"He's back," Ella told me in second-period Spanish that morning. She sat next to me, in a fortunate seating arrangement that may have saved the last shreds of any friendship we had. It probably helped that Jared wasn't there to distract me from speaking to her.

We both knew who she was referring to. I had been Ella's friend long enough that she knew about my girlish crush before I stopped bringing it up. Back when it was just something we'd giggled about. Before the fact that he never noticed me had started to hurt.

I stopped rummaging through my backpack and looked up. I couldn't find my Spanish textbook, and realized, with an annoyed purse of my lips, that it was in the passenger seat of my car, which I hadn't driven that morning because Chris had dropped me off. I had my shrink appointment today. He was picking me up, so it would have been inconvenient if I had my car at school. I shoved down my annoyance at the entire situation.

"I know," I replied, and raised an eyebrow. "Hey, can I share your textbook? Forgot mine."

"Yeah, sure. Anyway, I've heard gang, cult, steroids, government-agency conspiracy, and brainwashing. You?"

I smiled. "Same, minus the government conspiracy. That sounds interesting. Which department?"

Ella shrugged and then laughed, her mouth wide open. Ella had a belly laugh that was contagious, and soon I was laughing too.

"I miss you, Kim," she said once she'd stopped. She pushed the textbook between us so I could see better, then smiled sadly.

Yeah, I miss me too.

At lunch, I briefly considered sitting with Ella and her friends, some of whom I used to be friendly with, too. I stared at their table for a long minute after I'd gotten my food. I saw a girl lift up a banana and make a joke while holding it in a funny way. Ella laughed.

I slipped out to go the library before Ella could meet my eyes.

I snapped my head away and stared down at the cover of my "A Midsummer Night's Dream" as intently as I could. Even so, my cheeks burned, probably very conspicuously. I rested my cheek in my hand, trying to hide my face with my fingers.

What are doing, Kimberly? My mind was screaming. I can not believe you just made eye contact again. Now he definitely knows you were staring.

I had looked up when Jared entered the room, and of course, being the crazed obsessive I was, I'd forgotten to look away. I stared as he spoke to Mrs. Rostow. I kept staring even as she nodded towards his empty chair next to mine. Then, it was too late to look away, because his eyes had locked into mine.

And stayed locked with mine. I had no idea how long we looked at each other. All I knew, when I had finally come to my senses, was that he hadn't looked away. So I had to look away. His gaze was so intense it made my breath heavy.

Even as I tried very, very hard to stare down at my book, my eyes wide and brows knotted with horror at myself, I was aware that he was still staring.

He was walking towards me now. It was as if I could sense his aura gliding closer and closer to me, and as he slipped into the seat next to me, I was once again overwhelmed by his warm being and piney scent, just as I had been when I'd brushed by him before lunch. Unconsciously, my tense muscles relaxed. My body basked in his glowing presence.

"Hi," he whispered, and just like that, everything in my body was tight and buzzing all over again. What is going on right now? Is he speaking to me? Did I fall into some rabbit-hole, alternate universe this morning?

Hesitantly, I turned my head up to face him, feeling each vertebrate in my neck twist with individual jerky movements, and looked him in the eye again.

"Hi," I whispered back, and a new flood of blood darkened my blush. How is this even happening? Do I say something else? Do I look away now? Is he going to say something else?

Fortunately, he did speak again. Unfortunately, the words that came out of his mouth effectively ripped out my heart, butchered it into very tiny pieces, and threw the bloody mass back down into the deepest pit of my stomach. It landed with a dull, aching thud.

"Are you new here? I'm—"

"Jared," I cut him off, my voice flat and limp like a dead fish. "Yeah, I know."

Back when I was little, I'd been able to convince myself that, if I believed in something hard enough, it would come true. If I wanted something badly enough, I would get it. I could will things into existence.

The thing is, you just can't change what's real. All the atoms that make up all the realities in the world won't be manipulated by human will, no matter how hard you try. Of course, this was something I knew now. After everything that had happened to me and everything I'd lost, I was rational. I had learned my lessons. Yet, somehow, up until this moment, I was still telling myself that Jared would acknowledge me, that he would care about me one day, if I just wished for it hard enough. We were meant for each other. Up until this moment, I could tell this to myself, and in my head, it was still true.

