"I'm fine," he said, without looking at me.

"You're not fine. I can tell. You're skipping your appointments and you're off your meds. Why?"

He didn't answer. Just brushed back the thin blond hairs pasted to his temple.

"Does this have something do with Anh?"

He looked at me sharply. "Can we just drop it?"

I gave a single curt nod. If he didn't want to share what was going on inside his head, I wouldn't push him. But I couldn't shake the feeling that all these awkward unanswered questions between us that seemed inconsequential alone, might build into something insurmountable.

Reluctantly, I let go of his hand. We both stared straight ahead. The gymnasium stared back, its doors sealed shut with strips of yellow tape.

"Why's the gym taped off ?"

Jeremy shrugged. "The police don't think Marcia killed herself. She was drugged before she drowned. I was listening to their radios in the parking lot on Friday night. They're calling it a probable homicide."

Probable. There was nothing probable about it. She'd been murdered and left there for me. "Does anyone know who did it?" I asked, piling one more omission on my growing mountain of lies.

"I don't know."

"Did anyone see anything?"

"I said I don't know," he snapped.

"What kind of crappy reporter are you?" I snapped back, the sharpness of his mood still lingering in me. I only meant to be sarcastic, but it came out sounding frustrated and critical. Maybe because that's how I felt too.

He got out of the car.

"Hey," I called after him, but he walked away. I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings, but he was so tense-so on-edge without his meds. I should have been more careful. I was stupid. I should never have touched him. "Would you stop and look at me?" I just needed to see his face. He stopped, his sigh obvious in the fall of his shoulders before he turned. We stared at each other over the roof. I tucked my hands in my pockets and lowered my voice. "Whatever it is, you can tell me." Inside I cringed, feeling like a hypocrite. Here I was, expecting him to share what was happening inside his head, and I hadn't been willing to do the same. He was silent, and I didn't push. I hadn't earned that right.

Instead, I told him what was in my heart. "You know I love you, J. Don't you?"

He thought for a minute, then said, "I'll see you at lunch?" and walked away without waiting for an answer.

11.

The bell rang, marking the end of seventh period, and Rankin's last chem class of the day. I stood in front of the bulletin board, waiting for the room to clear, staring at my most recent test score. The one that solidified the gap between Anh's and my final grades and perfectly positioned her for a stronger lead. Cumulative scores wouldn't be posted until Friday, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what a ninetyfour percent would do to my grade.

When the last of the students filed out, I slumped into my chair. Why was I even there? Marcia was gone, and no amount of wishful thinking would bring her back. You don't get credit for just showing up.

Without a word, Rankin placed my graded test on the table in front of me.

I stared at the exam. Through it. To the blue graffiti on the surface of my desk. The words DEAD OR ALIVE showed through the paper, less like a fading memory than a lingering promise, making it impossible to think about anything else.

Rankin tapped my test with his lab marker. "I expected a closer race. You're letting Anh get ahead of you. And TJ's not far behind."

I stopped looking through the paper to look at it, all the blue notations where half points had been deducted for stupid mistakes. The blue ink. Rankin's standard-issue indelible blue marker. We all had them. Every chemistry student. The same kind that was scribbled all over my test. All over my desk. On Marcia's arm. Emily's had been ten. Marcia's was eighteen. But why? What was the connection? The message carved in my lab table in physics suggested there'd be others.

Better luck next time.

"I know what you're thinking," Rankin said, "but you've still got four weeks, and the scholarship is based on cumulative scores."

I nodded. The largest scholarship in the history of West River-$25,000 dollars for one qualified junior, based on academic achievement and community service. Straight A's in chemistry and five hours per week volunteering . . . and voil! A big fat college tuition. One every year for one lucky student until the bucket ran out.

This was my year. My only year. My ticket out.

And I was blowing it.

"Well," Rankin said decidedly, "we can't have you falling behind in your community service. It's deeply troubling, and I know it's hard, but try not to let this loss distract you for long. You've worked hard, and I'd hate to see you lose your momentum so close to the end of the year." He patted my shoulder gently. The touch was unexpected and I bit my lip trying not to jerk it from his hand, grateful for the barrier of fabric between us. I didn't want to feel his disappointment in me. Or his pity. "I'm late for a faculty meeting." He checked his watch, and lumbered to his desk. "I took the liberty of making other arrangements for you today . . ." He paused, raising an eyebrow. ". . . if you feel you're up to it."

I nodded again.

"Good. Your new mentee will be here shortly. He needs basic chemistry." He bent to scoop up a stack of books and muttered, "Very basic . . ."

As Rankin shuffled out the door, another figure shuffled in. They exchanged polite hellos in an awkward dance, Rankin clasping his disheveled stack to his chest and a short, squarefigured boy squeezing in around him. I tutored Teddy Marshall on Thursdays and I was surprised to see him so early in the week. His special ed class was in a small wing on the other side of the school, and we rarely saw each other outside of our weekly lessons. He beamed, his small eyes shining behind thick corrective lenses, his tongue peeking through the gaps in his teeth.

"Hey, Leigh!"