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directly in front of me. When my car finally screeched to a stop, I rested my head on the steering wheel for a moment. My breath fogged up the speedometer.
    Leaning back, I glanced through the drizzling rain at the purple pickup and blinked. The seat was empty. Maybe it wasn’t my fault after all—maybe the truck had broken down and was abandoned here or something. I considered leaving; there wasn’t actually an accident, anyway. I didn’t hit the truck.
    A black motorcycle swerved around us. Correction, there wasn’t an accident yet … but if I sat here in the middle of the street for much longer, there would be. I leaned across the passenger seat to get a better look, but I still couldn’t see anyone in the truck. When I reached over to put my car in gear, there was a sharp knock on my window.
    I glanced up, and there was a girl standing next to my car. Her eyes met mine. They were such a deep blue they reminded me of the evening sky during a storm. Her hands pushed against her hips so hard she seemed to be using them to keep herself from exploding. She obviously wasn’t hurt, but she looked extremely angry—and kind of like my mom in that pose. No need to check the clock this time; it was too late and I was too exhausted. I knew that unless I wanted to watch Mom’s dreams for the zillionth time, I’d be watching this angry girl’s dreams tonight whether I liked it or not.
    I sighed, turned off the car, and climbed out. The ends of her long, dark hair curled out from beneath the hood of her jacket and her eyes felt as dangerous as a loaded gun’s barrel. Dragging an umbrella out of the back seat, I held it over our heads.
    “Hey, umm, that your truck?” I ran my hand through my hair, shaking away some of the water, and tried to charm her with a grin. She looked stunned for a minute, and I thought I might get away with it, but then she clenched her teeth and growled.
    “A genius, huh? I half expected a stuntman from the way you were driving, but apparently you’re a rocket scientist. Why is a prodigy like you driving a piece of crap like this?”
    There was a hint of southern drawl in her voice that threw me off, and it took me a minute to realize she had insulted me and my car in under ten seconds. That had to be some kind of record. She kicked my tire with the pointy toe of one black boot.
    “Come on. Leave the car out of it. You didn’t even get a scratch,” I said.
    She crossed her arms over her chest. “No, but in your hands I’d consider even this oversized roller skate a lethal weapon.”
    I had a knack for “maneuvering” people, at least that’s what I called it. Kind of like manipulation but not. It wasn’t a separate ability, more like a side-effect from spending my nights watching people’s expressions while feeling their emotions. It made it pretty easy to read people.
    Most of the time, I used it on my mom. If I could tell her mood from her movements, her minute facial expressions, it was much easier to choose a good time to ask for things. One night, when she was feeling particularly guilty for working so much after my dad left, I ended up with a car. Not a great car, but a car. Considering I was only fifteen at the time, I didn’t complain.
    I tried not to maneuver people too often, but this seemed like an appropriate time. The girl’s anger was getting us nowhere. This was a residential road that didn’t see much traffic, but one motorcycle had already passed and I didn’t want to be sitting in the middle of the intersection, in the rain, when the next car showed up. I opened my free hand, palm up, rolled my shoulders back, and focused on keeping my face calm and honest.
    “Listen, I’m sorry—um, what’s your name?”
    After glaring at me in uncomfortable silence for a full ten seconds, she finally answered.
    “Megan.”
    “Okay, Megan. I’m Parker, and I’m really sorry I ran that stop sign. I had a long day. I’m really tired, and it was totally my fault. I didn’t