He didn’t see me. Mostly because I ducked behind a filing cabinet.

I couldn’t believe it.I couldn’t believe it. What washe doing here?

As soon as he was gone, I hurried over to Mr. Gatch’s office door, which was still open, and went,“What was Tommy Sullivan doing here?”

Mr. Gatch, who is a big, brusque man with no patience for anyone, most of all freelance photographers who are still in high school, looked up from his computer monitor in an annoyed way and went, “I’m sorry. But I fail to see how that is any of your business, Ellison.”

I blinked at him. Mr. Gatch has a reputation for crankiness, but this seemed particularly ornery to me. It wasn’t like he and I were close.

But he had asked ME, and not Dawn Ferris, the staff’s only other freelance photographer (she also works part-time at Office Max), to photograph his great-grandson’s second birthday party. I had thought this afforded us a certain level of closeness.

Apparently, I had thought wrong.

Flummoxed, I stood there in his office doorway, trying to figure out what to do. I could not — would not — leave the building until I knew why Tommy Sullivan had been in it.

Because, deep down, I was pretty sure I did know. I just needed confirmation to make sure I was right, before springing to action.

Mr. Gatch had already turned back to his computer monitor. “Shouldn’t you be at Quahog Queen practice or something?” he asked.

“It’s QuahogPrincess,” I said. He knew perfectly well what the proper royal title was. He had only been reporting about it for the past thirty years…maybe even more, if the rumors that he was in his seventies were true.

“And I think you should know,” I went on, despite the fact that Mr. Gatch’s fuzzy gray eyebrows were lowered, a sure sign he was concentrating on a particularly complex game of computer solitaire, and did not wish to be disturbed. Still, it was as if I were seized by some kind of mania. Ihad to know what Tommy had been doing in his office. I justhad to.

Which is the only explanation for why I blurted out what I did next. Which was, “The Quahogs are planning a blanket party for him.”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I was desperately wishing them unsaid. What waswrong with me? I was ratting out my own boyfriend — well, one of them, anyway — to my town’s biggest gossip (well, besides my best friend and my other boyfriend).

Mr. Gatch’s fuzzy gray eyebrows instantly lurched upward. But not, as I assumed, because he sensed a lead and was trembling with excitement to write it.

“Are they, now?” he asked me mildly. “And just what do you expectme to do about it?”

“Well,” I said, flummoxed again. “I…I don’t know. I just thought you should know.”

Mr. Gatch’s hatred for the Quahogs (due to his dislike for all organized sports) was legendary. He was the one who’d spied Tommy’s story in theEagle, and had gone ahead and checked on Jake Turner’s SAT score (which had, indeed, gone up by three hundred points from his previous attempt at the exam), and the scores of the other team members Tommy fingered (equally impressively — and incredibly — spiked), and blew the story townwide (and, ultimately, statewide).

Surely, hearing that the Quahogs were now planning something as dastardly as a blanket party, Mr. Gatch would leap to his favorite cub reporter’s defense…maybe write one of his scathing, bitter editorials, like the one that had outraged so many town officials, about how so many cats in town were suffering from hyperthyroidism, a direct result, Mr. Gatch believes, of impurities in Eastport’s drinking water supply.

But instead, Mr. Gatch said, “If there’s anyone who should know, it would be Tommy Sullivan, don’t you think, Katie?”

I stared at him, openmouthed. WarnTommy? Was that what he was saying? That I ought to warn Tommy what Seth and his friends were planning?

But…what would be the point in that? Tommy Sullivan was back in town for one thing, and one thing only: revenge. To ruin the lives of everyone who contributed to the ruination of his, four years earlier.

In other words…mine.

Surely, it was in my best interest to let Seth and his friends do their worst.

Wasn’t it?

And yet…if it were, what was I doing in Mr. Gatch’s office, hoping my telling him what the Quahogs were up to would induce him to stop them, somehow?

There was only one explanation for it. And it wasn’t one I liked one little bit.

Swallowing hard, I said, “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Gatch.”

And then I turned around. And I got out of there as fast as I could.

Twelve

So. It had happened at last. Liam’s taunt, with which he’d been teasing me for years, was finally coming true.

I should have realized what was going on a long time ago. It all made perfect sense. The fact that I was going out with the hottest, most popular guy in school…yet making out, behind his back, with another guy.

The fact that I couldn’t bring myself to decide which of these guys I liked better, because the truth was, I didn’t like either of them all that much, except to make out with.

The fact that I had lied about it to both of them — and my best friend, and all of their friends, and my parents, and myself, too — so many times, I couldn’t even figure out anymore who I’d told what when about whom.

It had been there all the time, the plain, simple truth. Liam had been the only one ever to accuse me of it to my face:

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

It was true. I’m a liar. And I can’t stop thinking about boys.

I knew Mr. Gatch was right, and that I had to tell him. Tommy, I mean. Even though I was convinced he was up to no good — and the fact that I’d seen him in Mr. Gatch’s office just proved it. Whatever the two of them were cooking up together, you could bet that nothing good was going to come out of it. At least, nothing good for Katie Ellison.

And yet…could I really stand by and let that gorgeous face get bashed in?

No. I couldn’t.

Which I will admit makes me insufferably weak. But is that really such a surprise? That I’m weak, I mean?I make out with guys behind emergency generators. What else is someone going to call me? Besides a tease, which Sidney already told me I’m in danger of becoming if I don’t start putting out. As if I care.

