I didn't tell Mel about Mac. Perhaps it had something to do with what Jason had told me about their mother, that Mrs. Hines didn't care about me, that things were happening, and I was likely not going to be a part of them. It wasn't that I didn't trust Mel, but I no longer had faith that I'd be with them for much longer, and if it came down to it, I didn't want Mel to have to choose between keeping my secrets or talking to her mom. Almost a week passed, and I still waited for the moment someone would come looking for me to question me about Mac's weird appearance at St. James, but no one did. I never did find out how he got into the building, but it was obvious that someone had helped him; in his state, he was in no way capable of making rational decisions. It sickened me to think of how he'd been--sassy, vibrant, confident. Sure, he'd turned out to be one of them, but he had been alive. The way I'd seen him in the hall, well, it was in no way alive. It was existing, but it was dead inside. He wasn't a person. He was a thing. Worse off than an animal, even. I wondered what they'd done with him. No doubt St. James would never figure out who he was or why he'd been there. His brain was entirely fried and, I was sure, irreparable.

Something else weird happened in that week after Mac appeared; Coach Allen disappeared. Or, at least, he didn't come to work. The last anyone saw of him was the day Mac had been in the building. In fact, I was informed that I'd been the last person to see him at all, and the administration had questioned me about him, but what could I say? He'd given me a soda and then gone to the bathroom; he hadn't come back. It definitely had everyone talking; he was, after all, well liked.

The rumors were wild: "He had a mental breakdown and ran off somewhere!" "He was abducted and probably murdered." "Some kind of drug deal, and when they came for him, he had to run." "It was some prank gone wrong . . ." "He definitely ran off with a student he had an affair with!" That last one was the most popular, for sure, although, of course, no one could name the student in question.

Mr. Allen's disappearance struck me as odd, but it didn't rattle me enough to think about it more than anyone else was. In fact, his absence made lunchroom conversation a little easier, as everyone was interested in it, and no matter how many times I explained what my last moments with the man had been like, all the students wanted me to talk about it over and over again.

Nobody else seemed to really know much about Mac, though. I guessed the administration wasn't keen on telling everyone the details, and I surely wasn't going to fill them in on that one; the news was that a middle schooler had been caught roaming the building. That was it. And with Mr. Allen's disappearance, Mac's story didn't really seem to interest anyone.

About ten days passed. My schoolwork faltered. I couldn't focus on much more than the moment I knew had to be coming--the moment Jason had alluded to, when things would change, and I wouldn't be privy to the changes until after they happened. Whatever his mother was planning, I did my best to remain confident that it didn't involve turning me in to anyone. I couldn't believe she was on the Circuit's side, or she would've handed me over to them long before. At least, that's what I reasoned. I mean, they'd locked up her son after blaming him for killing his father; there was no way she could be partial to them, even if she had been the one to hire them for the murder. They must have blackmailed her in some way. So I wasn't sure she'd just hand me over to them. But I definitely believed what Jason said about her being partial to herself, to her kids. Not to me. He was right: if it came down to it, I was an afterthought, no matter what I'd done for Jason.

A Friday night came. After the intrusion at the high school, Mrs. Hines had been wary about letting Mel leave the house. Jason she either didn't care about as much or knew she couldn't control, because he came and went as he pleased, but perhaps the woman knew a little something about what had happened, because she'd given some solid "no's" to Mel each time she'd asked to go do something--even meet some friends at a coffee shop to study. For Mel, this was difficult; she was a pretty social person. I, on the other hand, didn't care at all if I stayed in.

But this particular Friday, Mel came to my room around nine and told me to get dressed, that we were going to a party. My initial reaction was to sigh inwardly, and I would've told her I didn't feel like it, but when I realized how excited she was, I just didn't have the heart to tell her no. Plus, when I asked her whether her mother was letting her go and she responded only with a sly smile, I thrilled a little at breaking the rules. So I threw on some clothes and followed her downstairs and out the back door; her mother was in her own room, watching television, probably getting ready to go to sleep. I wondered what Mel had told her, if anything.

