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look and I gave her that um-I’m-still-pretty-high look and so she took control, like always. She pulled her hand away and placed it on top of mine. It was the fuzzy hand again, the cuddly cartoon bear paw.
    â€œYou look great, Dylan,” Tess said. “And we’d love to catch up, talk econ and all that, but Mara is feeling crazy sick.”
    I nodded, but I didn’t pull my hand away. I liked it, sandwiched up and tangled in their fingers. It was melting like grilled cheese.
    â€œVomit-all-over-the-place sick,” Tess added.
    â€œOh, honey,” Dad said.
    â€œPumpkin latte,” Tess informed him.
    Mom’s eyes narrowed because she knew I downed those things like they were water during months that ended in
BER.
So I added a key detail. “Probably something fungal too.”
    This made Mom cringe, but Dylan didn’t budge. The words
vomit
and
fungal
can usually scare away even the most dedicated panty-sniffer, but it required Tess’s field-hockey-honed arms to pry our fingers apart.
    â€œStraight to bed for this one,” she said, pulling me toward the stairs. “Sorry, Dylan. Again, you look . . . dashing.”
    Dylan seemed to take it in stride, shrugging as if he were called dashing all the time, which I knew for a fact he was not.
    â€œMara—” Mom started to say, but soon Tess and I were at the stairs and her tone shifted from surprise to embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. She’s . . . well, she’s got a sensitive stomach.”
    â€œThat’s cool,” Dylan said. “I did what I came here to do.”
    â€œAnd that is?” Dad’s voice was suddenly suspicious. He wasn’t an idiot. He could see through a wrinkled suit.
    â€œI wanted to meet you two. And I wanted to shake Mara’s hand. Thank you for being nice to me. Your home is a nice home.”
    By the time I reached my room, I had already heard the front door close. I looked out my window to the front lawn. Dylan was jogging across the grass, skateboard in hand. As soon as he reached the road, he tossed the board to the asphalt, hopped on, and escaped, suit and all, into the evening.
    I opened the window so I could hear the squeaking wheels retreating into the distance as I collapsed on my bed. They sounded like sails being raised, a ship setting out to sea.

a trilogy
    B efore we dive back into things, I should probably tell you three stories about Dylan. Rumors, really, but rumors are as important as anything. Even if they’re not true, they end up turning people into who they are.
    Story Number One
: His dad died under a pile of shit.
    I should elaborate, I suppose. Dylan started attending our school halfway through sixth grade. Middle school is a tough time for any kid, but being a new kid smack dab in the middle of middle school is about as tough as it gets. If you show up on the first day of classes, it’s not so bad. New teachers, new lockers. People are distracted. A few kids might say, “Hey, I don’t remember that guy,” but pretty soon you’re integrated into the pubescent stew. Yet another dude dishing out or dodging wedgies.
    Show up after Christmas break and things are way different. Then kids are, like, “Hey, what’s this interloper’s deal. His mom move him to Jersey after his parents got a divorce? He get kickedout of his last school for sexting the nurse? This douche-nozzle ain’t one of us, that’s for sure.” Names are Googled, local news stories pop up, links are followed, until a tale emerges. The one for Dylan was that his dad died under a pile of shit.
    I never looked it up to confirm, but I think Tracy Levy told me that Dylan was from some Podunk town in Pennsylvania and he lived on a farm with his parents and one morning his dad bought a bunch of manure (which is technically shit) and when the old man was unloading it—he hit the wrong button on the dump truck or