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when I started lying.
    As time went on, I just got used to it. And I started to learn the rules. Like one time during a field trip when I was thirteen. I’d worn Miss Ryan’s sweater because the air had suddenly turned cold and I hadn’t brought a jacket to school that day. She warned me to not spill anything on it because her grandmother had knitted it for her. One minute, I was walking through the museum, studying the paintings on the wall, and the next—I wasn’t anymore.
    I was back on the school bus. Suddenly a man came up behind me and circled his arm around my waist. He said, “Nancy, Nancy.” Miss Ryan’s first name. He spun me around, and I realized it was the bus driver.
    He and his mustache came closer. His face descended onto mine, and his tongue went into my mouth. That was my first kiss. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to me. It tasted like ashtrays and orange Tic Tacs. His hand slid under my blouse, and I prayed it would be over soon.
    When I woke up, I was looking into a security guard’s face. I’d fallen down and hit my head. He let me go when he was sure I didn’t have a concussion or anything. I remember the moment when I handed Miss Ryan’s fuzzy sweater back to her. Something just clicked. I realized my sliding into her had something to do with her sweater. She had left something of herself—her essence—on it, and I picked it up somehow. I wouldn’t learn the word empathy until a couple of years later, but I understood the concept. It’s seeing life through someone else’s eyes. I had a gift.
    Or a curse, depending on how you looked at it.
    When I got onto the bus to go home, I couldn’t help but stare at the driver. He winked at me, and I hurried past him. For years after, I had nightmares about him biting my face off.
    At first, it didn’t happen that often. Maybe every few months. But the uncertainty was enough to make me scared to touch anything. It was hard to tell which objects carried an emotional charge. There were the obvious things, the items people cherished and loved—like wedding rings or photos of grandparents—but there were unexpected things, too. A borrowed pencil. A library book. Anything someone was touching when they experienced an extreme emotion.
    For a while, I wrapped my fingers with tape to keep myself from accidentally touching anything dangerous. But then I forgot and got sleepy and rested my cheek on a desk. I slid into an older boy stealing cigarettes from the grocery store. I felt his heart pounding beneath his big, black coat and the sweat under his arms. When my teacher woke me up, I stared into her face, terrified she’d know about the bad thing I’d just been doing.
    But then I realized everyone was doing bad things. My teacher was sneaking drinks of liquid that made my throat burn. My sister was cheating during a math test. The mailman tucked packages into a special bag to take home. People were doing good things, too—writing thank-you notes, holding doors for old ladies, smiling at each other— but those people weren’t the majority. The fact is that most people keep secrets hidden behind their eyes.
    Lately, I’ve been sliding more often. Once a month turned into once a week and then a couple times a week. Now, even if I can manage a few days without sliding, I end up exhausted and unfocused and even more susceptible to the slides than usual. It’s like the sliding is picking up momentum somehow. It’s like there’s a reason behind it. I just wish I knew what it was.
    In my room, I throw my backpack onto my bed, but the stress doesn’t ease from my shoulders. Something is weighing me down. Maybe it’s the way those ugly words felt coming out of Amber’s mouth. Maybe it’s Sophie’s desperation. Maybe it’s how Zane’s smile made me buzz like there’s electricity coursing through my veins. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I need something to help me unwind.
    I need music.
    In my closet, behind my