My eyes are brighter than normal. My cheeks are flushed. In front of me is a girl I barely recognize. Texting with Razor, the occasional chat on the phone, the way we flirt when we're together in independent study-all of that is crossing dangerous lines, but this...leaving with Razor? Being alone with him? I've lost my mind, and I'm loving the girl staring back at me.

A buzz of my cell and I fumble with it in my haste. It's not Razor announcing his arrival, but Addison: What are you doing tonight?

My parents think I'm working until nine and my fingers hesitate over the letters. I trust Razor-but seventeen years of Reign of Terror doctrine is hard to combat. Me: I'm doing homework with Thomas Turner.

I wince at how quickly she responds: WHAT?!!!!!

Me: I'll explain later, but keep this between us.

I pocket my phone and step outside. My phone pings every few seconds. My best friend will strangle me and then demand Razor details.

On the other side of the lot is a familiar angelic face, golden hair and a black leather cut that spells trouble. Razor leans against his motorcycle. His biceps are gorgeously flexed as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Adrenaline pumps into my veins as I walk toward him. Razor spots me and this devilish smirk forms on his face. A thrill runs through me and so do a million questions about what exactly will happen when we are completely and utterly alone.

Razor straightens when I reach him and then glides into my personal s.p.a.ce so that we're close. Super close. Almost as close as the night at Shamrock's. I inhale to calm my beating heart and I detect his dark, spicy scent.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Yeah." I swallow, as I sounded crazy raspy. "Do you have our rockets?"

We built them this week during our independent study.

He gestures to a black leather bag attached to his bike, then raises his fingers. Wrapped around three of them is a rubber band. "Figured you wouldn't think of this."

Riding a motorcycle. My hair. Lots of wind that would create tangles. Nope, didn't contemplate it at all. I go to accept the rubber band, but Razor pulls back his hand. I frown, then freeze. Razor gathers my hair at the nape of my neck and pleasing goose b.u.mps tickle along my skin. I suck in a breath of air to keep my heart from exploding with his touch.

There's a gentle pull as he twists the band around my hair. Tingles. Beautiful tingles. When he's done, he lets one finger trace the length of my chin. I can't breathe.

"A few things before we go," he says.

I nod, because speaking is officially impossible. He slips his cut off, then shrugs out of his leather jacket. "Put this on."

I raise an eyebrow. Don't get me wrong, the idea of wearing something of Razor's makes me want to squee with joy, but... "It's warm today. Like high of eighty-one warm."

"Better you sweat than scratch the h.e.l.l out of yourself if we take a spill."

My stomach twists. "Spill?"

"Not planning on it, but I'm not taking any chances."

I accept the jacket and draw my arms into it. It's heavy and huge and smells like him and I'd die a happy girl if I never had to give this back. Razor produces a helmet. "When we get on my bike-"

"Wait up, Kyle." The voice is unexpected and unwelcome. Near the Barrel of Fun, Kyle and two of his friends stand by the outside back bathroom entrance. Cold fear rushes into my veins.

Razor blocks me from their view. "I'm not ready for him to see us out like this yet. So short lesson. Climb on and hold on to me. If you're scared, pinch my thigh and I'll stop. Got it?"

I'm blinded when Razor places a helmet on my head. He adjusts it so I can see, then snaps the strap under my chin. It's not one of those full helmets, just the type that covers my head.

He straddles his bike, eases his cut back on and glances at me. After wiping my palms against my jeans, I hop on behind him. Razor reaches back, gathers my arms, and I close my eyes when my fingers touch a very hard stomach. I slowly breathe out. Oh my G.o.d, this is happening.

He squeezes my fingers, lets me go, and within seconds the motorcycle roars and vibrates between my thighs. A fleeting moment of panic becomes a hiccup in my brain. I could pinch his thigh. I could jump off the bike. I could run.

But I do none of those things. Instead, I rest my chin on his shoulder, readjust my hold on his waist and press closer to him. When Razor turns his head to look at me, I swear he's smiling.

RAZOR.

BREANNA COVERS HER face with her hands. "This is impossible!"

It's not, but knowing any response I have will annoy her, I avoid commenting. Instead, I grab the paper she had been murdering with an eraser. She slams her hand on her notebook in an effort to capture it, but I'm too fast.

"I can do this," she says. "If I get a new brain maybe, but I can do this."

"Let me try." I also steal the notebook and pencil.

"Fine," Breanna huffs, then collapses back onto the tall gra.s.s. Beside us are the remains of our three rockets. Our job now is to mathematically prove why one went higher than the other.

"It really is pretty here," she says, and I glance over at her. The early autumn day is warm and the brittle gra.s.s surrounding her is green and yellow. Above us are trees colored with orange and red leaves. I agree it's a sight under the clear sky, but not for the reasons she believes. Breanna's the one who's pretty.

