When he stopped walking and kissed me a few minutes later, it was like time had stopped, with the air, my heart, and the world all so still. And it was this I remembered every other time I was with Marshall. Maybe it was the setting, us alone in that field, or because it was the first time. I didn’t know yet that this was all either of us was capable of: moments together that were great but also fleeting.

Marshall was not my boyfriend. On the other hand, he wasn’t just a friend either. Instead, our relationship was elastic, stretching between those two extremes depending on who else was around, how much either of us had had to drink, and other varying factors. This was exactly what I wanted, as commitments had never really been my thing. And it wasn’t like it was hard, either. The only trick was never giving more than you were willing to lose. With Marshall and me, it was like a game called I Could Care Less. I talked to a guy at a party; he disappeared with some girl at the next one. He didn’t return my calls; I’d stay away for a while, making him wonder what I was up to. And so on.

We’d been doing this for so long that really, it came naturally. But now, I was so surprised by how nice it was to hear his voice, something familiar in all this newness, that I found myself breaking my own rule, offering up more than I’d planned.

“Yeah, so, I’ve just been, you know, dealing with some family stuff,” I said, easing back against the booth wall behind me. “I moved in with my sister, and—”

“Hang on a sec, okay?” he said, and then I heard his hand cover the receiver, muffling it. Then he was saying something, his words impossible to make out before I heard him come back on. “Sorry,” he said, then coughed. “What were you saying?”

And just like that, it was over. Even missing him was fleeting, like everything else.

“Nothing,” I told him. “I should go. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

“Yeah. See you around.”

I hung up, leaving my hand on the receiver as I reached into my pocket, pulling out some more change. Then I took a breath and put it back to my ear, dropped in a few coins, and called someone I knew would be more than happy to talk.

"Ruby? ” Peyton said as soon as she heard my voice. “Oh my God. What happened to you?”

“Well,” I said.

But she was already continuing, her voice coming out in a gush. “I mean, I was waiting for you in the courtyard, just like always, and you never showed up! So I’m like, she must be mad at me or something, but then Aaron said the cops had pulled you out of class, and nobody knew why. And then I went by your house, and it was all dark, and—”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, cutting her off more out of a time concern than rudeness. Peyton was always summarizing, even when you knew the story as well as she did. “It’s just a family thing. I’m staying with my sister for a while.”

“Well,” she said, “it’s all anyone is talking about, just so you know. You should hear the rumors.”

“Yeah? ”

“It’s terrible!” she said, sounding truly aghast. “They have you doing everything from committing murder to teen prostitution.”

“I’ve been gone for two days,” I said.

“Of course, I’ve been sticking up for you,” she added quickly. “I told them there was no way you’d ever sleep with guys for money. I mean, come on.”

This was typical Peyton. Defending my honor vigorously, while not realizing that she was implying that I might be capable of murder. “Well,” I said, “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” I could hear voices behind her; from the sound of it, she was at the clearing a ways down from school, where we always hung out after final bell. “So, like, what’s the real story, though? Is it your mom?”

“Something like that,” I told her. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal.”

Peyton was my closest friend at Jackson, but like everyone else, she had no idea my mom had taken off. She’d actually never even met her, which was no accident; as a rule, I preferred to keep my private life just that, private. This was especially important with someone like Peyton, whose family was pretty much perfect. Rich and functional, they lived in a big house in the Arbors, where up until the year before, she’d been the ideal daughter, pulling straight As and lettering in field hockey. During the summer, though, she’d started dating my friend Aaron, who was a harmless but dedicated pothead. In the fall, she’d gotten busted with a joint at school and was asked to leave St. Micheline’s, the Catholic school she’d been attending. Her parents, of course, were none too pleased, and hoped Peyton’s new-found rebellion was a just a phase that would end when she and Aaron broke up. After a few weeks, they did, but by that point, she and I were already friends.

Peyton was, in a word, cute. Short and curvy, she was also incredibly naive, which was alternately annoying and endearing. Sometimes I felt more like a big sister to her than a friend—I was always having to rescue her from weird guys at parties, or hold her head when she puked, or explain again how to work the various expensive electronics her parents were always buying her—but she was fun to hang out with, had a car, and never complained about having to come all the way out to pick me up, even though it was on the way to nowhere. Or back.

“So the thing is,” I said to her now, “I need a favor.”

“Name it,” she replied.