* * *

The morning progressed in a rather tense, tight kind of awkwardness. My grandparents hovered over us throughout breakfast, asking a million questions about the most bizarre things, which was very unlike them. And I didn’t miss the odd looks cast in Jared’s direction, or the quick glances they cast toward each other. I couldn’t blame them. He had been sleeping on my floor. Thankfully, the T-shirt he wore had sleeves just long enough to cover the tattoos around his biceps. It was one thing to have a boy in my room. It was another to have a tattooed boy in my room.

The five of us drove to school in utter silence. Glitch reluctantly drove Cameron’s truck again so I could keep an eye on the middleweight contenders in the backseat. But they didn’t say two words to each other. It seemed no one knew quite what to say.

Even though Jared and Cameron were both sore, they weren’t in nearly as much pain as they should’ve been. Their scrapes and bruises were nothing but light marks on their perfect faces now. I wanted to comment on it, but everyone was so quiet, I couldn’t bring myself to speak.

I also wanted to ask about the dream. It felt so real, so warm and intoxicating. But, again, the silence was like a rock wall, cold and impenetrable.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a crowd gathered in front of the gym. Then I saw a guy with a microphone and another with a camera.

“That’s him!” Brooklyn screamed, proving the wall wasn’t that impenetrable. “That’s the reporter!”

“What reporter?” Jared asked.

“Well, crap,” I said, and made an illegal U-turn.

“Where are you going?” Cameron asked.

I decided to answer Cameron’s question first. It was easier. “I’m going to the faculty parking lot.”

“Students can’t park in the faculty lot. Quite the little felon these days, aren’t we?” he said.

I chose to ignore him. “And as for that reporter,” I said, responding to Jared’s question, “he apparently saw me get hit by that delivery truck and then saw Hercules over there drag your unconscious body to his pickup.” I narrowed my eyes on Cameron before refocusing on the road. “Let’s just say he’s very curious. He’s been following us around.”

“And he has a tape,” Brooklyn said.

“A tape?” Jared asked, suddenly alarmed. “What’s on it?”

Brooklyn turned to him. “We don’t know. But we do know there’s just enough on it to make him dangerous.”

Even though I parked at the farthest edge of the faculty lot, we had barely stepped out of the car when Ms. Mullins came charging toward us.

Cameron tsked. “See, crime never pays.”

“Listen, blondie,” Brooke said, pointing a finger at him, “if you don’t have anything nice to say—”

He stepped close and stared fixedly down at her, his eyes sparkling with humor. He meant to fluster her, and it worked.

“—then just … just don’t say anything at all.”

“Okay,” he said softly.

Brooklyn turned from him slightly winded. Oh, this was getting so very, very good.

Ms. Mullins stopped short when she saw who we were with. After a brief recovery period, she eyed Jared up and down, did the same to Cameron, then waved her arms to herd us inside.

“You kids hurry in. There’s some creepy reporter guy and a camera crew looking for you.”

“Oh,” I said in surprise. “I thought we were in trouble for parking here.”

“I figured you might have to. That’s why I came over.”

Once again, Ms. Mullins saved the day. Man, I loved that woman. But before we made it to the door, creepy reporter guy found us anyway.

“Ms. McAlister!” he called, running with his microphone like they did on TV. He was short—well, for a man—and had dark slick hair plastered to his head. His cameraman, trying to keep up, slipped on the wet grass and almost fell. Which could have been costly. “Lorelei McAlister?”

“Crap,” I said. I looked back at Jared and Cameron. “Go. Hurry before they get you on tape. Again.”

The doors facing the faculty lot were always locked. Ms. Mullins tossed Cameron her keys, then turned back to the reporter rushing toward us, her arms raised to stop him.

“Gentlemen,” she said with a fierce authoritative boom in her voice, “this is school property. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I just need to ask Ms. McAlister some questions. I’m John Dell, Ms. McAlister, investigative reporter for the Tourist Channel.”

I was a little surprised the Tourist Channel had investigative reporters.

Ms. Mullins stepped in front of him and almost got knocked in the face with a microphone. She couldn’t have been more than an inch or two taller than me, but that didn’t stop her for an instant. “I don’t care if you’re Walter Cronkite. This is school property and you don’t have permission to be here.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You girls go inside.”

We obeyed immediately. As Ms. Mullins fended off the reporter, Principal Davis came bustling out the door Cameron was holding open for us.

He took in Cameron and Jared with surprise. “I see you two have kissed and made up.”

“Not really,” Cameron said, but Mr. Davis was already out the door and dealing with the intruders.

“Well, that was exciting,” Brooklyn said as we rushed inside and headed for class.