I hadn't considered how we were going to get to whatever party this was, but when we got outside, Mel made a call, and within minutes a car was waiting for us at the end of the drive. It had its music turned down low and its lights off--for a split second I felt a tremor of panic at the sight of it--something that seemed secretive and out of place. But then the doors opened, and Mel's friends were inside, and we piled in along with them.

So much conversation happened during the ride that I wasn't even sure what was said. The music was turned back up, too, further clouding the car with noise, and my mind was rolling along with its own thoughts, as usual. There was laughter, gossip about various students, chat about where we were headed--that part interested me a little, as I had no idea where we were going. I'd assumed that it was to some other St. James student's house, like that pool party we'd been to, but I was wrong. Apparently, it was to some friend of a friend's; in fact, there weren't going to be any St. James students there at all, besides the other girls and one guy in the car with us.

Whatever--it wasn't as if I really knew anyone anyway.

I did, however, wonder a little at Mel. This was definitely a little rebellious of her, especially considering how paranoid her mother had been lately.

At length we arrived, and the location immediately intrigued me; this was far from Mel's posh neighborhood, far from wherever that pool party had been. These houses looked almost normal . . . and not even normal, really, not some typical suburb. This area was more run-down. The houses were a lot closer together. Most were peeling paint. Some had boarded windows. Dogs barked behind chain-linked fences, and cars were parallel-parked all down the sides of the street, as there weren't any driveways. Gardens were few and far between, and the trees that were around looked a little sad and in need of sunlight. Something felt more right, to me, here. Maybe less comfortable to the others getting out of our car (a couple of the girls remarked about their personal safety) but ultimately more comfortable for me. Places like this--they were easier to hide in. Easier to disappear into. And me? Well, I couldn't remember being in houses like these, but I did know hiding, and sitting in plain sight at the Hineses was starting to feel like a joke.

An involuntary grin crept across my face, and I noticed it only because Mel asked what I was so happy about. She was trying to hide her nerves, but I knew her well enough to tell what she felt.

"Why'd we come here if you're scared?" I whispered to her, not to embarrass her in front of the others.

We started up the sidewalk and toward a destination someone in front of me must have known.

"I don't know. It sounded . . . fun."

I took her by the arm. "Don't worry. We're fine." My words must have inspired some confidence in her, because she stood a little straighter and picked up the pace.

Following the others, we entered a shotgun house that looked really small from the front but actually extended quite a ways back. The atmosphere inside was not what I'd expected; the music was low-key, there were only about twenty or so people inside. The place was nice and clean, a welcome difference from its more rundown exterior. It was a little dark, though. The only light came from a few low-burning floor lamps and some colorful string lights hung around the windows. As we waded through the people talking to and hovering around each other, still blindly following whoever it was that seemed to be leading, we moved through a few rooms in a straight line. A sitting room, a dining area, a kitchen--and the kitchen was better lit. There we found food, drinks, and a tighter-knit group of people who seemed unwilling to shift much for our entrance. They talked in lower voices, and the music was less audible here, but another doorway leading to some downward stairs betrayed muted dance music in the basement.

In the kitchen, we broke up a bit. The people we'd come with tried to stick with each other, but Mel and I decided to keep more to ourselves. "What should we do?" she asked me.

I smiled to myself. Mel always acted fearless in her comfort zone, but somewhere like this? For some reason, she turned to me. It wasn't as if I'd had experience at house parties, but she seemed to think I'd know what to do.

I didn't. Not really. I was pretty sure she and her friends stuck out; they didn't look like the others, here. I blended in a little better, but being with them gave me away. I was starting to wonder whether we'd actually even been invited to this place when a couple of guys came up from the basement and one exchanged a happy greeting with one of the people we knew, and the others that had followed him also gave some hugs and waves. I didn't pay much attention to them, particularly, although I was happy to see we hadn't come to the wrong place.

But then, much to my shock, I recognized one of them. He was tall, perfect olive skin, longish black hair that dropped in soft waves to his chin, deep and soulful eyes--and even though he had his shirt on this time, I knew immediately that it was the guy I'd seen at that summer pool party, the one who'd caught me up in the greenhouse.