"I can't believe I've never been here before," she says.

"No one comes here." It's why I like it. This meadow is a quarter mile from my home. I stumbled across it the summer after Mom died. I couldn't stomach being home, especially on those days Dad brought a girl to the house. Since that summer, this place has been my refuge.

It's encircled by trees, and during the spring and summer, flowers of multiple types bloom. But what I found interesting as a kid was the abandoned railway trestle. I've walked over that bridge more times than I can count. I've even climbed to the top.

Breanna's a vision with her black hair sprawled around her. There's not a soul around for miles, which means this place is perfect for the two of us.

A distant rumble and the ground vibrates. Breanna rolls over to her stomach and I have to tear my gaze away from her tight a.s.s to watch as a train flies around the bend and crosses the current railroad trestle farther down from where we're settled. It's because of the newer trestle that I was able to bring Breanna here. There's an access path off the main highway. It's dirt and it was b.u.mpy, but Breanna rode the back of my bike like a pro-like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with me.

"It seems impossible, doesn't it?" she asks.

My heart stops. Is she also thinking about us?

Breanna points at the paper in front of me. "The math. It's impossible."

The math. Get your s.h.i.t together. "If acceleration is equal to gravity, then the number would be..."

"Negative 9.81 meters per second squared," she rattles off. I'd give up my bike for a week to be inside her head for a minute.

She's quiet while I focus on the problem, which I appreciate. When I solve the equation, her face brightens. "Wow."

I prop my arms on my raised knees and pretend to admire the field. Yeah. Wow. If only everything in my life came as easily as it does with numbers. I wasn't just admitted into AP in science, but in math, too. School told Dad my science score teetered on admission to the program, but it was my knowledge of numbers that pushed me over.

"You're the anti-me, aren't you?" she says.

I chuckle and it comes out bitter. I am. She's beautiful and smart and all that's good with the world. "Yeah."

Her forehead furrows as she reads my expression. "I mean with math and the hacking stuff. Your brain is built for math whereas mine isn't. Like how you knew how to apply the kinematic equation. I know the equation, but I have a hard time applying the knowledge. I'm saying you're smart."

"It's a small town, Breanna. You've heard the rumors about me. Some of which are true."

Breanna sits up, then regards the old abandoned trestle. It's not the first time today she's studied it with curiosity. "Do you ever go on the trestle?"

I nod.

"Is it safe?"

Evidently not for trains. I stand and extend my open palm to Breanna. She's eager to explore and I like seeing her smile. Breanna slides her fingers into mine and our eyes meet. We stay that way, staring, our hands twined together. I've never held a girl's hand before. Not in a way that means something.

Her skin is soft. Very soft, and I begin thinking thoughts that would cause Breanna to demand a restraining order-like how the skin of her stomach might also be this soft.

The pressure of her delicate fingers is heavier than most weights I've lifted. It's like holding on to a promise and it causes me to be nervous. Me nervous. About what? About kissing her? About touching her? I've done things with girls a million times over, but not with Breanna.

I gently pull and she hops to her feet. Breanna didn't need my help, and as I attempt to release her, she squeezes my hand and offers a shy smile. Something within me shifts.

No, I don't get nervous, but Breanna transports me to all sorts of new places. It's not her physical proximity getting to me, it's the fact that she makes me feel.

We let go of one another, but we walk close through the tall gra.s.s. The sound of the rushing water grows as we approach the bridge. Her hand b.u.mps into mine, and I consider reclaiming her fingers, but I have no clue if she sees me in the ways I'm beginning to see her.

Breanna inhales, then pushes out a question. "I heard you failed fifth grade. Is that true?"

"I was held back." We reach the foot of the bridge and I shove my hands into my pockets.

She toes the wood of the track and a.s.sesses the rusting iron. "You're smart. A h.e.l.l of a lot smarter than most. Definitely smarter than what-"

She cuts herself off and I finish for her. "Than what everyone at school thinks."

Her frown is an admission and an apology.

"I know the rumors. Stupid Razor. Only kid who repeated fifth grade."

"As I said, you're smart," she responds. "So why did you repeat?"

Because of the steep incline, the river is a cla.s.s-three rapid. We've had a steady amount of rain and the water roars and splashes against the sharp rocks about thirty feet below.

I remember the first time I stood near the edge. The sun was setting and the sky was bleeding pinks and reds. I gauged the distance, the spiked rocks and the racing current. Back then, I had considered jumping.

"I missed too many days of school." Admitting this feels strange. There are too many rumors, too many lies surrounding me and my mother, so it's been pointless to speak the truth. Somehow, Breanna's the person to say these words to.

