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drawings, trying to capture the sense of movement. Then I start sketching Finn. His long legs, his T-shirt clinging tightly to his torso, the scratches on his arms. I notice another graze on the side of his high cheekbone.
    “What are you drawing?”
    Lauren leans in to see what I’m doing and I instantly snap the book shut.
    “Nothing.” She shoots me an “if you say so” look. “Honestly, it’s nothing. Just the hockey players.”
    Greg rushes past us, as if on skates.
    “He’s really fast,” I say. The other players can’t match his pace. It’s easy to see why he’s captain. I open my book again and continue sketching, filling in shadows, totally engrossed.
    “Carla.” Lauren nudges me on the arm.
    “What?” I look up.
    “When I said you could draw me any time, I wasn’t serious,” Finn says, a twinkle in his eye. He taps the page. “This is really good.”
    I’m mute, crushed with embarrassment. I open and close my mouth like a gormless fish.
I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself
.
    “See you on Monday,” says Finn, turning to wave as he jogs off, probably back to some glorious mansion.
    “Smooth,” Lauren says sarcastically.
    I can’t speak. The horror of Finn catching me drawing him is too much.
    Greg passes the ball to another attacker, who pelts it between a defender’s legs and back to Greg, who’s run into the circle, near the goal. The angle seems too tight but Greg whacks it to the back of the net. Unstoppable. The goalie doesn’t have a chance.
    I wish I was like that, invincible, right on target, heading for a new life. Instead, I’m a
mentalist stalker
who secretly draws people she’s just met.
    I’m never going to get over this,
ever
.
    HE CAUGHT ME DRAWING HIM. OHMYGOD, I’M SUCH A
LOSER
.
    By Monday morning, after beating myself up all weekend over it, I still can’t get the sketching incident out of my head. Walking to school, watching my feet, I’m desperate to disappear, or for school to disappear so I don’t have to face Finn. Cyclists zoom past. As one clips my arm, I realize I’ve strayed into the road and jerk back onto the pavement, cursing the bike as it speeds off.
    And then I see them, Finn and his brother, standing among waist-high bushes between two buildings. Are they trying to hide, or get caught, or signal danger to the next tribe? UNDER-AGE SMOKERS HERE. Neon lights.
    Finn leans against the brick wall of the doctors’ surgery, eyes closed as he sucks a rollie like milkshake through a straw. He looks so good. His blue T-shirt, pushed back by the wind, accentuates his skinny but toned torso. I see a new set of scratches on his forearms. Maybe the Masterson household is a cat household. An evil, scratchy cat household.
    Then I get why they’re standing like that. They’re there for us normal people to admire as we shuffle past, trying not to miss the bell.
    I hope to whatever deity is up there that he doesn’t see me.
    “Hey! Hey, Carla!” Finn calls. Busted. Why would he possibly want to talk to me after Friday?
    1. I’m about as interesting as a pot plant.
    2. Lest we forget, I fucking
drew
him.
    3. He caught me doing it.
    Then I think about it. Maybe it’s time to become self-assured, like him. Is this my chance? Start anew as Carla Mark II? Tomorrow’s another day and all that? I take a deep breath.
    “Hey, tiger!” Finn yells.
    I stop, turn, and head straight for him. Nearing the bushes, I take in his baby-face features, long eyelashes and hairless chin. Impossibly handsome. My stomach feels like it’s been teleported out of my body onto the roof. Somehow, I walk steadily over, keeping eye contact, like I’m being pulled on a thread. Not tripping up like I’m Ugly fucking Betty. Without my jeans spontaneously falling down. Without, like, accidentally serenading him. It’s a freaking miracle.
    “Hey,” I squeak.
This is it, Carla. Get a grip.
“You like Chemistry.” I manage to exhale a lame statement.
Great.
    Finn doesn’t