"Sure," he finally said. "That works. How are you getting here?"

"Alison's brother, Jared."

That didn't seem to faze him, although I wondered if he even remembered My-Best-Friend-Since-I-Was-Twelve or knew she had a brother.

"Okay. Anything I should know ahead of time?"

Yeah, I take cash or checks.

"Like," he went on, filling the empty air, "will you and your friend be staying for dinner?"

"No, we'll need to get back."

"Okay. Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Nicki."

Irritation rose up inside me. But I mumbled something similar, then hung up. I took a few steps into the living room and fell into Mom's blue and white plaid rocker-recliner.

Nicki.

G.o.d, that name clawed at me. My little-kid name. From, like, elementary school. No one called me that anymore. No one who was in my life, at least.

And he was "looking forward to seeing" me? Say what? If I hadn't called tonight, he probably would have gone days without even thinking about me.

"Nicolette? Honey?"

My mom interrupted my thoughts, calling out from the back of the house.

I worked to find my voice, my composure. "Yeah?"

"Can you bring me a bath towel?"

I swallowed hard. "Sure."

I took a big breath and made my way to the hallway linen closet. Pa.s.sing over the towels that had been around so long that Dad might have actually used them, I settled for a firm beach towel Alison had brought me from Hawaii. Not exactly what Mom wanted, but all I could bring myself to touch.

"Here, Mom," I said as I slid it through the opening.

She called out her thanks and closed the door.

I had just enough time to make my other phone call. To the other guy I really didn't feel like talking to, or spending time with.

I punched in the McCreary house line first- whether it was out of laziness or habit, I didn't know. When Alison answered, I filled her in, but when she asked how it had felt to speak with my dad ... I clammed up. Which was weird. I didn't do that with her. She didn't do that with me. We were all about honesty and "being there" for each other's feelings.

But in the back of my mind, I think I knew that repeating Dad's parting line would make it more ... real. So I just laughed and told her it was about as much fun as a math test.

We made plans to meet up during morning break; then she told me to try Jared's cell phone because he'd gone to the print shop.

(The print shop?) I took the number from her, figuring it was easier than reaching for my jeans in my gym bag. And faster. I'd get my dirty work done as quickly as possible.

He answered on the first ring, his voice loud against a drone of background noise.

"It's Nicolette," I announced, holding the phone away from my ear.

"Yeah," he yelled. "Are we still on for tomorrow?"

"If it works for you." Wherever he was, the noise was deafening.

"Meet me at my car after sixth period. I park on that side street off the north gate."

Meet him off campus? Of course. G.o.d knows he couldn't be seen at my locker or walking the halls with me two days in a row, or rumors might start up that we were actually friends. Imagine what that would do for his rep.

"Yeah, okay."

"What?"

"Oh-kay!"

"I'll need gas."

"We'll have time."

"I meant," he yelled, "make sure you bring money."

For lack of a better response, I laughed, though I doubted he heard it over the grinding machinery. Then I called out a loud "See ya later" and disconnected.

Before I ended up with a headache as big as the dread I had about tomorrow.

There's one thing I want to make clear: I did have a boyfriend once. A real one. Who called me and kissed me and even took me on dates. We were together the last five weeks of my freshman year, until he went off to be a camp counselor, and to this day, when we pa.s.s in the caf or hall or something, we still say h.e.l.lo.

So it wasn't like I was a total freakazoid when it came to guys. (No matter how it looks.) Alison's dated, too. At one point we'd done this pinkie-swear thing that our friendship would always come first, but I think we both knew it was a form of wishful thinking-the hope that guys could fall for us so hard that we'd actually have to be concerned about something like that.

During morning break that next day, we sat on the bleachers and drooled over some particularly hot hot-ties. Alison was tying her orange-red hair into a pony-tail while I made a so-fast-you-barely-heard-it mention of my plans with Jared.

I didn't want to give her any ideas about her brother and me hanging out. In the past, she'd been a buffer when I needed a ride, and I didn't want her imagination to get going and cause a crack in her reality: the collision of two completely separate areas of her life that had no right coming together without her direct involvement.

I know it cracked my version of reality. I had no desire to spend any more time with Jared McCreary than I absolutely had to.

I popped open a snack-size bag of Fritos and tilted it toward her. She declined with a shake of her hand, her gaze pinned on the field where a runner was slowing down and stripping off his shirt.

"Too bad camera phones are banned at school," she said wistfully.

I knew I was supposed to laugh, but instead I grunted. I'd been the brunt of that camera phone and wasn't about to let her forget it. "Too bad they aren't banned on the beach, too."

Alison turned, mischief sparkling in her eyes. "You aren't still mad?"

"Mad's not the right word," I said, remembering how she'd told Canadian Guy I'd hold his beer while he futzed with sunblock-even though I totally didn't drink-and then took a quick, incriminating photo of me with the can. She'd laughed, held the phone waaay above her head, and said either I became her slave, or she'd e-mail it to Coach Luther.

I'd tried to smile, but the threat had all-too-real implications. Any Hillside athlete who got caught drinking had his or her stupid b.u.t.t thrown out of sports.

"Anyway, Nic, you know I deleted it."

"Uh-huh."

"I did." A smile curled her mouth. "But maybe you want to buy me some cookies at lunch today, just to make sure?"

I swatted her arm and, wanting a radical change of subject, launched into the big BS story I'd told Mom last night. "I waited until she'd turned out her light. Then I called out from my room, like I'd just remembered, 'Oh, Mom, I have to stay late after practice tomorrow. I told Coach Luther I'd help her take down the nets and stuff for the basketball game.' "

Alison's face pinkened as she swallowed a sip of Diet Pepsi, and then she laughed so hard I thought soda might come out her nose. "You know basketball season hasn't started yet, right?"

