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you know? Like that girl we saw yesterday in the cafeteria."
    "Yeah, she sure is."
    "Pervert," she replied. "But really, dressing like she does, him trying to play football--I think it must take a certain bravery on their part, you know?"
    "That's what interests you? Their bravery?"
    "Well," she said, "the whole idea of the living impaired interests me. There's so many questions, so much mystery about the whole thing."
    "Like with Colette," he said, and as soon as he said it he wished he'd stuck with the Williams angle.
    "Like with Colette," Phoebe whispered, putting her head back on his shoulder. He hoped that she didn't notice how slow he was driving.
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    ***
    CHAPTER FOUR
    P HOEBE WAITED IN THE foyer for Margi after arriving with Adam at school. At least that's what she told herself she was doing, even as she peered over the top of her history textbook, watching Colette and then Tommy get off the bus. Colette moved with a dragging, side to side motion, her eyes fixed on a single point on some unseen horizon. She had trouble with the steps of the bus and then the steps leading up to the door, and Phoebe knew from previous observations that the motion required to open doors was very complex for her.
    Tommy exited after her but reached the school first. He moved more like a student who had stayed up too late the night before, drinking soda and eating pizza, than he did a "typical" living impaired person. There was a pause between the motion of gripping the door handle and the motion of opening it, but the motions themselves weren't all that awkward. He held the
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    door open for Colette and a pair of living girls, who sidestepped him in favor of another entrance rather than allow themselves to be victimized by Tommy's courtesy.
    She watched Tommy enter the building. He was wearing a slate-blue polo shirt and jeans and white high-top sneakers. He seemed to stand straighter than the other boys she saw milling around, but that might just have been a side effect of the odd way he walked.
    His shirt matched the color of his eyes, she thought.
    Margi was the second to last person off the bus, having wedged herself in the backseat with her iPod and a dark, cloudy look on her face beneath her pink bangs. Phoebe waved, hoping to cheer her. No such luck.
    "Hi, Margi," she said. Maybe excessive perkiness could win the day.
    "Don't you 'hi' me," she said. "You, the traitor who abandons me to ride the doomsday bus. I wish that Lame Man had failed his driver's test. I'm going to fail my spelling quiz today."
    "Oh my. You need to relax, girl."
    "Relax, nothing."
    "Doomsday bus? Come on."
    Margi held up one bangle-covered arm. "Colette is really
    freaking me out."
    "I know. Did they sit together again today?"
    "I didn't notice."
    "Yeah, you did."
    Margi pinched her eyes and stuck out her tongue at her.
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    "They sat together. He stepped back so she could get off the bus before him."
    "Quite the gentleman, I've noticed."
    "You would."
    "Of course I would. We have the poet's eye, you and me."
    "Please. I don't want to see any of it."
    "Margi," Phoebe said, catching Margi's wrists as they waved around in front of her, "we'll need to talk to her sometime. It will be good. For all of us."
    She thought that some of the color left Margi's already pallid cheeks. "Not yet," she said. Phoebe barely heard her over the boisterous entrance of another busload of students.
    "We're going to be late," Margi said, and shook free of Phoebe's grip before giving her a weak smile. "Come on."
    Phoebe got her bag from off the floor and followed her to their lockers, and then to homeroom.
    Just eye contact, Pete thought as he leaned back in his chair, stretching and flexing his arms. That's all I need.
    "Am I boring you, Mr. Martinsburg?" Ms. Rodriguez asked. No one other than Stavis and that blond bim-bette Holly, who had dated Lame Man for a while, dared laugh.
    "I'm not bored, Ms. Rodriguez," he said. "I'm just a little sore from yesterday's practice. I'm sorry