A breeze cuts through the trees and Breanna's hair soars. She raises her face to the sky and it's like the wind dies off at her command. Breanna seems powerful enough to control nature. She gets me to talk. That in itself is amazing.

Multiple wheels spin in that brilliant brain and her hazel eyes flash with understanding.

"Go ahead and ask," I say. She's the one person on this earth besides my father I'd allow this question, and I can guarantee that, at least with her, there won't be shouting.

"Was that the year your mother died?"

I flinch and Breanna notices. "Yeah. I was too messed up to go to school at first and then Dad had a hard time getting me there. By the time the club stepped in to help, the damage had been done. Too much time missed. Too far behind in cla.s.s."

"I'm sorry. About your mom and about how people talk about you."

Me, too. "I'm sorry they talk about you, too."

A cloud sweeps over Breanna's face, but she forces her lips up like that will remove the sting from my words. "The gossip from the first week has blown over."

"I wasn't referring to earlier this year."

Breanna sighs so heavily that she seems to shrink. "It's going to get better, right?"

There's a dip inside me because it's the same prayer I say at night.

"Like when we graduate, all this stupidity will go away, because I am so tired of pretending to be something I'm not. If I act like who I really am, I'm crucified. If I hide, I feel like I've chained myself inside of a one-foot box and I'm dying to break free."

Breanna strokes her hands over her arms as if she could wrench her metaphorical chains off her body. "Everyone says it doesn't matter what anyone thinks, but you know what? It does. Yeah, I walk into school with the att.i.tude of screw them. I'm going to answer every question. I'm going to show the world who I am, and I'm not going to apologize for it, and then..."

She fades off. "And then people stare at you as they cover their mouth with their hand, lean over and whisper. Then people whisper back, all while staring, and they laugh. Then that rare burst of confidence-shatters."

A strong gust rips through the trees and I don't like how near to the edge she is. She's a small thing and another surge of wind could cause her to tumble to the swirling water below.

"I can handle the whispering," she says. "But it's the people who like a show that make it unbearable. The people who get a kick out of making me into a spectacle. The jerks that stand in front of everyone, call me names, and then when I do say something back, I'm the one that doesn't know how to take a joke. When my face turns red and my neck gets hot and tears form in my eyes, I'm the one that's too sensitive. I'm the freak."

Her cheeks do turn red and then she pulls her hair off her neck as if heat does curl along her skin. A pulse of anger runs through me when I see tears forming in her eyes. I'm going to kill the next person who gives Breanna any type of c.r.a.p.

She drops her hair and wipes her eyes. "Maybe I am too sensitive. Maybe I'll never belong anywhere. Maybe this is how life is supposed to be forever."

I'm desperate to find a way to soothe her pain. "At least you have a big family. Your brother came at me hard the night of orientation."

"I'm even the oddball in that group. My older siblings never talk to me. My younger siblings act like I'm their mother. Because I'm not their actual mom, I just get the hate part. Joshua's married to the football team. Liam worships Clara, so that means he and I will never be close, and Clara...there is not a word strong enough to describe the hate Clara has for me."

She's told me about her older sister. "Clara's a raging b.i.t.c.h."

"Clara can't find a way to calm the chaos in her brain. It's hard turning it off. Finding peace is even harder. She's like me, but honestly better. She remembers things and she's a whiz with math, but she struggles with the constant noise. It's like neither of us can win for losing. Clara was picked on for not being able to focus. People a.s.sumed it meant she was stupid and then I came along. I could process everything I remembered. I could find a way to keep my mind in check. Because of that, my parents used to show me off as a parlor trick with the moronic capitals, and if I was Clara-" Breanna chokes on her words "-I'd hate me, too."

She rubs both her hands over her face as if she can scrub away the hurt. Those nights I've spent in scalding showers prove neither of us can wash away the misery.

"Want to cross?" I ask. We both need the distraction. "The bridge. We can cross it."

She surveys the wooden planks across the metal rails. Huge fat gaps exist between the planks and there's a narrow strip of metal off to one side of the bridge that's barely wide enough to balance on. There's no railing on either side.

Breanna leans over the edge, no doubt making a mental note of the rushing, raging water and mammoth rocks. "Will you go with me?"

I shouldn't do it. I should tell her we've completed our project and we're done for the day, but instead I offer her my hand again and tempt her to hang with the devil.

She closes the s.p.a.ce between us, and the moment she lays her palm in mine, I grasp her hand and lead her onto the bridge.

Breanna chooses the narrow strip of metal and I tempt fate on the aging wooden planks. The wood cracks under my weight and Breanna holds on to me like she could keep me from falling through into the river. "Walk on the metal."