I should feel refreshed and exhilarated and ready. But I feel like hell, like I haven’t swam in a week. I tell myself it’s because I’m worried Cole could show up and tell me that my car is dead forever, but I know that’s not it.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About the way he looked at me when he saw me cry. About him believing in my innocence. Even though I don’t deserve it, there’s something comforting about it.

It felt so good, for once, to let someone else be the strong one.

What would he do if he knew the real truth? I have to come up with something. Some way to push him away so that he never finds out what really happened, so that he never gets hurt.

I’m staring at the still dripping SUV when a familiar sound reaches my ears: my car, with its rumbling, broken exhaust. I whirl around and see Cole driving up the street. My Toyota sounds good as new. Well, as good as it’s ever been, which isn’t saying much.

He pulls in and kills the engine, then throws the door open. It lets loose with its usual screech. Any effort to fire off something antagonistic is immediately silenced by the sight of him. I used to think he was arrogant, but when I look at him now, all I see is pure confidence.

“You fixed it,” I say.

I have my car back. My life—and the life of any guy close to the ocean—aren’t at risk. It’s hard not to sigh aloud.

He smiles and the dimple appears again. It still seems out of place—something lighthearted on such an intense face. “Your battery terminals had a bunch of corrosion. I just used some wire brushes to get it off. That, and baking soda. Worked like a charm.”

I hold my hand out, palm up, to give him the keys. When he grabs them, his fingers brush against my skin.

Then he turns and looks at his SUV. “You washed my car?”

Oh. I thought it would be dry by the time he got here. “Um, no, there was a sprinkler on in the neighbor’s yard this morning.”

He snorts. “What a waste.”

“Yeah, they’re automatic, or something.”

He shrugs and tosses me my keys. He seems . . . lighter today, like someone lifted the weight off his shoulders. I don’t know what that means. “Walk you to class?”

“Actually, I need to grab some stuff out of my car,” I say, turning toward it. “Thanks for helping me out. I’ll see you in sixth period.”

But he ignores my dismissal. “No problem. I’ll wait.”

Awesome. Because there’s nothing in my car that I need. I open the driver-side door and start digging around, looking for something, anything, worth grabbing, so he doesn’t see right through me. I find a pen and shove it in my backpack and then get out of my car and follow him to the sidewalk.

We walk beside each other for a long silent moment, and I hold on to my backpack straps as if they’ll keep everything from blowing away.

“Are you . . . okay?” he asks. He’s looking at me, but I don’t meet his gaze, I just stare straight ahead. The school doors are less than a hundred yards. A hundred yards, and I can ditch him and figure out a real plan for getting everything back under control.

I purse my lips and nod.

“You sure? Because last night . . .”

“I’m fine,” I snap. I knew he’d do this. I need to fix this somehow, rewind time, and put the wall back between us.

We reach the building, and Cole pulls the door open for me. I brush by him as if the gesture is meaningless. But the truth is, it isn’t; most people slam the door in my face.

Something swells inside me. A mix of somethings: hope, guilt, despair. For the first time in a long time, I am dreading pushing someone away, and I haven’t even done it yet. “Thanks for your help,” I say, retreating into the crowd before Cole can say anything else. I rush away, glancing back once to see if he’s watching me.

Just as I turn forward again, I smash right into something hard, and my backpack crashes to the floor.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking—”

I glance up to realize it’s Erik, the new guy from my English class. He reaches down to pick up my backpack and then hands it to me, meeting my gaze as he stands.

And just like that, he steals my breath away. His eyes are a shade of blue I’ve only ever seen in the mirror—my mirror. They’re a shimmery, Caribbean-sea sort of blue.

“I—” I pause. “You . . . uh, thank you.” What is it with me these days? I’m a total train wreck.

He smiles and it’s breathtaking. “Sure. See you in English?”

I bite my lip and nod. His voice is deep, seductive. I take my backpack from his hand, blinking a few more times to see if his eyes change, but of course they don’t.

How can his eyes look so much like mine?

I’m just glad this ends today. We can do the debate and move on. I can go back to life as it was. Maybe I can even get Mrs. Jensen to move my desk. But something needs to change. I can’t spend a whole year next to Sienna and Cole. A few weeks, and Cole is already getting closer. I can’t let him do that.

Sienna takes the seat in the middle, and Cole and I sit at opposite ends, staring right at each other. He smiles at me, and I turn away. The gesture leaves me looking out at my classmates, and their hostile faces aren’t much better.

So instead, I look at Sienna, who is, at the moment, all business, down to the erect way she’s sitting. She holds her shoulders back and lifts her chin, as if she’s the First Lady or something. She’s even replaced her usual cardigan with a deep maroon blazer and a lace-embellished tank top. She could pass for a news anchor, with her platinum hair falling in perfect, blow-dried waves around her shoulders. Her pink-glossed lips part, and she begins her Manhattan Prep monologue, and the irony of her shiny hair and perfect manicured nails is almost enough to make me smile. I’m so distracted I miss my cue.

Sienna coughs and I realize what I’ve done. “Oh! Um, Manhattan Prep was created by a New Yorker about New Yorkers. . . .” I drone on and on for what seems like forever, flipping the pink note cards one after another. Finally, I reach the fifth card. “Which is why we must look beyond the surface and understand the motives of the author in order to truly understand the message.”

Sienna beams as I draw to a close. Like a good little puppet, I did everything I was supposed to do.

“Very good. Rebuttal?”

Cole nods. “Sometimes, whether in literature, television, or real life, what is seen on the outside should be taken literally.”

Wait, what?!? That’s not what Sienna wrote. I look over at her without moving, and I see her fighting the urge to squirm. Sienna does not like surprises.

“Sometimes, what you see really is what you get. If the characters are portrayed as elitist snobs, bent only on popularity, is it not possible that’s who they really are—and that trying to read between the lines is a waste of time?”

What the hell? I try to mirror Sienna’s perfect posture and frozen expression, to avoid letting on that Cole’s monologue isn’t rehearsed.

He pauses, purses his lips, and stares right at me, as if we were the only two people in the room. Is he talking about me? What is this? I give up on copying Sienna and shift in my chair, my eyes darting to her. She’s still a frozen picture of perfection.

“Sometimes, people simply want to believe things because it’s easier that way. But it doesn’t make it the truth.”

I chew on my lip, glancing down at my next card. Should I jump in here? I turn away and stare out at the audience, my eyes sweeping over the faces of my classmates. I relax a little when I realize no one seems confused. They have no idea he’s deviating from Sienna’s precious script.

I pause when I see Erik, watching me intensely. Our eyes meet for a long second, and I take in that same brilliant blue hue before I turn away.

Cole clears his throat and then finally gets back on track, looking down to read the note cards. I zone out as the familiar speech gets rolling.

Why did he do that?