I tried to stop myself, though. I took my time about changing clothes when I got home. I checked my e-mail. I flipped through the newUs Weekly. I played around with my makeup. I made and ate a tuna fish sandwich. I waited until the absolute last minute until I had to leave the house, or be late for work, then looked up the number to Tommy’s grandparents’ house and dialed it.

Tommy’s grandmother answered.

“Hi, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said in the chipperest voice I could manage. “It’s Katherine Ellison, Tommy’s old friend from school?”

There was a pause, during which, no doubt, Tommy’s grandmother thought about the way I had left her grandson out to dry after he’d done the right thing and stepped forward about what he knew concerning the Quahogs.

Then Mrs. Sullivan said, “Oh, Katie! Hello! How are you? I saw that lovely picture you took of Mrs. Hinkley at her great-granddaughter’s christening last spring. You are so talented!”

“Um,” I said. “Thanks, Mrs. Sullivan. I’m looking for Tommy. Is he there?”

“Oh, no, dear,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “I’m afraid he’s out and about.”

“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. I told myself I was relieved. “Okay. Well, do you happen to have his cell number? He has a cell, right?”

“Oh, yes, he does,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “And he gave me the number…let me see. I know it’s here somewhere.”

I listened to Mrs. Sullivan rustle papers around, and then go, “Bud? Bud, do you know where I put the number to Tommy’s cellular phone?”

Then Tommy’s grandfather could be heard in the background going, “I told you to pin it up onto the bulletin board. Why don’t you ever pin things up to the bulletin board? That’s why I hung it there.”

I looked at the kitchen clock. If I didn’t leave for work NOW, I’d be late and Peggy would dock my pay.

“Um, Mrs. Sullivan?” I called into the phone. “Mrs. Sullivan, it’s okay.”

Mrs. Sullivan, after some more rustling, came back to the phone. “Oh, Katie, dear. I can’t seem to find the number.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said quickly. “If you could just tell Tommy I called, I’d really appreciate it. All right?”

“All right, dear,” Mrs. Sullivan said, still sounding distracted. “Wherecould I have put that number?”

I hung up because I had to jet. I nearly got run over, like, ten times along Post Road, I disobeyed so many traffic laws trying to get to work on time. I made it, but with only five minutes to spare.

I was locking my bike up when someone slipped his hands around my waist and whispered, “Hey there, cutie,” in my hair.

Is it any wonder I whipped around and slapped his hands away? I mean, I was feeling very tense. And I hadn’t been having the best day.

“Hey,” Eric said in an offended tone, looking hurt. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” I exploded. “What’s wrong?You’re what’s wrong, that’s what. Why did you have to tell Seth and those guys that Tommy Sullivan is back in town?”

Eric blinked a few times behind the dark lenses of his Armanis. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” I glared at him. The sun was really bright…and hot. I was still panting from my bike ride, and a little sweaty. Which I guess would be one of the advantages of having a car. You wouldn’t need to worry about arriving places with pit stains. Still, I stood with my hands on my hips anyway. Because I didn’t care if Eric Fluteley saw my pit stains. Not anymore. “Exactly what I said. You were totally trying to stir up trouble.”

“I was not!” Eric cried.

“Oh, you so were,” I said. “What I want to know is why? What did Tommy Sullivan ever do to you, anyway?”

“Nothing,” Eric said, looking defensive. “God, what is wrong with you today?”

I stood there, squinting at him in the strong sunlight. Whatwas wrong with me today? I didn’t even know. Except for the part about me being nuts.

But then again, I’m pretty sure I’vealways been nuts. It’s just that this whole thing with Tommy Sullivan finally pushed me to actually admit it to myself.

What was I doing? What was I doing with this guy in front of me who, yeah, okay, was hot and a talented actor and all.

But was it Eric Fluteley I liked? Or the guys he played on stage? I mean, when I kiss Eric, am I kissing Eric…or Bender? Or Jud?

And standing there in the hot sun, listening to the seagulls fight over a stray french fry on the boardwalk, I suddenly knew. It was Jud. Poor, lonely, lovestruck Jud. And Bender, who spilled paint on the garage floor. Not Eric Fluteley, with his headshots and his daddy’s BMW.

And the realization made me feel a little sick to my stomach.

“You know what, Eric?” I heard myself saying to him. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Eric continued to blink behind his dark sunglasses. “Can’t do what anymore?”

“This,” I said, pointing to him and then to myself. “Whateverthis is. It’s wrong. And I’m not doing it anymore.”

Eric’s jaw dropped. “Wait…are youbreaking up with me?”

“Well,” I said. “No. Since I technically never went out with you. But I’m not going to make out with you anymore.”

Eric whipped off his sunglasses and said, “Katie. You’re just dehydrated. I can see that you’re sweating. Go inside, have a nice cool drink, and I’ll meet you back out here during your break. Okay?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. Miraculously, I didn’t feel sick anymore. I actually felt kind of good. In fact, I felt like laughing. A little. “No, Eric, don’t bother. I won’t come out. It’s over. I mean it. I really like you — but just as a friend. Okay?”

Eric’s expression was incredulous. His ocean-blue eyes were filled with confusion.

“Wait,” he said. “Is this because I never took you to dinner, or something? Becauseyou were the one who wouldn’t go out withme, remember? You kept saying you were afraid people would see us together, and Seth would find out—”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that, Eric. I just can’t do this anymore. It’s too complicated. And it’s not fair to you.”