Before he could see me looking his way, I turned Mel toward a counter where drinks were. "Let's get something so we actually look like we belong here."

Bottles and bottles of stuff lined the counter. Most of it was alcoholic, but I filled a couple of plastic cups with soda. Nobody would be any the wiser, but when Mel noticed, she picked up a bottle of something and added it to her drink.

"I need this if I'm going to relax," she insisted.

I gave her a disapproving look to no avail. No surprise, there. Mel drank too much. And I'd had plenty of opportunity to do it, myself: Mel's friends were probably alcoholics. But to my memory, I'd never drunk alcohol, and I wanted to remain myself. Because I'd lost control of myself too many times in my short wakefulness, and I didn't want to ever lose control again. Certainly not if I could prevent it.

"You want me to make you something?"

I turned slowly to find the boy I'd been trying to avoid standing behind us. No words came to my mouth.

"I'm pretty good with mixing stuff," he added, his voice tinged with a soft accent.

"No, thanks. I'm fine."

Mel shifted a little in front of me. "I'll take whatever you want to make me," she said with a too-wide grin, shoving the cup in her hand onto the counter.

He looked from her, to me, back to her, as if asking for permission. Then, "Sure," he said, and we parted so he could reach the counter.

When his back was to us, I gave Mel a clear indication of my feelings with my expression.

"Come on!" she whispered gleefully. "Look at him, would you?"

She was right, but I didn't really want to think about that. He put those cliche butterflies in my stomach. Before I could think much more about it, he was handing Mel a drink, turning back to me without a word to her.

"I've seen you before, right?"

I'd hoped he hadn't remembered. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Pool party?"

"Yes!" Mel chirruped, grabbing my arm. "Are you friends with Gabe? That's where I've seen you and those other two." She waved her drink haphazardly at some of the guys behind us; some liquid sloshed out onto the floor, but she didn't notice. "This summer, before school. I forgot that Gabe was from around here--at St. James on a scholarship, right?"

The comment was slightly rude, but I was glad she was talking. I had nothing to say to this guy. And besides, his deep brown eyes were too much, and I didn't want to have to look into them.

"What's your name?" Mel asked.

He smiled an even more amazing smile, lighting up his face with an impossible charm. "Paolo."

"I'm Mel . . . Melissa. But everybody calls me Mel. And this is--"

"Nadia!" I blurted unattractively, elbowing Mel before she could protest.

"Yep. Nadia. She's Nadia."

Paolo repeated my name, and it sounded like butter in his mouth. "What were you doing up there in all those plants?"

Mel looked from him to me, quizzically, but I was too mortified to answer. "Thanks for the drinks. We're good, now," I insisted, turning and pulling Mel away with me. We had to go somewhere--anywhere. I just wanted to get away from him. Ignoring Mel's protests, I dragged her back toward the front of the house, not daring to look back at Paolo, hoping he wasn't following us.

"What'd you do that for?"

"I just--I don't trust him. That's all."

"You don't trust anybody!"

We were in the front room of the house, which was relatively roomy; there were only about six or seven people there, lounging around, sort of hard to distinguish in the low lighting. They were murmuring amongst themselves, a couple here, a few there; I prefered this low-key vibe to the louder, brighter kitchen. It felt easier to disappear into, even though there were fewer people. I'd claimed a corner for the two of us, where there were some chairs, but sitting down was the last thing on Mel's mind.

"Did you see him? I mean, did you see him? He's gorgeous! And he wanted to talk to us!"

I sighed. "Yeah, well I didn't want to talk to him."

"What was that about plants?" Mel rambled on, ignoring me. "And why did you lie about your name?"

"It's nothing about the plants. And I didn't tell him my name because . . ." I didn't know, really.

"Because you don't trust him?" She rolled her eyes in clear disapproval. "How could someone that looks like that be anything but amazing?" She craned her neck around the doorway, trying to see down the hall, probably hoping he was looking for us right then.

"Yes," I confirmed. "If you'd had as many people lie to you as I have, maybe you'd feel differently."

