A wad of cash was burning a hole in Jess's pocket. He stormed through two puddles on his way back to the center of town, covered in tiny specks of dirt and wet leaves and various kinds of gutter-related detritus. Everything was grayer than usual, everything was quieter than usual, even for Stars Hollow, and it made him feel itchier, feel every inch of the muck sticking to his person.

"You little jerk."

He kept his head down like a bull, probably taking too many wrong turns—he didn't want to go back to the diner. He didn't want to go anywhere; he didn't want to be here. Today had held at least a scintilla of promise in it, the promise that something stimulating might actually happen, the promise that he'd get to see blue eyes and make some extra money, maybe get a little bit more of his foot inside the only door he was remotely interested in opening in this place.

"I know you hate the world—"

Except there had been a second pair of blue eyes, far less welcome, and way too similar to the ones he looked for in every corner when he entered the only bookstore within miles. Today would have been fine, tolerable even, if the wrong Lorelai hadn't pushed herself into the spotlight as usual.

"I'm sure you're jealous of Dean, because he's great."

Jess avoided a third puddle, crossing the street so that he was parallel to the high school now. For what was probably the eightieth time just that week, he consoled himself by picturing it with its roof caved in. Or with pages of The Catcher In The Rye nailed into every door the building owned. Or on fire. Whatever brought the most oxytocin.

"But you taking the bracelet didn't hurt Dean, it hurt Rory."

High school in flames. Market in flames, maybe. Insipid fairy-lit gazebo in flames. Kirk on fire.

"You little jerk."

It wasn't working.

Felt like he was on fire. Jess wanted to get away from the elderly couple walking down the sidewalk behind him, away from the mother and her four-maybe-five-year-old over by the fire hydrant, away from the guy on the bike in shorts that should be illegal. The lake would suffice. The only lake. The only quiet spot he liked around here.

Jess lifted his head as he turned away from the school and to the right, toward the little patch of woods leading to the bridge, and saw Lane coming toward him. She was headed to Stars Hollow High. And she was wearing her cheerleading uniform.

He stopped short when she got close enough, so as not to collide with her. She was so busy looking around like something was hunting her that she didn't see him at first.

When she did see him, Lane stopped too, hiking her backpack further up on her shoulder. For a moment she avoided his gaze, and then he watched her physically decide that was dumb and lift her little chin, daring him to make a comment.

Too bad for her. On a day like this, he was all too willing to oblige. "Wow," was what he went with for a warm-up.

Lane's eyes rolled hard. "Don't."

"Meetin' Danny at the drive-in?"

"I said don't."

"Shouldn't you be wearing tube socks also?"

"Okay," said Lane, "see, there should be a limit on the amount of Grease references a person gets to make in the event of a cheerleader sighting."

"There should be a limit on cheerleader sightings," Jess replied. "One's too many."

Lane glanced behind her again, doing her best impression of a gazelle at noon. Some of the tolerant, good-humored light was fading at the look on his face. "Very funny. I'm gonna be late, so—"

He wasn't done. Something tight and stormy around his ribcage was loosening, swirling out at the bespectacled pep-wannabe two feet from him, and it was a nasty kind of relief to let it out. "Yeah, you wouldn't wanna disappoint Janie Fertman; totalitarians like it when you're on time."

Lane's eyebrows came down in outrage, and that loosened the storm too. "Uh, I am so not—"

"But you already knew that, didn't you, Mancini?" Jess nodded toward Kim's Antiques. "I mean, your mom's kinda perfected the whole speak-when-spoken-to thing, right, why not take the conformity on the road?"

Her mouth fell open. "Okay, you officially do not have to worry about sighting this cheerleader any more today, get out of my way, please!"

The storm got tighter.

"Oooh, you're gonna have to work on the persona a little more—"

"Tuning you out now." Lane marched past him, jerking her bag up higher on one shoulder.

"—last I checked, University Barbie's the only member of the species who says please these days."

As Lane reached the first step up into the school and he turned back toward the woods, storm still roiling in and out of his ribs, he heard a soft sound. Like a swish, but less interesting. He glanced over a shoulder and saw a bundle of red-and-white paper on the sidewalk in her wake.

