Pausing from his texting pursuits long enough to say, "Since I decided to get a life, branch out, and expand my horizons. Maybe you should try it too. He's pretty cool once you get to know him." I watch as his thumbs get back to work, as I struggle to get a grip on his words. Feeling like I've landed in some crazy, implausible, alternate universe where cheerleaders gossip with goths, and jocks hang with drama freaks. A place so unnatural it could never truly exist. Except that it does exist. In a place called Bay View High.

"This is the same Craig that called you a fag and gave you a swirly on your first day of school?"

Miles shrugs. "People change."

I'll say. Except that they don't. Or at least not that much in one day unless they have a very good reason for doing so—unless someone else, someone behind the scenes, is prompting them, engineering it so to speak. Manipulating them against their will and causing them to say and do things that are totally against their true nature—all without their permission, without their even realizing it.

"Sorry, I thought I told you, but I guess I got busy. But you don't need to come by anymore, I've got it all covered," he says, dismissing our friendship with a shrug, as though it bore no more importance than a ride to school.

I swallow hard, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and demand to know what happened—why he's acting like this—why everyone is acting like this—and why they've all unanimously decided against me. But I don't. Somehow, I manage to restrain myself. Mostly because I have a terrible suspicion I might already know. And if it turns out that I'm right, then it's not like Miles is responsible anyway.

"Okay, well, good to know." I nod, forcing a smile I definitely don't feel. "I guess I'll just see you around then," I say, my fingers drumming against the gearshift, waiting for a response that's not coming anytime soon, and backing out of his drive only when Craig pulls up behind me, honks his horn twice, and motions for me to move.

In English, it's even worse than I anticipated. And I'm not even halfway down the aisle before I notice that Damen is now sitting by Stacia. And I'm talking hand-holding, note-passing, whispering distance from Stacia. While I remain alone in the back like a complete and total reject. I press my lips together as I make my way toward my desk, listening to all of my classmates hiss:

"Spaz! Watch out, Spaz! Don't fall, Spaz!"

The same words I've been hearing since the moment Igot out of my car. And even though I've no idea what it means, I can't say I'm all that bothered by it—until Damen joins in. Because the moment he starts laughing and sneering along with the rest, all I want to do is go back. Back to my car, back home where it's safe—But I don't. I can't. I need to stay put. Assuring myself that it's temporary—that I'll soon get to the bottom of it—that there's no possible way I've lost Damen for good. And somehow, this helps me get through it. Well, that, and Mr. Robins telling everyone to shush. So when the bell finally rings, and everyone's filed out, I'm almost out the door when I hear:

"Ever? Can I speak to you for a moment?" I grip the door handle, my fingers closed and ready to twist. "I won't keep you long."

And I take a deep breath and surrender, my fingerscranking the sound on my iPod the second I see his face. Mr. Robins never keeps me after class. He's just not the stop and chat type. And all of this time I was sure that completing my homework and acing my tests insured me against this exact kind of thing.

'I'm not sure how to say this, and I don't want to overstep my bounds here—but I really feel I must say something. It's about—"

Damen. It's about my one true soul mate. My eternal love. My biggest fan for the last four hundred years, who is now completely repulsed by me. And how just this morning he asked to change seats. Because he thinks I'm a stalker. And now, Mr. Robins, my recently separated, well-meaning English teacher who hasn't a clue, about me, about Damen, about much of anything outside of musty old novels written by long-dead authors, wants to explain how relationships work. How young love is intense. How it all feels so urgent, like it's the most important thing in the world while it's happening—only it's not. There will be plenty of other loves, if I just allow myself to move on. And I have to move on. It's imperative. Mostly because: "Because stalking is not the answer," he says. "It's a crime. A very serious crime, with serious consequences." He frowns, hoping to relay the seriousness of all this.

"I'm not stalking him," I say, realizing too late that defending myself against the 5-letter word before going through all the usual steps of: He said what? Why would he do that? What could he mean? like a normal, more clueless person would, makes me appear suspiciously guilty. So I swallow hard when I add, "Listen, Mr. Robins, with all due respect, I know you mean well, and I don't know what Damen told you, but—"

I look in his eyes, seeing exactly what Damen told him: that I'm obsessed with him, that I'm crazy, that I drive by his house day and night, that I call him over and over again, leaving creepy, obsessive, pathetic messages—which may be partially true, but still. But Mr. Robins isn't about to let me finish, he just shakes his head and says, "Ever, the last thing I want to do is choose sides or get between you and Damen, because frankly, it's just none of my business and it's something you're ultimately going to have to work out on your own. And despite your recent expulsion, despite the fact that you rarely pay attention in class, and leave your iPod on long after I've asked you to turn it off—you're still one of my best and brightest students. And I'd hate to see you jeopardize what could turn out to be a very bright future—over a boy."