"Be up in a minute," I yell back.

Her footsteps move up the three steps to the kitchen. One last quick look around the room, which looks OK, and then one last glance in the mirror near the door. I look OK, too.

The microwave dings. My stomach growls in anticipation. At the turn by the laundry room, I smell the heavenly scent of a home-cooked meal, reheated but still home-cooked. My mouth waters. I don't even care what it is.

She's been waiting to see how messed up I am; I know she has. I can't do anything about my face, or hand, or the bruises that show. I planned to take the steps two at a time, shut up some of her worrying by showing her I'm fine. But after the long day bent over baseboards, then later standing over the cabinet doors, the best I can do is try not to limp or show her I can't lift my right arm very far.

Her first look says it all - the forced smile doesn't hide her shock.

"I'm fine," I say.

Her eyebrows climb to the messy hair curling around her forehead.

"Really."

"Yeah, sure, you're just great," she says. It's harsh and kind of angry, but I'm pretty sure she's not angry at me.

As we've done a gazillion times before, without even talking about it, we head to the back porch. She carries the plate and fork. I grab a couple of sodas from the fridge.

She holds the plate, waiting for me to settle down on the top step, facing out toward the woods at the back of the yard. With the sun sliding toward night, and the pinky-purple sky behind her, her hair looks even more golden than usual, streaky and kind of glowy in places. She moves a little and I realize I've been staring.

I trade her one of the sodas for the steaming plate. Before digging in, I wait for her to sit. But she puts her soda down so she can pull her sweatshirt from around her waist and tug it over her head. COUGAR SOCCER blazes across her chest in brand-spanking-new gold letters. I remind myself not to stare. It's new - the sweatshirt, not her chest. Her chest has been tormenting me for years. Last week, all the rising-senior soccer players got their "senior sweatshirts" in one of those very-important-to-them ceremony things. She's been wearing it whenever it's the least bit cool enough and being very careful not to get it dirty. Shauna already has senior fever: excited and going through all the rituals of junior year to be ready. The way things are going, I may never be a senior. Her teammates think I'm a loser. They're not the only ones.

I wait until she's seated beside me to start. By then the casserole's cool enough not to blister the roof of my mouth. Sitting side by side, I can't see her face without turning my head, but I don't need to look to know her face right now: tight, pinched, scared and sad and cautious, like she's looked most of the semester, only a little bit worse, because of the fight. Her dark-brown eyes are probably squinted with worry, drowning out the gold flecks.

I grunt my appreciation around a mouthful of chicken casserole. It's warm and creamy and perfect. And pretty soon, there's a growing pile of mushrooms on the edge of the plate and a spreading warmth in my stomach. Shauna must've told her mom she was bringing me dinner, because, despite the mushrooms, it's one of my favorite meals ever.

"Your ribs OK?" At least she let me get mostly done with dinner.

"Never better." I don't really look at her, but I catch the small, mocking smile and shake of her head anyway. "Shauna." My warning voice has never been as good as hers.

"Yeah, right," she says. "Sure."

She is pissed, and maybe at me. I can't tell. Unnerving enough that she might be su;ciently pissed to get into it, but after all the months of her constantly studying me, those tense looks, not knowing is torture. I just can't read her anymore.

And now I can't eat anymore, either.

"Let it go." I push the plate toward her on the step between us, knowing she'll pick at the leftovers if she isn't too pissed. At least the chicken and broccoli, and with her fingers, not my fork. I try not to smile when she picks up the plate. There's hope for better yet.

"At least clean out your knuckles," she says. "They look kind of red. Are they getting infected?" She wrinkles her face for emphasis.

I look at my hands. They are kind of gross, but I didn't really think about them. I pick at the edge of the scab on my pinky finger until it rips. When I look up, she's stopped eating, obviously disgusted.

"Seriously, Matt, you could get really sick. You should clean them out with some peroxide or alcohol or something, maybe put some antibiotic cream and bandages on them at night."

We don't have any peroxide or ointment or anything. I try to get my pinky to stop bleeding by sucking on it.

"Lovely," Shauna says. "Before the movie, at least wash that off and put a Band-Aid on it."

Back inside, I take the plate and wave her toward the stairs, pretending to crumple in pain when she flicks my chest as she walks past me.

Shauna's already putting in the DVD, but I dig through the drawer in the bathroom until I find a stray Band-Aid in the back. I scrub my knuckles with soap, then put the Band-Aid on the one that kept bleeding. It doesn't want to stick, but I hold it on with the finger next to it.

When I come back in, she smiles her approval, maybe like the future nurse she wants to be. It kind of makes me want to rip the Band-Aid off for spite. But I don't.

Shauna pulls her sweatshirt over her head. Her T-shirt rides up. I busy myself with the remote. Some of my favorite fantasies start with her shirt pulling up to reveal smooth, pale skin.

Between her being in my room, the weirdness from upstairs, and the general weirdness between us lately, I don't know where to sit. But she sits on the floor, steals my pillow, and leans against my bed. Makes it easy to do the same.

Once the movie starts, one we've seen a dozen times, things get normal between us again, at least what's been passing for normal since November. The crinkling wrappers and flood of grape smell from Shauna's candy feels exactly like a hundred other times we've sat right here, her oblivious, and me trying not to let on what having her here, in my room, does to me.

And it feels good, just us, and little talking except to mock the movie.

After, neither of us moves to put in another right away. But when the quiet gets too heavy, I try to get up fast to change the DVD. Big mistake. My muscles have tightened up and hurt like hell. I can't help wincing and hissing.

"Geez, Matt."

"I'm fine." I smile down at her, trying to convince her. To break the tension, I try for a laugh. "You shoulda seen the other guys."

