“What were you arguing about in the hall, then?”

“I actually don’t remember. All I remember is being mad at him. Trust me, I’ll find out. But right now, I’m late for school.” I ease out of the chair and over to my backpack on the floor. Bending over is even stupider than shouting. I wish my head would just go ahead and fall off already.

“So, you don’t remember what you talked about? You definitely should stay home and rest then. Emma? Emma, don’t you walk away from me, young lady.”

She doesn’t come after me, which means this conversation is over.

*   *   *

I pull into my parking spot and check my makeup in the rearview. The porcelain foundation hides my blush as well as a magnifying glass. It’s bound to get worse if I run into Galen. Taking a deep breath, I open the door as the bell rings.

The front office smells of fresh paint, crisp notebook paper, and coffee. I sign in as an unexcused tardy and wait for my hall pass. Mrs. Poindexter, a nice older lady who’s worked in the front office since she was a nice younger lady, pulls a pad from a drawer and scribbles on it. She’s recognizable in old faculty photos because, like then, she still stacks her white hair into an honest-to-goodness beehive, using enough hairspray to get the attention of the EPA. Oh, and she shows more cleavage than most prom dresses.

“We’re all so happy you’re feeling better, Miss McIntosh. Looks like you still have a good bump on your noggin, though,” she says in her childlike voice.

Since there is no bump on my noggin, I take a little offense but decide to drop it. “Thanks, Mrs. Poindexter. It looks worse than it feels. Just a little tender.”

“Yeah, I’d say the door got the worst of it,” he says beside me. Galen signs himself in on the unexcused tardy sheet below my name. When his arm brushes against mine, it feels like my blood’s turned into boiling water.

I turn to face him. My dreams really do not do him justice. Long black lashes, flawless olive skin, cut jaw like an Italian model, lips like—for the love of God, have some dignity, nitwit. He just made fun of you. I cross my arms and lift my chin. “You would know,” I say.

He grins, yanks my backpack from me, and walks out. Trying to ignore the waft of his scent as the door shuts, I look to Mrs. Poindexter, who giggles, shrugs, and pretends to sort some papers. The message is clear: He’s your problem, but what a great problem to have. Has he charmed the sense out of the staff here, too? If he started stealing kids’ lunch money, would they also giggle at that? I growl through clenched teeth and stomp out of the office.

Galen is waiting for me right outside the door, and I almost barrel into him. He chuckles and catches my arm. “This is becoming a habit for you, I think.”

After I’m steady—after Galen steadies me, that is—I poke my finger into his chest and back him against the wall, which only makes him grin wider. “You … are … irritating … me,” I tell him.

“I noticed. I’ll work on it.”

“You can start by giving me my backpack.”

“Nope.”

“Nope?”

“Right—nope. I’m carrying it for you. It’s the least I can do.”

“Well, can’t argue with that, can I?” I reach around for it, but he moves to block me. “Galen, I don’t want you to carry it. Now knock it off. I’m late for class.”

“I’m late for it too, remember?”

Oh, that’s right. I’ve let him distract me from my agenda. “Actually, I need to go back to the office.”

“No problem. I’ll wait for you here, then I’ll walk you to class.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s the thing. I’m changing my schedule. I won’t be in your class anymore, so you really should just go. You’re seriously violating Rule Numero Uno.”

He crosses his arms. “Why are you changing your schedule? Is it because of me?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Sort of.”

“Emma—”

“Look, I don’t want you to take this personally. It’s just that … well, something bad happens every time I’m around you.”

He raises a brow. “Are you sure it’s me? I mean, from where I stood, it looked like your flip-flops—”

“What were we arguing about anyway? We were arguing, right?”

“You … you don’t remember?”

I shake my head. “Dr. Morton said I might have some short-term memory loss. I do remember being mad at you, though.”

He looks at me like I’m a criminal. “You’re saying you don’t remember anything I said. Anything you said.”

The way I cross my arms reminds me of my mother. “That’s what I’m saying, yes.”

“You swear?”

“If you’re not going to tell me, then give me my backpack. I have a concussion, not broken arms. I’m not helpless.”

His smile could land him a cover shoot for any magazine in the country. “We were arguing about which beach you wanted me to take you to. We were going swimming after school.”

“Liar.” With a capital L. Swimming—drowning—falls on my to-do list somewhere below giving birth to porcupines.

“Oh, wait. You’re right. We were arguing about when the Titanic actually sank. We had already agreed to go to my house to swim.”