I walk away from class, from the way the day was supposed to go. Everyone around me rushes to get to class as the second bell rings. But not him. Not me. Not us.

Us. I should not be thinking of us as us. But it feels like us. Here in this hallway, before we’ve said a word, we’re us.

I don’t know if I want it to be true, but it doesn’t seem to care what I want. It exists beyond me.

Classes start, and we’re alone together. I map out where Justin is at this moment, and know he’s nowhere near.

We’re safe. From what, I don’t know.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says.

“I thought you might come.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, I’m not mad,” I tell him. “Although Lord knows you’re not good for my attendance record.”

He smiles. “I’m not good for anybody’s attendance record.”

“What’s your name today?” I ask.

“A. For you, it’s always A.”

“Okay,” I say.

And it works. By not knowing this boy’s name, I can think of him as A.

There isn’t any question of us running away. I have that history test, and things with Justin are tense enough without me disappearing and having to lie about it. I can miss math, but that’s all I can miss.

It’s so strange to walk the halls with him. I’m worried we’ll bump into someone. I guess I’ll have to pretend he’s a new student. That I’m showing him around.

“Is Justin in class?” he asks as we hit the English wing.

“Yeah. If he decided to go.”

I don’t want to stay in the halls. I lead him into one of the English rooms, and we sit down in the back so no one will be able to see us from the door.

It’s weird being in desks. It’s hard to face each other. But we turn and find a way.

“How did you know it was me?” he asks.

“The way you looked at me. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

Taken. I don’t know my hand is waiting to be taken until he takes it, holds it. Hands so different from Ashley’s, from Nathan’s. Different even from Justin’s, even though this guy is about Justin’s size. Our hands fit differently.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” he says.

I don’t want to do this again. But I tell him, “I deserve part of the blame. I never should have called him.”

“What did he say? Afterward?”

Honest. I feel I have to be honest.

“He kept calling you ‘that black bitch.’ ”

I watch A grimace. “Charming.”

Again I feel the need to defend Justin. “I think he sensed it was a trap. I don’t know. He just knew something was off.”

“Which is probably why he passed the test.”

He won’t give up. The way he wants Justin to be a bad guy—it reminds me of Justin.

I pull my hand away. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry. He’s sorry. I’m sorry. We’re all so sorry.

He asks me, “What do you want to do?”

That look again. Those eyes. Not sorry. Yearning.

I do not turn away. I try to be a fact, not a feeling.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask.

“I want you to do whatever you feel is best for you.”

Too perfect, too scripted, too out of touch with that yearning.

“That’s the wrong answer,” I say.

“Why is it the wrong answer?”

He doesn’t get it. “Because it’s a lie.”

He blinks. “Let’s go back to my original question. What do you want to do?”

How can I tell him that what I want isn’t the point. It’s never the point. I want a million dollars. I want to never return to school and to get a good job anyway. I want to be prettier. I want to be in Hawaii. Want costs you nothing, unless you try to spend it. What do you want to do? isn’t what he should be asking. He should be asking me what I can do.

How can I make him see this? I say, “I don’t want to throw everything away for something uncertain.”

“What about me is uncertain?”

Kidding. He has to be kidding.

“Really?” I say. “Do I have to explain it to you?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Besides that. You know you are the most important person I’ve ever had in my life. That’s certain.”

“In just two weeks,” I point out. “That’s uncertain.”

“You know more about me than anyone else does.”

“But I can’t say the same for you. Not yet.”

“You can’t deny that there’s something between us.”

I can’t deny it—that’s true. But I can deny that it means what he thinks it means.

“No,” I say. “There is. When I saw you today—I didn’t know I’d been waiting for you until you were there. And then all of that waiting rushed through me in a second. That’s something…but I don’t know if it’s certainty.”

Fourth period isn’t over, but I was planning on studying for history during math, and I still need to do that now. I have to remind myself that here is where my life is, and I can’t afford to screw it up.

“I have to get ready for my test,” I tell A. “And you have another life to get back to.”

Hurt. It crosses his face and dims his eyes. “Don’t you want to see me?” he asks.

Want. Everything about him is want.

“I do,” I say. “And I don’t. You would think it would make things easier, but it actually makes them harder.”

“So I shouldn’t just show up here?”

Is this helping? No, it’s not helping. This is the disruption, because it makes everything else seem lesser.

Instinctively, I know: I can’t show up to school every morning wondering if he’ll be here. I can’t be looking into the eyes of every stranger hoping it will be him.

So I tell him, “Let’s stick to email for now. Okay?”

I can sense all the want pulsing beneath his skin. I can see how badly he’s trying to keep himself together. But there it is. He doesn’t get to choose. I don’t get to choose.

The classroom door opens and a teacher I don’t know comes in. She takes one look at us and says, “You can’t be here. Shouldn’t you be in class?”