She doesn't laugh. "I did." She hesitates, then looks away, undoing her messy hair from its band, and then taking her time gathering all the stray hair in again. It's a habit, when she doesn't know what else to do. "The side of Michael's face is turning purple. He had a concussion."

Great, just what I need - Michael using the fight as a way to get back in with Shauna. With my luck, she'll be so impressed with his maturity and concern she'll let him below the equator this time. Just freaking great.

"You really messed Pinscher up." It isn't quite an accusation.

"I know." I close my eyes and shift my weight from one foot to the other. I can't stand her looking at me like that. "Shauna, I . . ." I almost say I'm sorry, but it would be stupid to apologize to her for beating up Pinscher. I try to figure out what she wants to hear.

She takes three steps over to my bed and sits down. "What happened? I mean, why . . . ?"

I can't say it again. If I say it again, I'm gonna go insane.

"OK, not why," she says. "I get why."

Great. "Does everyone know?"

"Pretty much." She nods, picking at the edge of the bedspread with her nail.

Terrific. Every time I think it can't get worse, it does. Screw it. I'm not going back. They can fail me.

"Matt, even the kids who usually suck up to Pinscher and sign his petitions and stuff get that he went too far."

My head's gonna explode. "Went too far?" Pounding in my ears. It's not a fucking matter of degrees. "Went too . . . Is that what Michael said, that the asshole 'went too far'? Do you think that there is any fucking -?"

"Calm down." Her hands fly up in front of her. "I get it. I do. It's just . . ." She trails off, shrugging a little.

Whatever Michael said to her, I know he doesn't get it, so maybe she doesn't, either. "Went too far," like just the shirt would have been OK? Or maybe a shirt with all the names but T.J.'s? It wasn't about "too far." It was about right and wrong. I wasn't wrong.

That first punch, the moment of impact, the crunch and the flood of blood. I feel sick.

"I'm just so tired," I say, "of everything."

"I know," she says, smoothing the spot next to her.

I can't. I can't talk anymore. And I definitely can't sit on the bed with her. Or pretend everything is OK.

Crap. Dad's truck in the driveway.

Shauna's up and in motion, all thoughts of talking forgotten. She's never really felt comfortable around Dad, but it's been worse since the funeral.

I get her out the side door just before Dad comes in the front.

THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE WITH A HEART-CLENCHING jolt. Dad's voice bellows down. All the blood rushes to the top of my head and pounds there, trying to get out. I was in the middle of a dream, a Shauna dream, a good one.

"Did you hear me? Get your ass up here!"

7:27 a.m. Shit. I'm gonna be late for work.

I skip the shower in favor of breakfast. Takes all of ten minutes to brush my teeth, throw on some clothes, and be up in the kitchen wolfing down a bowl of cereal.

Partway through the second bowl, I hear Dad's feet on the stairs. Too late to get my boots on and slip out the side door, I finish my cereal.

Dad looks over his shoulder at me on the way to the coffee.

"Saw your girlfriend's car last night. Didn't hear her leave, though. What, you sneak her out after I went to bed, or was it this morning?"

Dad's leer broadcasts all the things he's thinking: all of them disgusting.

"Just be careful," he says, his chest all puffed out, almost swaggering over to the table, tossing the newspaper open as he yanks out his chair. "Her family can't afford another mouth to feed, and I'll be damned if I finally get your ass in gear just to have you piss it all away."

I should correct him, for her sake, her honor or whatever. But I can't make myself do it, for mine. His thinking we're having sex means maybe he worries a little less that he has to make a man out of me. There's something vomit-inducingly wrong about lusting after your best friend. But letting your fucked-up father think you're screwing her is a million times worse.

"You hear me?"

I snap my chin to chest and up again, like he does.

"I want to hear you say it."

I swallow hard around the guilt. "I hear you."

"OK, then." He beams and cuffs my shoulder as he struts past.

"Working tomorrow?" Dad asks.

I shovel in more cereal, slurping out a "No."

"Good," Dad says. "Don't make plans. Storm windows should've been down a month ago."

Oh, joy. Time for the biannual fun fest of pinched fingers and rusty scrapes, not to mention a whole afternoon of frustrating Dad by failing to follow his orders fast enough.

"Hey."

I wipe my face into a blank mask and nod my understanding.

"Finals in a week and a half?"

He knows they are, but I nod again.

"Better get studying. You fail and we are going to have a serious problem."

Failure equals dead. Sure thing. Got it. Thanks for the pep talk, Dad.

"I looked into it. GED won't cut it for the better assignments, and if you're gonna have any chance at all to advance through the ranks, you'll need to start off right."

Of course. OCS is out, but he's just tweaking the plan. Not giving up the dream. Not Dad. Already thinking beyond enlistment and Basic, like they're a foregone conclusion.

"You hear me?"

I grit my teeth. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now you better haul ass over to the site. Roger's not paying you to stroll in whenever it suits you." I shovel in one last mouthful. Then one more. "Now," Dad commands, glancing at the clock.

I drop my bowl in the sink and grab my boots, start shoving them on as fast as I can. But he's staring, and I can't find the right feet.

"If you can't get yourself up and -"

The doorbell.

"- to work on time . . ." He trails off into a head-shaking sigh. I struggle to get my right foot into my boot.

Someone knocks on the front door.

Dad glares, pissed, like that helps me get out of here any faster.

Another round of knocks.

Screw the laces. I grab my backpack and head for the side door.

Outside, I go to lock the door, and don't have my keys. Shit. Not in my pockets. Must be on the counter. I debate going without them, but I can't leave it unlocked, and who knows what time he'll be home.

I open the side door as quietly as I can. Skip the squeaky step and inch into the kitchen.

"Mr. Foster."

What the hell is CAO Cooper doing here?

"Come in." Dad's voice is brittle.

I lean until I can see around the door frame.