The storm crackled and fizzed and he could hear the wrong Lorelai in his mind again like a broken record.

"You little jerk."

Lane's head was the one lowered now, and she'd only made it over two more massive concrete steps before he caught up with her, snatching up the lost rally tool on his way in a tight fist. Sighing through his nose. She paused when he got near enough to smell the jasmine-and-wood-polish mist always hanging off her.

When she shifted to squint at him, he pursed his lips and lifted the pom. A shimmery, tacky olive branch.

She didn't have to take it. She probably wasn't going to take it. Then he'd be stuck holding it like an idiot, and the third human being inside this Mayberry hellhole that didn't look at him like he was Grendel incarnate would probably never talk to him again. Which was fine.

And then none of that happened.

She took it.

To his surprise, some of the tension in his ribs trickled out on its own.

"So. Why so pleasant this evening?" Lane asked, instead of turning her back on him and strutting inside. Her voice was subdued.

Jess didn't respond, looking away. At the gazebo, the nearest lamppost, something other than the round brown eyes doing that girl-thing. Trying to pull it all out of him.

She stuffed the pom back into her backpack, zipping it fully shut. Like her full-body candy cane tribute wasn't making it obvious to everyone where she was going and what she was planning to do. Who did she think cared? Or was it just the matrophobia making her knees strain like that?

For all her talk of being late, Lane still wasn't going inside. And she wasn't pushing any harder, just waiting for an answer.

She'd taken the eyesore of an olive branch. Jess let out another tiny exhale.

"People in this town need a psych ward, that's all."

"You say that like it's new information."

"It's not when it's the innkeeper."

"The innkeeper, you mean Lorelai?" Lane's mouth twitched. "That's really not new information. Just ask Luke. I mean, at least her brand of crazy has a little dash of awesome thrown in, right? And she can wear blue without looking like a Van Gogh painting. I envy that." She refocused, blinking at Jess. "Why, what'd she do?"

Jess was already shaking his head before she asked.

"Did she start singing, because that's usually a turn-off for most people with Lorelai." Lane tilted her head. "Actually it's a turn-off for everybody. With everybody. Unless you're Elton."

"Luke roped me into cleanin' out her gutters," Jess began, jaw working.

"Is that…code for something?"

Jess pulled out the wad of cash, raising his eyebrows, and held it up between two fingers.

"Oh." Lane raised her eyebrows back. "You mean you literally cleaned out their gutters, wow. And…you expected to get more than fifty bucks? You know they eat takeout practically every night, right?"

"Pay was fine," Jess grunted. "Coulda done without the riot act, though."

"What do you mean?"

He scoffed. But now that he'd started, Jess realized it was relieving even more of the tension to keep going. To vent. "She gives me the money, and then she snaps. She goes on and on about Dean—"

"Dean?"

"—and that stupid bracelet—"

"Rory's bracelet?" Lane supplied, eyes lighting up. "Yeah, she was so worried she had the Kim household beg the Big Man Upstairs for some supernatural Search and Rescue. Although what actually ended up happing was that I prayed for the bracelet while my mom preferred to pray for Rory's immortal soul—" Then she ground to a halt, blinking so often her glasses seemed to shift. "Wait. What does a DIY bracelet have to do with fifty dollars' worth of clear rain gutters?"

"Nothing. But I guess that's how crazy-awesome ol' Mrs. Gilmore's mind works, don't ask me to translate." Jess felt his fingers clench around the money, shoving it back into his pocket with more force than necessary. Eyes bouncing to the steps, the trees on their left. "She said I took it."

"But they found it," Lane added, swiping a stray hair out of her face. "I mean, I just saw Rory, just now before I left, she was wearing it and everything. I think her arm was going numb, it was on there so tight."

"Doesn't matter."

Jess shifted his weight to his other foot. Tried to loosen. Tried to sound nonchalant. His tone was light, but Lorelai's sharp little stabs of jerk and get outta here kept sitting heavy on his chest. He didn't care what the loudest mouth in Stars Hollow said about him—but he couldn't get the argument to shut off inside his head.

"Her mom thinks I stole it."

"Did you?"

He met her eyes, inhaling. He should have known she'd take Lorelai's side. She looked back at him, read his expression, and finished the equation in half a second.

