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of rust fall on top of me. I wipe my hands, then try again. The ladder creaks as I hoist myself up. I wait to see if it will hold my weight. It seems okay, so I climb the rest of the way to the window.
    The broken part is too small for me to fit through. I jiggle out a piece of the pane and gently place it on the sill. Even though the pane is already broken—some kids goofing around with a ball I’d guess—I don’t want it to look like it’s been vandalized.
    I remove enough of the glass to crawl inside. Before I do I look down, wondering if the dog is climbing after me, and if should I help him. But once again the dog has disappeared.

B EFORE
    Jake called the day after we met, or, rather, re-met.
    â€œThere’s this thing tonight,” he said. “Of my father’s. Do you want to come?”
    Not the most romantic way to be asked out, but still, a date’s a date, even if an unromantic one. I didn’t know for sure if Jake was single. There was this girl at school, Adrianna, who used to talk about him like they were an item, but apparently they weren’t or else he wouldn’t be asking me out, right?
    â€œWhat kind of thing?” I asked.
    â€œAn art opening,” he said.
    Jake’s father owned some kind of high-end art gallery. He auctioned off estate art to superrich people, which in turn made Jake’s family superrich. Though it was also said that most of their money was inherited and the art thing was more of a hobby. Either way, they were millionaires several times over.
    â€œI thought you might like it,” Jake told me. “You’re artsy, right?”
    I laughed, feeling like a normal, popular schoolgirl. “I guess.”
    People thought I was artsy because I always took art electives in school. In truth I sucked at art. I could barely draw a stick figure with a stick. The only artsy thing I’d ever done was paint a mural of trees on my bedroom wall when I was ten. I wanted it to look like the forest out of a fairy tale so fairies would come live with me. I even painted a tiny mushroom-shaped house underneath the trees especially for them.
    Still, I signed up for art electives. No one really knew that you don’t have to be good at art to be in an art class. As long as I looked like I was engaged in making marks on paper or pushing clay around, the teachers left me alone. Art class was a place where it didn’t matter if you were cool or popular or smart or anything. It didn’t matter what you were.
    â€œGreat, so you’ll come?” Jake asked.
    â€œSure.”
    We arranged to meet at his house at six forty-five. It was noon. I had six hours and forty-five minutes to find something to wear. I opened my closet. Even my nicest clothes were boring, not artsy at all.
    I got my allowance and headed downtown.
    I settled on a black dress. Nothing fancy or lacey, not like a cocktail dress or anything, but a long, slightly fitted stretchy material that didn’t make me look too fat. It came to just above my knees with a flirty flare and had a tuck in the waist that actually gave me a little shape. There were three tiny buttons at the neck. I bought a light blue camisole to peek out when the buttons were open. It showed some cleavage.
    I went home, bathed, and dressed. I felt good. I even thought I looked pretty good, too. Maybe this look suited me more than my usual baggy, comfort cotton. I left my hair down, slightly mussed. I finished it all off with a necklace with a tiny turquoise stone that rested in my jugular notch.
    I tried to tiptoe down the stairs, but of course Mom caught me before I could get past her office.
    â€œWhere are you going?” She peered from her desk. “You’re all dressed up.”
    â€œOut,” I said, as if I always went out on Friday evenings.
    She got up and stood in the doorway. “Really?” She smiled, suddenly all friendly. “Out? Where?”
    â€œAn art