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walk in the opposite direction and don't look back. I go downstairs and duck into the first room. Maybe I can hide for the rest of the day.

  "Mr. Brodie," a pleasant voice calls.

  The art teacher sashays across the room, carrying a big black leather case. I rub my hand along the side of my pants. I wish for Stick. As we're always together, Stick sweet talks our way out of sticky situations. Like this one. I stammer out a few words but finally shrug, hoping to appeal to Ms. Charpetto's good nature.

  She slides the case next to a cabinet and then jumps up onto her desk. Her legs swing like a schoolgirl's.

  I stare at the amateur art pasted on the walls and then back to Ms. Charpetto. Frank's words echo in my mind. I have a choice. The journey starts today. I have no desire to listen to an old man who stalks kids in courthouses, but what if he's right? What if Ms. Charpetto, as an art teacher, for some crazy reason, has answers?

  "Do you know anything about my dad?" I blurt, the words tripping out my mouth like a drunken old man. Immediately, I burn with embarrassment. Saying the words out loud make me realize how stupid they sound.

  She smiles, her whole face lighting up and then creasing in concern. "I'm sorry I don't, but I can tell he means a lot to you." She taps her finger against her chin. "You're not in any of my classes this year are you, Mr. Brodie?"

  "Nope."

  "You should sign up for my creative art class next term." She laughs in such a small delicate way that I swoon. Or maybe it's the bump on my head. I can't be sure.

  "Um, yeah. Maybe." As much as I lust after Ms. Charpetto, I suck at art.

  "Don't worry. No painting fruit bowls or copying the Masters. We use raw materials to create three-dimensional sculptures. You might enjoy it. Grading is completely on effort and attendance. It's an easy A."

  She walks over to the wall, her heels clicking, and traces her finger down the matting of a large painting. Oranges, reds, yellows, and browns swirl in what looks like a tornado on a fall day. No pictures or meaning behind the splatters of paint. "Take this example from a new student."

  I'm not impressed. "Looks like a two year old puked on it."

  Ms. Charpetto cocks her head to the side. "That's the way it is with art. Highly subjective. It's a wonderful example of putting your mood into your work. Self expression at its best."

  "That new student must be pretty messed up." I shuffle toward the door. Ms. Charpetto is the third person today to suggest I take up art.

  "Mr. Brodie."

  I turn at the door.

  "You might consider attending the St. Patrick's Day art festival this afternoon at the park next to the Gardner Museum. Not only will students' work be shown, but you'd get a feel for what the class might be like. Famous artwork will be on display. You never know who you might bump into there."

  I perk up. Art festival?

  Maybe Dad will be there on the job, lurking in the shadows, waiting for me.

  In the crowds, he can pull me aside and talk without anyone knowing. This has to be it.

  I nod, mumbling "I'll be there," and leave, feeling hope for the first time. I float down the hall, my feet skimming the tiles, my head in the bright fluffy clouds with unicorns frolicking about and rainbows shooting out their asses.

  2:45 p.m.

  The bell finally rings. I crawl out from under the stairwell. Kids cram into the hallways. Lockers slam and laughter floats by.

  I maneuver the crowds as fast as I can. I have to find Stick and Turbo. I break into a run every few steps.

  "Hey!"

  I keep walking, ignoring the high-pitched voice. The voice is aimed at me, I can tell, or maybe I just feel guilty for skipping most of my classes.

  "Jack!"

  My heart rate increases and a slow flush spreads across my cheeks. This morning with Jetta feels like days ago. Yet, the vision of her face comes to me crystal clear, and I forget all about the art festival. I slow.

  Jetta flounces toward me, the red bow lopsided in her hair, but her lips still a soft pink in a big grin. She bumps her hip into mine like we've known each other for months. "How ya doing?"

  I press down my annoyance at this girl. Despite what I feel, my eyes linger on her lips. She clears her throat, and my blush deepens. I force my face into the neutral expression I wear for everyone lately. The dull look in my eyes that make teachers look past me and the slouch in my shoulders that tell others to leave me alone. I recover. "So do you apply lipstick every five minutes or what?"

  She jabs my shoulder. Her touch, even though playful, sends a thrill through my chest. "It's lip-gloss, silly."

  "Ooo, sorry." I wiggle my fingers. "I'm not up on my make-up terminology."