But of course, in the real world, Jared had never paid me any attention. Even after sixteen years, he didn't know who the hell I was.

I could barely breathe as I stood there, watching her—the goddess. My goddess. Even from the front of the room I could smell her, the same divine scent that had saved my sanity in the hall that morning.

The pull at my navel was stronger than ever. I had to be near her, next to her, around her, touch her; my feet moved of their own accord. She needed to be in my arms, where I could be sure that she would be shielded from all the bad things in the world.

Is she okay?

Why does she look so sad?

Why did she turn away from me?

Did something bad happen to her? Had someone upset her? Is she sick?

What does she need? I'd give her anything she needs—I'd find a way to get it to her.

She was the most precious thing in the world, and the most vulnerable. Bad things could happen to her. Bad people could hurt her. If I didn't pay attention for one second, she could be gone.

I couldn't handle thinking about that. It was too much. The world just couldn't go on without her. My world wouldn't even exist.

I floated into my seat next to her, awed, almost blinded, by her very being.

"Hi," I whispered, and angels sang as she looked up at me again. Her eyes—oh man, those bourbon eyes are going kill me—clicked into mine and again, I struggled to breath.

"Hi," she whispered back. Her flushed russet cheeks darkened another shade of pink. I almost choked.

"Are you new here? I'm—"

As soon as the words were out of my mouth I got the sense, from the sudden expression of hurt and disappointment on her flawless face, that I had made the worst mistake of my life.

"Jared. Yeah, I know."

Her words, cold and deflated, confirmed my suspicion. The thought that I'd caused her pain was like a rusty ball and chain dropping into my gut, cold and so pungently metallic that I could taste the rust on my tongue.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but for a long moment couldn't seem to bring the words out. I just stared at her, petrified into silence. Finally, she said, almost sighing, "I've known you all my life."

I felt the blood draining from my face as she turned around. She oriented her body away from me and crossed her legs. My insides were twisting painfully around themselves, and I could almost hear my wolf whimpering. Why am I literally the world's biggest fuck-up? I was panicking, my heart racing, my breath shallow, and I could feel the shake start again in my core. What have I done?

Come on, Jared, keep it together. Deep breaths. Take deep breaths. Calm down.

Her scent filled my nostrils, and soon I could breathe normally. What a magical human she was. Good. This is good. Now use your brain, Jared. Let's start with remembering her name. You've known her your whole life. How are you going to get her to talk to you again?

And so, as Mrs. Rostow lectured on the tangled, spell-induced love in "A Midsummer Night's Dream", I stared at the object of my imprint and picked my brain for what I, or, rather, Clear-Headed Pre-Wolf Jared, knew about her. I had already screwed up my chance at a first impression. I had to redeem myself somehow.

When class ended, she shot up from her seat, and was about to walk away even before the bell stopped ringing. From my chair, I grabbed her arm and felt her stiffen.

"Wait, Kim. Please."

She inhaled, audibly, and turned to face me, still standing. She wasn't tiny, but she was on the small side, both in build and in height. Even standing up, her eyes were nearly level with mine, but now she avoided my gaze. I was still holding on to her, her sweater soft and smooth against my palm, and suddenly I was aware of how small her forearm was in my large hand. I could completely close my grip around her elbow, and it made her feel all the more fragile. A new wave of guilt nearly overwhelmed me.

"Oh, so now you know what my name is?"

I paused, planning my words carefully before I spoke.

"I don't know what came over me earlier, but I calmed down and thought about it. Of course I know your name. You're Kim Connweller. I sit next to you in English, History, Art, and Physics. Recently, you moved across the way from me. You used to wear pigtails everyday in elementary school. When I was eight, you told me I had cooties, but later, in secret, you told me you had been lying, and that you were sure I didn't have cooties." I let out a little laugh, and was very pleased to see her respond with tiny tug at the corner of her mouth. "You telling me that that made me so confident with girls later on."

