He blinks. “Why not?”

“You read my letter. You’re not my type. Nobody would ever believe I would like you.”

“It’s up to you. I’m just trying to do us both a favor.” Then he shrugs and looks over my shoulder, like he’s bored with this conversation. “But Josh definitely believed it.”

In a flash, without even thinking, I say, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

* * *

Hours later, I’m lying in bed that night still marveling about it all. What people will say when they see me walking down the hall with Peter Kavinsky.

25

THE NEXT MORNING, PETER IS waiting in the parking lot for me when I get off the bus. “Hey,” he says. “Are you seriously taking the bus every day?”

“My car is being fixed, remember? My accident?”

He sighs like this is somehow offensive to him, me taking the bus to school. Then he grabs my hand and holds it as we walk into school together.

This is the first time I’ve walked down the school hallway holding hands with a boy. It should feel momentous, special, but it doesn’t, because it’s not real. Honestly, it feels like nothing.

Emily Nussbaum does a double take when she sees us. Emily is Gen’s best friend. She’s staring so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t take a quick pic on her phone to send to Gen.

Peter keeps stopping to say hi to people, and I stand there smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Me and Peter Kavinsky.

At one point I try to let go of his hand, because mine is starting to feel sweaty, but he tightens his grip. “Your hand is too hot,” I hiss.

Through clenched teeth he says, “No, your hand is.”

I’m sure Genevieve’s hands are never sweaty. She could probably hold hands for days without getting overheated.

When we get to my locker, we finally drop hands so I can dump my books inside. I’m shutting my locker door when Peter leans in and tries to kiss me on the mouth. I’m so startled I turn my head, and we hit foreheads.

“Ow!” Peter rubs his forehead and glares at me.

“Well, don’t just sneak up on me like that!” My forehead hurts too. We really banged them hard, like cymbals. If I looked up right now, I would see blue cartoon birdies.

“Lower your voice, dummy,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Don’t you call me a dummy, you dummy,” I whisper back.

Peter heaves a big sigh like he’s really annoyed with me. I’m about to snap at him that it’s his fault, not mine, when I catch a glimpse of Genevieve gliding down the hallway. “Gotta go,” I say, and I dart off in the opposite direction.

“Wait!” Peter calls out.

But I keep darting.

* * *

I’m lying on my bed with my pillow over my face reliving the horrible kiss-that-wasn’t. I keep trying to block it out, but it just keeps coming back.

I put my hand to my forehead. I don’t think I can do this. It’s all so . . . I mean, the kissing, the sweaty hands, everybody looking. It’s too much.

I’m just going to have to tell him I changed my mind, and I don’t want to do this anymore, and that’ll be that. I don’t have his number, and I don’t want to say any of this in an e-mail, either. I’ll have to go to his house. It’s not far; I still remember the way.

I run downstairs, passing Kitty, who is balancing a plate of Oreos and a glass of milk on a tray. “I’m borrowing your bike!” I yell as I fly past her. “I’ll be back soon!”

“You better not let anything happen to it!” Kitty yells back.

I grab her helmet and the bike and tear out of the yard, pedaling as fast as I can. My knees hit my chest a little, but I’m not that much taller than Kitty, so it isn’t so bad. Peter lives two neighborhoods away. It takes me less than twenty minutes to get there.

When I do, there aren’t any cars in the driveway. Peter’s not home. My heart sinks to the pavement. What do I do now? Sit and wait for him on the front porch like some kind of stalker? What if his mom comes home first?

I take off my helmet and sit for a minute so I can rest. My hair is damp and sweaty from the ride over, and I’m exhausted. I try to run my fingers through my hair, smooth it out. It’s a lost cause.

As I’m contemplating texting Chris and seeing if she can come get me, Peter’s car comes roaring down the street and up the driveway. I drop my phone and then scramble to pick it up.

Peter climbs out of his car and raises his eyebrows at me. “Look who’s here. My adoring girlfriend.”

I stand up and wave at him. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He slings his backpack over his shoulder and takes his time sauntering over. He sits down on the front step like a prince on his throne, and I stand in front of him, my helmet in one hand and my phone in the other. “So what’s up?” he drawls. “Let me guess. You’re here to back out on me, am I right?”

He’s so smug, so sure of himself. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

“I just wanted to go over our game plan with you,” I say, sitting down. “Get our story straight before people start asking questions.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh. Okay. Makes sense. So how did we get together?”

I clasp my hands in my lap and recite, “When I got in that car accident last week, you happened to be driving by, and you waited for Triple A with me and then you drove me home. You were really nervous the whole time, because you’ve actually had kind of a thing for me since middle school. I was your first kiss. So this was your big chance—”