"Amirah." Mel grabbed me by the shoulders and stared into my face. "I understand. I do. I can't relate, but I can understand. But not everybody is out to get you! At what point are you going to start trusting people?"

I knew she meant well, and I didn't want to give her the real answer to that question, which was "probably never." So I tried to smile a little. But there was something else I didn't tell her. It wasn't that I didn't trust Paolo--whether I did or not wouldn't keep me from telling him my name. It was more than that, more like I was actually giving him my name. Because Amirah had never quite seemed right, and something compelled me not to lie to him, as Mel thought I'd done.

"Melissa! Hey, girl!" called someone I didn't know but Mel apparently did.

With a little squeal, Mel ran over to the speaker and hugged her. They then started chattering like small children about who-knew-what. I was grateful for the interruption and just plopped into a covered chair, sinking into it a little more than I'd expected to. Getting out of it would take real effort, but I wasn't really concerned; sitting there alone for a while seemed preferable to talking to anybody. I never felt awkward, alone. Mel had once told me that she hated those strange moments when everyone else seemed to have someone to talk to and she didn't. I personally never felt that way, though. I didn't mind just sitting back and watching other people, letting the noise flow around me and the dim lights sink into my eyes. Mel was concerned about her image, I supposed, but I didn't have much of one, and I certainly didn't intend on being with these people for any length of time. So what any of them thought of me just didn't matter.

There were more important things, anyway.

My mind turned over the image of those forget-me-nots. I'd kept them. I'd put them back in the envelope and placed them in the drawer in my bedside table. What exactly they meant, I didn't know, but I was sure they were a message from Henry not to forget him. It seemed so long ago that we'd been together in a sunlit field, him gently dropping tiny blue flowers into my palm, promising we wouldn't forget one another . . . he had no need to remind me not to forget him, but perhaps the message had been that he hadn't yet forgotten me.

Where was he? Right then, was he sitting somewhere like I was, wondering about me? Was he in some dimly-lit room, surrounded by strangers, wishing he could find me as much as I wished I could find him? It hurt if I thought about it too much. Somewhere that didn't know how to process the pain of it. And figuring out what I'd do once I found him didn't seem to matter, much. It was just finding him . . . that was the only thing I cared about. And the look in his glass eyes once I found him--he'd smile, I was sure. Smile like he'd never done since I'd met him. He'd smile, and he'd pull me toward him, wrap his strong arms around me, practically crying in gratitude . . .

"Deep thoughts?"

The voice shook me out of my reverie, and I was angry at it. I didn't want to return to this stupid house, this room, these people.

Looking up, I saw Paolo. I didn't want him, either. I found myself not knowing how to respond, and I didn't like that--that he made me feel unsure.

Seeing I wasn't going to get up for him, he pulled over a footstool and got down on my level. I realized then that he looked unsure. He opened his mouth a few times to say something but seemed to change his mind and start over. And he was folding and unfolding his hands.

That emboldened me a little, but it also worried me, for some reason. I just wanted him to go away. "Yes?" I didn't even attempt to sound friendly.

But he didn't seem to notice. He smiled. It melted me a little. "Nadia. I was--wondering. Whether I could have your contact info?"

I just stared at him. It wasn't . . . I wasn't . . . I didn't know how I felt. I didn't even know. But I remembered something concrete I could say. "I don't have a phone."

Now he stared, and his overconfident smile morphed into puzzlement. "You don't? Everybody has a phone."

I shrugged. "Not me."

"Why?"

"I don't want one."

Paolo was right; everyone did seem to have a phone. The truth was that Mel and Mrs. Hines had tried to convince me to get one, but something about them bothered me. I wouldn't have anyone to call, first of all, and secondly, the technology seemed suspicious.

"Well . . ." Paolo was a little lost. Something about that made me stupidly happy. "How can I get a hold of you?"

I shrugged again. "You can't," I replied matter-of-factly.

"But I--"

Ungracefully, I pulled myself up out of my chair. It was difficult to get out of because it was so deep and squashy, but I managed and was heading off to find Mel before Paolo could find me again.

I was lucky--by the time I got to her, she was bored, too, and we left that gathering for another . . . one where Paolo wasn't.