Her face fell at my mention of being confident with girls, and for the third time today I wished it were possible to literally kick my own ass.

"Anyway, like you said, we've known each other our whole lives. You, me, and Paul. You're friends with Paul, right? I see you guys talking sometimes."

Kim looked at me with her left eyebrow raised in a perfect arch. God damn, that is hot. Jared, rein yourself in. Now is so not the appropriate time for this bullshit.

"Wow, that was quite extensive, Jared. Sounds like you were paying attention in class." I was paying rapt attention in class, I wanted to respond. To you. I decided that saying this now, given the circumstances, would not have helped my case. It would probably have scared her off.

Instead, I continued my attempt to explain myself. "You just looked really different today. I didn't realize who you were. But now I've snapped out of it, I promise. I know who you are. I've always known who you are." I shrugged helplessly. I hoped that the look I gave her was one of sincerity, because I sure was trying my damn hardest to forget the fact that I had almost asked her name a hour ago.

There was a dense, silent moment as she stared at me with unreadable eyes. Then, slowly, she pulled her arm out of my hand. The action wasn't harsh, like she was angry or trying to get away from me, but careful, as if she didn't mind me holding her and wanted me to know it, even as she was pulling away.

"I have a test next period," she said evenly. Then she pursed her perfect lips, gave me one last, expressionless glance, and walked out of the classroom.

***

I lied. I didn't have a test last period. As I sat in Calculus class, my teacher and his methods of differentiation droning on in the background, I tried to sort through the mess of tangled emotions my encounter with Jared had created in my brain. I hadn't been aware that buoyant disappointment was a viable emotion, but that was the only way I could classify what I felt. Or, perhaps, I was just confused about how to feel.

Yes, he'd smiled at me. And spoken to me. But then again, he had asked me if I was new. Which meant that he was going to ask my name. Which meant he didn't know it. Which meant he'd never paid attention to me. Never cared about me.

But then again, at the end of class, by some magic he did know my name. And he remembered the interactions we'd had. And that I used to have pigtails. Which meant that he'd always noticed me. Which meant that he cared.

I frowned at that last conclusion. Silly Kimberly. Just because he's noticed you before doesn't mean he cares about you. My frown deepened.

"Ms. Connweller," Mr. Foglino paused his lesson and called on me in his monotonous, accented voice. None of us knew exactly where he was from. He'd literally shown up a few years ago, out of thin air, as if a last name like Foglino was common on an Indian reservation in Washington state. He was clearly Italian—the accent was faint but discernable in his speech—but weren't Italians, as a rule, supposed to be animated and lively? Mr. Foglino sounded like he'd rather have been decomposing, because rotting into the ground would have been far more interesting than teaching us math. His constant expression made me think he was actually already decomposing, because his face never really moved. Even stranger was that everything he talked about—every word problem, example, or, essentially, every word that was unrelated to numbers—had to do with a city called Weston, in Florida.

For a few weeks there had been a lot of speculation and gossip around him, but Mr. Foglino was so incredibly dull that soon the rumors died down, and now he was just a mysterious fixture in his math classroom.

"You look confused. What is not clear here?" He had turned around and noticed my frown. Just what I needed. Thanks Mr. Fogs. Now everyone's staring.

I blushed and cursed myself for blushing. "Nope, not confused. I just forgot my contacts this morning," I muttered. Another lie. Just lies, lies, lies for you today, Kimmy. Jared isn't a very good influence on you.

He turned around and continued to drone. I tried to pay attention. Usually, I liked math. Loved it, even. I was a math person, or, rather, I had turned into one in the past couple of years. Numbers made sense, didn't hurt you, didn't die on you, and couldn't make you feel worthless. They were perfect for someone like me.

Today, however, it wasn't happening. I sighed. This was just review, and I knew all the differentiation methods anyway. Instead, I let my mind wander to my tangled emotions again, and thoughts of Jared's blazing eyes locked in mine floated around in my mind until the school bell rang.