  "That's okay. I'll forgive you. After all, you did stand up for my honor this morning on the way to school."

  I grit my teeth and shuffle toward the exit. She catches up with a couple skips. Her presence creates a response in me I'm not used to. My pulse races yet she has a calming effect too.

  She nudges me and her voice comes out a whisper. "Seriously, are you okay?" She points to my head. "This morning? Slamming your head into a brick wall?"

  "Oh, yeah, that. I'm fine. I guess."

  She steps closer. I feel dizzy at the intoxicating smell of peaches. Her presence washes over me. Her hand accidentally bumps against mine. My lips refuse to work and my brain can't think of one thing to say to piss her off so she'll run. I squirm. Thing is, I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to see her face fall and the light fade. Not this time. No female has stood this close for a while, except for Ms. Kale, the school secretary. She doesn't smell like peaches.

  She tilts her head. "You're kinda cute when you're nervous."

  "I'm not nervous." I blow air through my lips, then moments later, stumble. I scowl, hoping she'll get the hint and leave me alone. Yet a part of me wants to reach out and meet her halfway.

  "Just admit it. You like me."

  Her smile radiates outward. Her joy floats in the air, wisps of happiness, and I want to grasp onto it. I fight the urge to tuck her stray hairs behind her ear. I imagine leaning in, her face tilting up and a blush spreading across her creamy skin. My lips brushing hers. I sway forward then jerk back like I'm electrified. Terror grips me. I back away, closer to the school exit.

  She lifts her hands. "Hey, I promise. I don't have any diseases, and I don't kiss until after at least a three month commitment."

  "Phew, you had me worried there," I say in an attempt to save my dignity. I might be a bumbling fool around this girl, but every once in a while I'm able to sneak in a good one liner.

  She hugs her books to her chest as if blocking her heart from me, withdrawing to protect herself. And she should. Her eyes, full of compassion, pierce mine, but then she smiles again and says casually, "Well, Jack, I'm on my way to an art festival with Ms. Charpetto, but I wanted to make sure you were okay."

  The art festival. My heart rate pulses at the thought of meeting Dad and finding out what I'm supposed to do. "I'll be there too."

  "Great. Maybe I'll see you. Make sure you go with your friends," she teases, her green eyes zoning in on me.

  My breath hitches once more. I remember her awesome karate moves. "Yeah, um, thanks for this morning." Turbo and Stick would be laughing their butts off if they ever find out what happened. Or if they heard me kissing up to a girl.

  She flashes another brilliant smile and turns to go.

  "Um, you can walk with us to school tomorrow if you want." I know my friends will never put up with this, but right now I don't care. I'll give them some lame excuse and walk with Jetta.

  "Who's us?" she asks.

  "Me and my friends."

  "That's okay. I know the way. See you around." She winks and then waltzes down the hall with a little sway of her hips.

  I groan and bang my head against the wall. I mocked myself. "Hey, why don't you walk to school with us tomorrow because three boys can't protect themselves and we could use an awesome kung-fu ninja to be our f
riend."

  I walk toward the exit, muttering curses for sounding like such an idiot.

  3:00 p.m.

  I take the outside stairs two at a time, my hand sliding down the rail.

  I focus on the present, but the smell of peaches still hovers and my thoughts are back in the hallway. With her. Her sweet smile that makes my heart skip a beat. Her enthusiasm that lights up her face like a Christmas tree and makes me want to smile. I shake it off and gently slap my cheek. "Knock it off, Fiasco."

  Girls bring trouble. Dad's right about that. For the past two years I managed to stay free of them and my life has been fairly free of drama.

  Until today.

  Big D is hanging near a side entrance. He and his goons are itching for a fight, especially after the morning's events. They can't stand still, punching each other playfully in the arm, until they can take it out on someone for real. Their bruised egos, knees and stomachs need pampering and a dose of revenge. I duck to avoid them and head toward my friends.

  Stick leans against the iron fence surrounding the school. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his pale face with a smattering of freckles is marked with anger. His eyebrows lower, his glance darting right and left every few seconds. "There you are, loser!"

  Crap. He has something planned. I need to find my dad from last night. Figure out if my talk with him last night was real. But I can't explain or they'll think I've lost it.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Stick asks. "Last period math was hell."

  I shrug.

  Turbo straddles a bike loaded with about four locks. He tries to