The woman has puffy golden hair bridled beneath a net. She holds out a white paper bag. “Cinnamon?”

“I think I changed my mind. I’m not hungry anymore.”

“You don’t want it?” she asks, jostling the bag.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

I leave the parking lot and merge back onto the road.

* * *

THERE ARE TWO WEEKS until finals, and teachers are starting to put on the pressure. During the history final, we’ll have to compose three long essays. For the English final, we have to be prepared to analyze any of the books we read this year. In band, our overall grade will be heavily affected by our performance in this weekend’s Memorial Day parade.

I’m not in the mood for studying, but I also can’t screw anything up. I need a good grade point average to take that college biology class, which leads me into marine biology someday. If my future is bad, I can’t blame it all on Kevin Storm. It’s my responsibility, too.

Even so, everything is getting under my skin. The ticking clocks in every classroom, the halls that reek of fruity perfume, Anna Bloom’s giggle in the library. I’d never paid much attention to Anna before, but after I saw her flirting with Josh yesterday, I’ve been seeing her everywhere. And everyone I pass is buzzing about tomorrow’s Senior Skip Day and Rick’s bonfire.

Between third and fourth periods, I spot Josh ahead of me. I dart into the bathroom and stay there until the bell rings.

* * *

“I LOVE FRIES,” Kellan says as we push our trays through the lunch line. “They energize me.”

I eye the wilted salad-bar lettuce and the puddles of grease on the pizza. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave home before Josh, I wouldn’t have forgotten my lunch on the kitchen counter.

“When we register for the college class,” Kellan says, “remind me to take you to the student café. They make the best curly fries.”

As I reach for a peach yogurt, I think about what I’ve seen of Kellan’s future. I couldn’t tell much about her career, just that she lives in Philadelphia and works for a sign language school. She doesn’t become the doctor or scientist she always talks about, but unlike me, she sounds happy.

After paying for our food, we head to the ketchup pump.

“Will you grab me some napkins?” Kellan asks. “Get some for Tyson, too. That boy never wipes his hands, which is just plain nasty.”

Something’s definitely up with her and Tyson. Back when they were a couple, Tyson occupied all her thoughts. She doted on him, bringing him cookies and cough drops and packs of spearmint gum.

Kellan nods toward the door. “Ready?”

I don’t move. “Can we eat inside today?”

She looks at the door, then back at me. “What about Tyson and Josh?”

I don’t know how to answer.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“I could use a little space from Josh right now.”

Kellan walks to the nearest open table. “Does this have anything to do with Skanky Mills getting him out of class today?”

My stomach tightens. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not sure exactly,” Kellan says, “but when I was dropping off an attendance sheet in the front office, Her Royal Highness was there. I overheard her asking the Student Council advisor for permission to excuse Josh for the rest of the afternoon. She said it was for Student Council business.”

I stare at my pale orange yogurt. Whatever “business” Sydney has in mind, Josh is well-prepared with his studly new boxers.

Kellan grins mischievously, leans in close, and whispers, “I’m sure she’ll be so impressed when he whips out his wallet and produces that antique condom.”

45://Josh

“BOMBS AWAY!”

A sandwich drops from the sky and lands at my feet. Tyson charges toward me. I pick up the sandwich and underhand-toss it back to him. He catches it like a football, spins a full circle, and then plops down next to the lunch tree.

“You’ve been holding out,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you were driving around with Sydney Mills yesterday.”

How did he find out? I can’t imagine Emma said anything.

“Sydney-frickin’-Mills!” he adds.

“I would’ve called to tell you,” I say, “but things got crazy last night.”

Tyson’s jaw drops. For effect, he pushes his chin back in place, and then he holds up his hand for a high five. “Crazy with Sydney?”

“Not exactly,” I say.

Tyson lowers his hand and begins to unwrap his sandwich.

If Sydney had kissed me, I would’ve high-fived him back. Instead, Emma kissed me. The moment our lips touched, I was back to where I was six months ago. It was the kiss I wanted last November. It felt like everything that happened this week had finally brought us together again. We could start over.

Then I realized the truth. She wasn’t kissing me because of who I am. She had that chance last fall. Emma just needed something that would create a huge ripple, and she didn’t care if it hurt my future. But more than that, she didn’t care if it hurt me.

“All morning, people have been asking about you and Sydney,” Tyson says. “Dude, how could you leave me hanging like that?” He takes a large bite of his sandwich.

“How did everyone find out?”

“Her convertible is hard to miss,” he says. “No offense, but what were you doing in her passenger seat?”

This must be what it’s like to live in Sydney’s orbit. People notice everything you do and then gossip about what they saw. Even though it’s happening to me now, it’s not about me. I’m just a tiny satellite getting pulled in by Sydney’s gravity.

I look across the length of the empty football field. If Emma was coming, she would’ve been here by now.

* * *

AFTER LUNCH, I have Word Processing I with Mr. Elliott. The class has three long tables, all lined with desktop computers. I press the green power button on my computer and then lean back in my chair while it boots up.

