I reached for my phone. I needed to talk to Amelia about this. She’d tell me what to do. I swiped across the screen of my phone. The direct message notification reminded me I had a message waiting. Instead of calling Amelia, I found myself clicking on the envelope icon.

Turns out I didn’t want to swim again last night.

I stared at the message. Was he trying to get a reaction or was that his backward way of saying I didn’t have to worry about him messing up a swim meet again? I thought about ignoring him but then typed: Control the urge for the final meet this year and I will have no problems with you.

As I moved to exit out of the screen, I saw the three dots showing he was responding. I waited until it buzzed through.

So that is the only problem you have with me?

Was he looking for validation? He’d come to the wrong place. I typed back: That is the only thing I care about.

Swimming?

I narrowed my eyes. No, you disrupting my swimming.

Good to know.

Who are you? I needed to know who to avoid in real life.

I thought you already knew.

I knew he didn’t really believe that. I’d given myself away at the museum when I’d chased him down and demanded his identity. No, you didn’t. So . . . who are you?

Nice try.

What’s it take to find out?

A need.

What does that even mean? I asked.

If you don’t know what it means, then you don’t have it.

We’re talking in riddles now?

He didn’t respond right away, and I found myself refreshing the page to make sure the site hadn’t frozen. When nothing happened, I got up and pulled a pair of socks out of my dresser. I went to put on a sweatshirt and realized it was Robert’s. I had forgotten to return it. I loved this sweatshirt and not because it was Robert’s—well, maybe a little because it was his—but because it was comfortable.

I folded it and put it on my desk. Then, maybe because I was mad that he wanted it back or maybe because I was tired of feeling like I was the only one still a little hung up on the relationship, I grabbed my perfume and sprayed the sweatshirt. If I had to return it, then he had to suffer through my scent for a few days. Hopefully it would stir up some memories that made him good and lonely. I spritzed it two more times for good measure, then shoved it in my backpack. That’s when I remembered his other claim—that he’d left his math book here.

I moved to my hands and knees to search under my desk and bed. It wasn’t in either of those places so I crawled over to the closet, where I had to sift through a layer of clothes on the floor—mostly T-shirts and jeans, my standard wardrobe. I came up empty-handed. I tried to remember the last time he’d done homework at my house and a picture of him sitting up against the far wall, his ankle on his knee, his pencil sideways in his mouth, came into my mind. “What’d you get for number four?” he’d asked through that pencil.

“I’m only on two.”

“What’s taking you so long?”

“I had to text Amelia the shoulder exercise I found.”

“Of course you did,” he’d mumbled.

My phone buzzed, bringing me out of my memory and reminding me I was still no closer to finding the math book. I stood up and sat on my bed, back against the headboard, and read the newest message from Heath Hall.

No riddles. Just truth.

That seemed like another riddle to me. I tried to interpret it. My brain was too tired to figure out his game. My mom had already messed with my head tonight to get me to go to the charity dinner. I didn’t need more manipulation. I’d find out who he was at some point. Someone would slip. I remembered part of a quote my dad once told me. Something about how truth couldn’t be hidden. I quickly Googled it, then typed it out for Heath Hall.

Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.

His response was quick. Too quick to have been Googled like mine.

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

You have the mask. What’s your truth?

Exactly.

Had I figured something out? Had he offered some sort of truth at the museum with that mask on? That he liked to paint? Who in our school liked to paint? I copied and pasted his quote into the search engine on my computer and it showed it was from Oscar Wilde. Who wrote it probably wasn’t significant—the quote itself was what fit his situation perfectly—but it was nice to know who had originally said it.

A quiet knock sounded at my door.

“Yes?”

It creaked open, revealing my dad. “I thought I heard you up in here. It’s late.”

“Yeah, I was just about to go to sleep.”

“Mom told me you might not come to the charity dinner this year.”

My mom and dad were different. If a person heard about my brother’s death from my dad, they would probably assume he had died years ago. If they heard about it from my mom, they would most likely assume he’d died months ago. So it was much easier for me to talk to my dad about things like this. “It’s the same night as my awards banquet for swim.”

“That’s a hard choice.”

The problem was that if there were nobody else’s feelings involved but my own, there would be no choice. But that wasn’t the case. “I think I should support my swim team.”

“I understand why you’d want to. That’s a big part of your life.”

“But I want to be there for you guys too.”

He smiled. “Like I said, it’s a hard choice. You’ll make the right one.” With that, he nodded his head at my phone and added, “Lights out in five.”

“Okay.”

He shut the door and I sighed. I wasn’t so sure I would make the right decision because as of now I was leaning toward the awards banquet and I had a feeling that even my dad assumed I’d go to the dinner. After all, it was family . . . and seventeen years of tradition.

I turned my attention back to my phone. You want to know a truth? Choices suck.

What choices?

What was I doing? I didn’t even know this person. My frustration at my situation almost made me vent about my personal life to a complete stranger. Not just any stranger but someone who was in the habit of selfishly disrupting other people’s lives.

Nothing. Good night.

He answered: You should always make the choice that’s best for you.

Of course he’d say that. That’s what he did, thought about himself. And besides, even if I went with his advice, I wasn’t sure which choice was best for me. One would be right for me now and one later. And I didn’t even know which was which. I turned off my phone and put it on my desk. I wasn’t sure I’d make the right choice but I did know that I’d have to make one.

Thirteen

I pulled the sweatshirt out of my backpack and handed it to Robert. I’d flagged him down in the hall after I saw him leaving the science building. “Here. I couldn’t find your math book.”

“Oh. I found my math book. Thanks.” He held the sweatshirt to his nose. “It smells like you.”

My face got hot. “Yeah. It’s been at my house.” Under a couple sprays of my perfume. “Where was your math book?” I asked, mostly to change the subject.