With anyone but Alison, I might have tried to cover my stupidity. "It hasn't?"

"Seriously!" She laughed and tucked some loose hair behind her ear. "Okay, okay, here's what you do. If you get caught, you claim you said, um, something like badminton. Yeah, that would be good."

"Does our school even have a badminton team?"

"I don't think so. But we've played it in PE. Seriously, you'll never get to that. Because you'll be too busy going off on how she wasn't listening to you. How n.o.body ever listens to you."

"n.o.body? That works?"

"Sure does at my house."

"Yeah, well, yours is a lot more crowded." A way bigger place, but her two parents were actually around. "I'll keep that tactic in mind."

"So what big fat lie did you tell the coach?"

Guilt made a sudden appearance in my gut. "Nothing-yet. I'm planning to go to her office instead of the locker room later. I'm going to be 'sick.' " I did little quote marks with my fingers. "Zoe did that once, and Luther let her go home."

"Was she faking it?"

I shrugged. Zoe Zane and I were "team friends." We hung together at practices and on game buses but respected the general rules of casual friendship in that we didn't call just to chat or try to pry info out of each other. "I didn't ask," I said. "All I know is, it worked."

"Then go with it."

I nodded and dumped the last of the Fritos dust and crumbs into my hand, and licked them up.

"I just hope it all goes all right, Nic, that you get the money and everything."

"Yeah. Thanks." I considered asking her to join Jared and me, but then thought better of it. Why would she want to go? And why put her in the situation where she had to turn me down?

Alison glanced at her watch, then flicked her head toward the building. "Walk me to my locker? I've got my Spanish presentation, and I don't want to be late."

I rose and slung my backpack over one shoulder. "Come on, doesn't your book tell you how to say 'punctually challenged' en espanol?"

She nudged me in the ribs.

Which is why I was smiling when I looked up. And directly into Rascal's eyes.

His mouth curved and something sparked in his eye, setting off fireworks inside me.

"Hi," I said automatically. And his lovely girlfriend, a few steps behind, looked dead into my eyes. Zapping me with implied threats of bodily harm. One hundred percent Back off he's mine hatred. A world away from her usual bimbacious looks.

Kylie probably didn't remember-or care-but I had felt the poison-tipped arrow of her wrath before. Back in middle school, the semester when we'd both worked as servers in the caf. We'd shared a few civil conversations, even a smile or two-until the day she'd shown up, clutching her stomach, claiming to be nauseous.

I'd figured she was faking to spend more time with the then-new hot guy, Rascal, something I totally understood and even sort of applauded. But the caf lady believed Kylie was sick and told me to ladle her a bowl of soup.

I did as instructed, giving Kylie a bit of a wink as I handed it over.

According to school legend, during her next cla.s.s, Kylie bolted from her seat and made a mad dash for the door. But didn't make it. Soon yellow broth and chunks of pasta and colorful veggies were streaming across the hardwood floor. The whole cla.s.s thought it was the best thing they'd ever seen. They were hysterical, and apparently it was Rascal's laughter that could be heard all the way down the stairwell.

When Kylie recovered from what turned out to be the stomach flu, she returned with her head held high-and dim-witted allegations against me, that I'd poisoned her soup in an attempt to humiliate her. Luckily no one took her seriously, and that was the end of it.

We'd never spoken again, though. I mean, what was there to say?

Rascal was still grinning when he turned back to Kylie now. "Pick up the pace, Chunky."

Chunky. Chunky?

In no world could that girl be considered fat, so it could only mean one thing-a love name. How nice.

After school, I headed toward the gym. In an attempt to calm my nerves, I concentrated on volleyball and how much I loved the sport. The pregame excitement, the adrenaline rush, the roar of the crowd when our team scored. All really good stuff, which pretty much made up for the grueling workouts and the fact that Luther was such a tyrant that I had to lie to get out of one stupid practice.

My nerves weren't only about my fear of Coach Luther's acid tongue, though. Somewhere between finding out how much college really costs and how little income my parents really had, volleyball had taken on new meaning for me: earning a potential scholarship. Which could put me through college. So I had to be supercareful not to jeopardize my good standing with Luther or my starting center position.

Unfortunately, moments later, I discovered that facing down Coach Luther was harder than I'd expected. Waaay harder. I'm an okay liar-I mean, every kid with a parent has experience with truth-twisting, right?-but I think I'd forgotten how steely her gaze could be when she sensed a player daring to step out of the Volleyball Box.

A glance at the wall clock told me it was 2:50. I was five minutes late already, so I'd crossed the point of no return. I had better lie and lie good.

"Antonovich?" she said, a brow firmly arched. "You are in my doorway instead of the gym ... why?"

"I-I don't feel well," I said, and slumped into the plastic chair beside her desk. I pressed my arm tight against my stomach, and focused my eyes on the speckled tiles beneath my feet. "Cramps."

She was silent for so long I was forced to look up.

"Cramps," she repeated.

After a series of whomp-whomp-whomp heartbeats inside my chest, her voice went all coachlike and severe. "All right. But only this once. I'm not in the habit of babying my players. Next time, take a painkiller and show up ready to work."

"Okay," I managed, and slowly stood up. "Thank you."

"Sometimes players like to pull things over on their coaches, Antonovich," she said, her voice in a more normal register. "But I know you'd never try anything like that. You respect me too much. You respect the game too much."

I nodded. A lot. Then I moved toward the door, remembering to grab my gut. This time I had no problem faking pain. I felt like I'd been sucker punched.

By guilt.