Then—it was like she disappeared. Cass says she’s been in the library all week. But I don’t know. Knowing what I know about Rowe’s past now, I get the feeling places like libraries are hard for her. I understand why she wasn’t hip on eating in the cafeteria, why she likes to sit in corners, why she’s skittish and nervous all the time.

My parents are coming up for the weekend, and they have extra tickets in the nice seats—the expensive ones—at tonight’s football game. Cass is coming, and there’s one more seat open. I really want Rowe to fill it.

“Dude, I am so sick of your moping around. Come with me,” Ty says, grabbing one of my shoes from the end of my bed and throwing it into the hallway.

“Awe man, I was comfy. Why’d you do that?” I say, pulling myself up from my bed to a sitting position, slipping the one shoe still in my possession on my right foot.

“Because I know you. You like things in order, and your shoe hanging out there in that hallway is going to drive you bat-shit crazy.” His smile is smug, but he’s right. I’ve always been a neat freak. And I hate only having one shoe on my foot now. I follow him into the hall and reach for my sneaker, but before I get there, he blocks me and scoops it up, cradling it like a football.

“Come on. Give it to me,” I beg.

“Oh you can have it. Down there,” he says, tossing it to the other end of the hallway. With a clunk! it hits the wall near Rowe’s room. I roll my eyes at him and limp on one foot to their door. Ty is behind me, so the option of turning around is not an option at all.

Cass opens the door and smiles at Ty. “Why Nate, what a surprise. Please, come on in.” She’s acting weird, but when I see her wink at Ty and notice Rowe’s legs folded up, and her face looking down while her ear buds are tucked in her ears, I understand.

I’d hate them both for tricking me, but I’m really glad they trapped her in one place for me—finally. I take a deep breath, walk over to her bed, and jump onto it so my legs are stretched out long and I’m sitting next to her. She startles, covering her heart, and pulling the headphones from her ears—which instantly makes me feel bad. Rowe is not the kind of girl you startle, and I get that now.

“Sorry, didn’t realize your music was up so loud. Thought you heard me,” I say, hoping my stupid grin will earn me forgiveness. “Whatcha listening to?”

“The Black Keys,” she says, her ear buds still clutched in her hands, and her arms stiff.

“Mind?” I ask, reaching my hand toward hers. She hands me one of the earpieces, and I tuck it in, at first a little surprised by how loud it is. Damn, it’s a wonder she isn’t deaf. She watches me with her brow pinched for a few seconds before finally putting the other end in her ear.

“What are you working on?” My voice so loud that Ty and Cass turn to look at me and then start laughing. “Sorry. Apparently Rowe is hard of hearing, because she has this thing set to, like, seven thousand.”

“It only goes to thirty. You’re being hyperbolic,” Rowe says, a hint of her smile creeping in.

“So vocabulary, then? That’s what we’re working on?” I ask, challenging her sass with my own.

She holds my gaze for a while, her eyes shutting until she squints at me. I think she’s trying to intimidate me, but I just mimic her face, squaring myself with her until our noses touch. When I do, her lips twist into a smile.

“I’m working on art history. I had to pick a painting and write about how it made me feel,” she says, scooting her notebook over to rest part of it on my leg. She wants me to see her notes, and I’ve never wanted to read an assignment more.

“Okay, which one did you pick?” I ask, reaching for the full notebook and bringing it to my lap. My hand grazes hers when I do, and the feel of it almost makes me want to hand it back to her—just to reach for it again.

“I picked this one.” When she leans forward, her shirt lifts a little; I notice a few deep red scars along her side. They surprise me, but I don’t want her to know I see them. I move my eyes to the notes on my lap before she turns to face me. She opens her book to a painting of a woman wearing a pearl earring. I recognize this one, and it feels like it fits her, not that I know a damn thing about art.

“That’s pretty,” I say, and she laughs. “What? I mean…the dude—it was a dude painter, right?” She nods, still laughing. “Okay, well, the dude picked nice colors, and her eyes are all symmetrical and crap. She doesn’t look like a stick figure, but a real person. Sort of. Yeah, so I’d hang it up.”