Two scenarios play out in my mind. One is that Emma didn’t come to the tree for lunch because she’s still too mad or embarrassed. The other scenario is that Emma left school and went home to investigate Facebook alone. But since Kellan wasn’t at lunch either, they’re probably together. As angry as Emma may be, I can’t imagine her pulling Kellan into this.

Mr. Elliott walks up to my computer and drops a blue slip onto my keyboard. “You need to head to the front office.”

Again? But why this time? The slip has my name written just above the secretary’s signature. The last few class periods of the day are all circled in dark black ink.

Paranoia hits me. What if Mr. Elliott has been monitoring Emma’s computer and he knows what we’ve been doing? A computer geek might know how to do that. Maybe that’s why Emma never made it to lunch. Maybe they nabbed her, but she wouldn’t give up my location!

As calmly as possible, I ask, “Do you know what this is about?”

“All I know,” Mr. Elliott says, scratching a flaky patch on the side of his head, “is you can take your stuff with you because you won’t be coming back.”

* * *

I CAN ALREADY VISUALIZE my parents—brows furrowed and arms crossed—waiting for me in the principal’s office. The school psychologist will be there, and maybe a physics or history teacher to share their perspectives. Emma and her mom will be sitting in chairs, and Martin too, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Playing with your futures,” the principal will say, shaking his head with disapproval. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

The teachers will lecture us about the potential repercussions, not only to us, but to the entire future of mankind.

“There you are!”

Sydney is standing outside the front office, grinning excitedly. She’s wearing a light pink button-down shirt, jeans, and sandals. She rises onto her toes and offers a flippy little wave.

I can’t help smiling back. “What are you doing here?”

Sydney points to the blue slip in my hand. “How do you like your get-out-of-jail-free card?”

“This was you?”

She winks at me. “You’re welcome,” she says, then takes the paper from my hand and opens the office door.

Mrs. Bender, the secretary, greets us from behind the counter. “All I need are your blue slips and you’re good to go.”

Sydney reaches across the counter, and her jeans pull tight around her perfectly shaped body. “Here they are, Mrs. B.” Then she turns toward me, loops her arm into mine, and leads us out into the hallway.

“Got everything you need?” she asks. “We’ll be gone until the end of school.”

I’m having a hard time focusing with her body so close to mine. Also, the top two buttons on her shirt are undone.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Errands!”

My textbooks for tonight’s homework are in my backpack. I’m not sure about reading assignments for my afternoon classes, but I can call people for those. I still don’t know why we’re being allowed to go, so I want to get out of here before anyone realizes there’s been a mistake.

While leaving the main building, Sydney explains our mission. As president of Student Council, she has to pick up items for several year-end events. The vice-president was set to run the errands with her, but he sprained his ankle in gym and had to back out. To fill his spot, Sydney chose… me!

“I didn’t know Student Council had this much power,” I say. “Can you get out of class whenever you want?”

“You have to be careful. But if the school views it as a learning experience, they’ll approve it,” she says. “We have a lot of errands to run today, so I drove this bad boy.” She taps the rear bumper of a black Jeep Cherokee SUV.

“Is this yours?” I ask. Yesterday’s convertible seemed more her style.

“It’s my sister’s,” she says. “But she and her fiancé swapped with me for the day. They live down the street from us, so it’s no big deal. We do it all the time.”

I walk to the passenger side and climb in. On the seat between us is a clipboard with a to-do list.

“Buckle up,” she says, starting the engine. “For the next few hours, your muscles are mine.”

* * *

I PICK UP a silver and black business card tucked into the drink holder. “Electra Design?”

“That’s one of my dad’s companies,” Sydney says. “They do graphic design work.”

Electra Design.

“He’s always starting new businesses,” Sydney adds. “My mom tells him he’s a workaholic and that he needs to hire more people to help him.”

He’s going to hire me. Someday, I’m going to work at Electra Design… for her dad.

We pull into the same shopping center as GoodTimez Pizza, but drive across to the opposite end. Sydney backs into a parking spot in front of Trophy Town and then cuts the engine. We hop out and I help her raise the rear window and lower the tailgate. She leans in to smooth out a blue tarp in back, and I can’t help catching a glimpse down her shirt. She’s wearing a pale pink bra, almost the same color as her shirt. And Tyson would be happy to know that her breasts look mind-bogglingly real.

“Next Tuesday night is the sports banquet,” Sydney says as we walk into the trophy shop. “We have to pick up a bunch of awards here. The weird part is, I already know I’m getting a trophy for tennis. But I’ll just stash it in my closet with the others. It feels so egotistical to put trophies all over your room.”

I don’t tell her I kept my T-ball and soccer trophies up for years after I stopped playing.

In the middle of the store is a three-tiered trophy display. There are different colored columns to choose from in varying heights and configurations. Each trophy is topped with a gold sports figurine: baseball, basketball, bowling, even darts.

Sydney scrolls down her clipboard with a pencil. “Did you ever play a sport?”

“Baseball and soccer when I was younger,” I say. “In middle school, I got really into skating. What about you? Other than tennis, of course.”

“I play soccer in the fall.”

“Are you any good?” I ask, but I know she is. Several times each season, she makes it onto the front page of the Lake Forest Tribune’s sports section. She’s either stealing the ball, kicking a goal, or running with her hands in the air.