As promised, Chris was in the parking lot at 3:32pm, leaning against his car, the passenger seat door open and waiting for me. We drove the seventy minutes it took to get to Port Angeles. The drive was awkward, just like every other moment Chris and I spent together now. It hadn't always been that way. He was a good deal older than I was—nine years—which actually made us closer than we would have otherwise been. We hadn't spent a lot of time together growing up, so I was always the cute little sister whom he liked to tease on the holidays; he was the big brother I hero-worshipped. I supposed it was harder to keep up that sort of attitude now that I had to sit down at his dinner table every night and make small talk with him and his uptight wife.

"So, what, are you going to go home and come back for me when I'm done?" I asked.

"Nah, I'm going to wait in the city. I need a new tie for this work party coming up, so I'll go shopping for a bit."

I nodded, and we were silent again.

"What am I supposed to tell her, exactly?" I spoke up again when I couldn't take the awkward silence any longer,

"I don't know," Christ replied. "Tell her your brother forced you to come. Tell her whatever you feel like. Therapists can work off of anything, right?"

"I don't know. This was your idea."

Despite my words, I was nervous. I had wanted to look presentable when I got ready that morning, because I didn't want Dr. Sharpe to judge me. I'd dressed up nicely in my crisp, cream-colored sweater and dark-wash jeans. My hair was pulled into a sleek and shiny ponytail rather than its usual messy bun. Now, as I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror, I wondered in passing if that was what Jared had meant when he'd said I looked different. Did a change of clothes and hair really make me unrecognizable?

No, Kimberly, obviously it doesn't. He was obviously fishing for excuses. People do that, you know, when they're alleviating awkward conversations. You have a hard time recognizing it because you don't have conversations anymore.

My thoughts were very quickly sliding down into territory I did not want to touch. I decided I wasn't going to think to about Jared anymore. Not today, anyway. I couldn't imagine anything worse than having to talk to the shrink about my irrational obsession of a crush.

Finally, Chris pulled up in front of a shingled turquoise house with a dark grey roof and a glass-paneled cedar door. There were small trees and shrubbery in the front yard which, I imagined, would have been vibrantly green and blooming with flowers in spring. Now, they looked barren and dead against the cheerful color of the walls. The fact that I was being forced to come here every Tuesday for God knows how long really grated on my nerves. The sad attempt at cheerfulness didn't help the situation.

The therapist's name was Dr. Sharpe. It wasn't the best name for someone whose job it was to soothe her patients' problems, but I supposed her name was out of her control. I knocked on the door, and a minute or so later a young woman—I swore she couldn't have been older than twenty five—with a strong brow and deep-set eyes opened the door. She had tight, blonde curls and wore pink lipstick. Her suit managed simultaneously to be professional and stylish, so very different from the lame pantsuits with shoulder pads that Penny always wore.

"Kimberly?" I nodded and gave a small, polite smile.

"You're Dr. Sharpe, right?"

"Yes! Hi, hi, so good to meet you, Kimberly!" She shook my hand with enthusiasm and ushered me in. I stepped into the doorway and softly shut the door behind me. I was hating this already.

This was her home, I could tell, so I supposed she set aside a room for her office. She led me down a hallway and into a soft yellow room with a sloping roof. Cautiously, I examined my surroundings. Facing the door was a set of windows, one pane of which was a square mosaic, laid out with many shades of blue and violet glass. A low bookshelf stuffed with books rested in one corner, and a few potted plants were placed on the floor and furniture. In the middle of the room were two couches, one wide enough for two people, the other an armchair with a crocheted blanket draped over it. There were tables with lamps next to each couch, and I noted, maybe for future reference, that a jumbo box of tissues rested on each table. Just in case you start crying, Kimmy.

Yeah, as if.

For the first time since I'd entered her house, I turned to face her. She was just a bit taller than I was, and seemed to radiate friendliness.

"Which chair should I sit in?"

"Oh, whichever one you want," she smiled. "Do you want some water? Tea, maybe?" I shook my head and took a seat in the armchair. It faced the door. That felt better than staring at the mosaicked window.

"Well, just let me know if you change your mind," she said, sitting down across from me and taking up her pen and notepad. I had a feeling that she was analyzing my personality from my seat choice.

