips, ankles, shoulders, elbows, and wrists all throbbed.

"A bit stiff," I said.

This full disclosure thing took some getting used to. Better not overdo it.

Dad couldn't help himself. "I did warn you! You're lucky you're not dead or paralyzed!"

Mom ignored him. "I think, perhaps, you should stay home from school tomorrow."

I didn't fight that.

The next morning, Mom showed up with a bowl of chilled cucumbers for my eyes.

"What's the science on this?" I asked. "This isn't some woo like echinacea, is it?"

"Hold still. Lie back."

They did feel good.

"Anything cold would help. Chilled, wet tea bags, a cold spoon, a wet cloth, an ice pack. Cucumbers smell better." I heard her bite into one. "And they taste good."

I took the bowl out to the hot tub and soaked in the heat, administering the cucumbers externally and internally until there were none left.

My eyes looked less swollen when I was done, but the bruising was still there when I looked in the mirror. Can you say "raccoon"? I knew you could.

Even if I stayed home on Friday as well, I was supposed to go to Durango with the snowboarding team on Saturday. I didn't think the shiners would be gone by then, though the whites of my eyes were clearing and I had hopes they would be less bloodshot by then.

When I was twelve, when my periods started, I went through this phase where I wanted to try everything girl. Within reason, Mom indulged me, though she drew the line at shaving my legs, since it was all still downy nothing. I did dresses and stockings and high heels and on top of everything, I did makeup.

We would go out to fancy restaurants and once, to an opera, but I twisted an ankle really badly in the heels and went back to jeans and athletic shoes when I could walk again. Sure, occasionally we'd still dress up, but I guess I'd gotten bored with it.

A year later I got acne really bad. I mean, Mount Vesuvius bad. Mom jumped on it right away, and we saw a high-priced dermatologist in San Francisco who put me on antibiotics and prescription creams. Still, for about eight months, I was glad I had some madd makeup skilz.

If I could conceal a cheek-wide volcano eruption of acne vulgaris, I should be able to cover up a couple of black eyes.

The eyes themselves improved somewhat the next day, with the redness lessening, and an application of Visine reduced the rest.

The bruises, though, were trickier than I thought. Oh, sure, it was easy enough to cover them up, but I was hoping for something that still looked like me without makeup. It didn't. It made me look older, polished, pompous, idiotic-well, not really.

Lots of the girls at school wore makeup-too much, really. Caffeine did this flaming eye shadow and heavy eyeliner thing that made her look like a refugee from a rock concert. They all overdid it, reminding me of myself when I was thirteen.

Turns out, what worked best was a good powder-based foundation, with a softened brown eyeliner, and wine colored eye shadow that blended into the bruising. It hid the black eyes but it was fancy-formal and I decided I'd have to dress up a bit for school, to match it.

I wore a dark blue suit the next day, white tights, two-inch pumps, and my very long wool coat.

Like two days before, I jumped to the evergreen bushes near the art room. The door at the end of the wing was locked and there were a few people in the hall so I couldn't jump past the locked door. There was still enough snow on the ground that I worried about walking in the heels. I peeked through the window to Mrs. Begay's room-she wasn't there yet, so I jumped inside. The doors to her room were locked but you could open them from inside and I slipped out into the hall and walked to my locker.

Okay, they were staring.

I wondered if the black eyes were showing through the makeup or, perhaps, someone had noticed I hadn't just "moved" out of the way when Caffeine had come at me in the cafeteria.

I concentrated on my footwork. They were only two-inch heels but you could still have a nasty spill.

"Hey, Cent!" It was Grant Meriwether, Naomi's little brother. He had two equally gawky boys with him.

I stopped and smiled. "Good morning, Grant." I don't know why, but dressing up changed my word choices, made them more formal.

He blinked and opened his mouth but nothing came out. One of his friends jabbed him in the side. "Oh, right. This is Tony and Dakota." At my blank look he added. "They wanted to meet you."

I blinked. "Uh, okay! Glad to meet you."

Tony took my hand but instead of shaking it, he squeezed it slightly and didn't let go. "En ... chanted." He said it like that, with a long pause in the middle of the word as he looked meaningfully into my eyes.

I tried very hard not to laugh out loud.

Grant jabbed him in the side. "Let go of the hand, Tony."

Dakota took my hand in his and bowed low, then lower. At the last second I realized he was going to kiss it and I jerked back. It didn't free my hand but it did pull it far enough forward that he ended up kissing his own wrist.

I pried his fingers off. "Whoa there, Bessie. Don't you know it's flu season?"

Dakota blushed. "Uh, sorry. I'm just so happy to meet you."

"I can ... tell. Uh, why are you so happy?"

"You got Caffeine kicked out of school," Dakota said.

My stomach clenched. "What?"

Grant looked at me. "Suspended for two weeks."

"I didn't do that," I said. "Go kiss Ms. McClaren's hand."

Grant and Dakota made faces of revulsion and Tony said, "Gross!"

I smiled. "But really, it was Caffeine who got Caffeine suspended. Thank her."

"Shit no!" said Dakota. His affable goofiness had changed abruptly to vehement anger. Grant's and Tony's faces had also lost their smiles.

I raised my eyebrows and Grant said, "Caffeine's little gang has been on us all year."

Tony said, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Uh, would you like to go get coffee sometime?"

It was hard, but I managed not to laugh in his face. The enemy of your enemy is not your girlfriend.

I looked at his shoes, his pants, his shirt, then his face. He could use some of my madd makeup skilz-pimples on the chin-but he wasn't bad looking.

"Freshman?"

He looked defensive. "Yeah."

"What's your grade point average?"

He looked confused.

I added. "To date me, you have to have a solid 3.8."

All three of their faces dropped.

"It was so nice to meet you!" I smiled sweetly and walked on.

Behind me I heard Dakota mutter, "A 3.8? What is she, an Ivy League school?"