"I just want you to be as comfortable as possible," she continued. "I'd tell you to call me by my first name, too, but it's Eunice, so we can't have that."

Out of habit, I raised my eyebrow, forgetting that it was probably a rude expression to make at a person I'd just met. She certainly didn't look like a Eunice. She looked like an Ashley, or Ellie, or Jessica.

"With a name like that, maybe you should be the one in therapy," I said.

Dr. Sharpe grinned, but I could tell she was watching me closely. She scribbled something in her notepad and I was desperate to know what, but I didn't ask. I didn't know what the proper etiquette was in this kind of situation. I crossed my legs and then uncrossed them, then tucked them up so I sat cross-legged, my hands drumming on my ankles.

"Hmmm, so, Kimberly—" she began.

"Call me Kim," I interrupted. "Everyone does."

"Alrighty, Kim then. How are you?" Dr. Sharpe stared at me like the next words out of my mouth would be the most interesting she'd ever heard.

"Um, pretty good," I said. "You?"

I cringed inwardly. This isn't a chat over coffee, Kimberly. You're not supposed to ask how the shrink is doing.

But Dr. Sharpe smiled. "Very good, thank you. So many people forget that psychiatrists have problems, too."

I could tell she was trying to relate to me somehow, subtly.

"Yeah, I bet."

"So, your brother sent you here?" she asked, leaning forward to make her curiosity clear.

"Yeah," I said. "Well, he and his wife. They think I'm depressed."

"Do you think you're depressed?"

I frowned at the question. "I don't know. I've never been depressed before, so I guess I wouldn't know."

She scribbled something down again. It irritated me. I craned my neck to get a look, but there was no way I could see.

"How do I tell if I'm depressed?" I asked. "Is there an at-home test? A stick I need to pee on?"

I could tell she was surprised. Maybe she thought I was going to be some quiet, teary little girl with no sense of humor. I felt an odd sense of victory. I wished that Dr. Sharpe would go up to Chris and Penelope and say, "Why on Earth did you think this girl needs therapy? She's absolutely fine. She doesn't need help."

But I guessed Dr. Sharpe wanted to get paid.

She replied, "No, but you would make good money if you invented something like that."

I let out one single laugh.

Then, there was silence. I decided that being a psychiatrist must be the best job in the world. Sit and let someone talk to you for an hour—or not talk, whatever they wanted—and get paid a hundred bucks. I wondered what classes I'd have to take to become one, and if some type of med-school was required.

"I just want you to know that everything you say to me is completely confidential," Meadows said. "By law, I can't repeat anything you say. It's doctor-patient confidentiality."

"I don't…uh…I don't really have anything to say," I told her. It was true. I didn't know how to do this. I wasn't Penelope, who could make a conversation out of anything, or my mother, who had been so in touch with her emotions that she could have been a psychiatrist for herself. I hid away from all the bad things in my life, and that was okay with me. I was proud that I could compartmentalize, and generally, it worked, as long as the compartments were big enough to hold everything. Sometimes things spilled over, but I still stuck by my compartmentalizing philosophy. I didn't need to resurface all that pain from so long ago. I didn't want to feel it again.

I didn't want to feel it ever.

Nope. I just needed roomier compartments.

"Well, you can always count on me to listen, anyway. And understand." She shrugged.

Right. I was sure she could understand.

"How's school?" she asked after a pause.

"School's fine."

"Do you do anything after school? A sport? A club, maybe?"

"I used to run track, but I quit," I told her, feeling ashamed, like always, to admit that, more or less, I sat around my room and stared at the walls.

"Why'd you quit?"

I thought about that. Turned it over in my head. Running was something I'd always loved to do, even before it became a sport to me. I wasn't good at many things, but I was fast—really fast—and it felt good to be good at something. But last year, I'd told Coach I was quitting. I didn't give an explanation to him or myself. I didn't know why I did it.

"I just didn't feel like doing it anymore," I said nonchalantly, as if it was no big deal. And at the time, it really felt like no big deal. I just didn't want to run track anymore.

But already, this damn shrink was making me feel like there had been some hidden, ulterior motive for my quitting track, a metaphor of sorts. I was tired of running. Running from…?

I shook my head. It was like English class, when we dissected books so thoroughly that I always wondered if we were really analyzing the author's intentions, or if all those literary analysts and English teachers were wasting their time finding significance in text that authors had written without much thought to hidden meanings.

"Did your brother or sister-in-law encourage you to continue?"

I snapped my attention back to her. "No. I mean," I licked my lips, "I don't think they even knew I ran. I hadn't lived with them for very long when I quit."

"You never told them about it?"

"There was never any reason to tell them. It wasn't a huge part of my life. We had other things to talk about. It wasn't important.

"Mhm," Meadows said absently.

"They're busy enough without me," I added. "They're got their baby, Ethan, and their jobs. Sophie and I complicate things too much as it is. I try to stay quiet."

"Right." She looked at me then, pushing a piece of light hair behind her ears. "Are you close with your sister Sophie?"

"I love her. She's annoying, but she's my baby sister. She's all I…she can be a brat, but she's nine, you know."

"How is Sophie?"

This surprised me. Not that I minded talking about Sophie, but I had been expecting to be forced into talking about my life and problems for the duration of the hour. But then, I didn't know how psychiatrists operated. Maybe this was a technique of some kind.

"She's…" I trailed off, thinking about her, drowning in her huge winter jacket, sniffling in my car. "Nine," I repeated.

"What are kids these days into? I heard Zoey 101 is popular." Dr. Sharpe chuckled.

"Lizzie McGuire, actually," I corrected. "Not Zoey 101, but I think the only reason is because she says Paul Butcher's hair looks like a spaceship." She chuckled, then admitted she had no idea who Paul Butcher was.

"Well, if you ever see a spaceship-headed boy on TV…"

Her smile was slow this time, spreading from the corners of her mouth until it became a full-on grin.

"You're not what I thought you'd be," she told me.

"Are you allowed to say that?" I asked. "I mean, aren't psychiatrists not supposed to make judgments out loud?"

That made her frown. She thought for a second and then said, "I don't know if we're supposed to. Probably not. But we do."

"Everyone does."

That's the whole problem.

After dinner, I went out for a walk.

I had been dark for a few hours—in the winters, the sun set before 5pm—but the snow on the ground was so white that it reflected the moonlight. There was a slight wind that made the leaves rustle in the forest around me, a startlingly beautiful contrast to the calm ocean waves. I felt at peace, somehow, as if a visit to the psychiatrist had actually worked.

Then, my thoughts turned to Jared, and suddenly I was heavy again. The worst kind of weight is that of uncertainty. Before Jared had spoken to me, I knew he didn't notice me. I knew he wasn't going to talk to me. It was a fact, and the fact was just a dull ache.

But now, he'd spoken to me. His words, his actions, everything about our interaction today had been so fucking confusing. Now, I had no idea what he was to me. What I was to him. If we were anything at all. If I was imagining a change in the way we'd exist. As if there's ever a we, Kimberly. And now the pain of that uncertainty made me so nervous I felt sick.

I tucked my hands into the pockets of my coat, curling my fingers into the wool that was warmed by my body heat.

A loud, deliberate rustle came from the forest, and suddenly a chill of fear tingled in the back of my neck. Was I being followed? Was there an animal in there?

Did I care?

It's just the wind, I thought, and then for good measure, I said aloud, "It's just the wind." My voice was shaky and uncertain, and even to my own ears it sounded forced.

When I reached First Beach, I slipped down onto the snow and pulled my knees up to my chest. The water was silvery black, and I was overwhelmed with an urge to dip my toes in the freezing ocean. Slowly, I slipped off the ugly boots Penny had lent me and tugged at my thick socks until my feet were free. I placed the boots next to me and stood up, sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth as the bottoms of my feet touched sandy snow. I could feel the icy chill creep up my bones.

The beach was slanted, so when I made my way to the water, it was like running downhill. I stopped just before I reached the very tip of the tide. I moved forward an inch, bracing myself for the cold, when I heard quick, crunching footsteps behind me and a frantic voice.

"What are you doing?"