Then Lane said, "Oh. Well, that was dumb."

The concrete seemed to grow more solid underneath him. Jess studied the way she held her shoulders, the way she almost smiled, like a displeased little laugh that never got fully started. The way she spoke. How not-angry it was. He didn't break eye contact, choosing instead to blink and blink. Like on the fifth blink, she'd snap into the defensive and run with a megaphone to the Gilmore household, canary plumage sprouting on all joints.

She did not. "But—Lorelai always cools down eventually. Especially after coffee. And shoe shopping. Usually in that order."

Jess nodded, slow, stumped and not letting on. Maybe he should've been irritated that she wasn't surprised. That his snagging of the ratty homemade bracelet was something she seemed to think fit him. But for the first time in the past hour, he couldn't summon up any frustration.

"That's it?" he asked, almost on autopilot.

"What's it?"

"No tar, no feathers?"

"Why?" Lane's eyebrows drew together. "Do you think I wouldn't steal Leigh Limon's powder-pink cardigan if there was even half a chance Beck touched it?"

"What?"

"Plus if he hadn't, at least I could burn it."

"Do all those backflips and scrunchies affect your ability to maintain segues?"

Lane huffed out an impatient little laugh, finally matching the ghost of a smile she'd started wearing. "I'm just saying, I get it, okay? Besides, now that I am part of the squad, I couldn't even go near tar and feathers." She glanced down at her Wonka-themed uniform. "If I got tar on these, I'd have to wash them somewhere stronger than the High and Dry Laundromat, which means risking exposure to my mother when she finds out all my blues and blacks have been mysteriously dyed pink in our machine back home. It doesn't take kindly to bright colors."

Jess kept nodding. Thinking. Then, after a second or two of trying and failing to kick away what felt suspiciously like nerves in his lungs, he said, "So does this mean you're not gonna go tattling off to Rory?"

Lane sobered, smile-echo fading off. "Should I?"

He didn't say anything.

"She found it," Lane repeated. "It's all over now, anyway, so—we might as well just…let sleeping bracelets lie. Telling her would kind of be…escalating things, and—she's been stressed lately as it is, and…"

Jess waited, listening to her babble. There was something jumpy in her voice. Either she didn't want Rory seeing the uniform—but he'd seen them talking in various spots around the town square after school when Lane was in the uniform, so that cat must have clawed its way out of the bag at some point—or she was scared of Lorelai, or else she had other reasons for keeping this to herself. Maybe she just didn't like confrontation.

"You know…" Lane sniffed, pushing more hair out of her face and lifting her chin again. "I think we should all just forget about it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, no harm, no foul, right?"

"Man, you're really up on the athletic lingo now, aren't you, Sabrina?"

"Stop."

"Gonna start dating the quarterback? Y'know, really nail the stereotype."

"Well, considering that the quarterback is Chuck Presby and that my mother would rather burn every antique we own than see me date anyone with a life expectancy longer than eighteen seconds at this point," Lane answered, pulling a face, "I'll take a raincheck."

"Smart move."

There was a moment of silence and Jess tipped his head, watching her. She still didn't seem mad.

He squinted. "Not doin' that 'protecting me' thing again here, are you?"

"What? No way." Lane rolled her eyes, voice much too high.

Jess's eyebrows went up with her voice. She was lying, and not trying very hard to hide it. He could feel his lips quirking up on one side.

Lane caught his expression and scoffed, mouth open in another near-smile, practically laughing at herself. "I'm serious! I'm not telling Rory because it would make her upset, and she's lost one too many hairs over this whole situation already."

"Uh-huh."

"This is not me shielding you from further Gilmore wrath," Lane went on, holding up a hand. "This is me being a considerate best friend." Then she added quickly, hand turning to one pointing finger, "To Rory."

"Whatever you say."

"Good."

Then she glanced sheepishly at him, and Jess felt the storm die off completely. They both knew she was full of crap. And he wasn't going to say thank-you, this was not Oprah, but he was finding it easier to breathe. Lane hadn't suspected him of taking Dean's would-be ball and chain in the first place, and she hadn't played snitch to Gilmores one and two, and she wasn't here railing at him in the wake of it all. She didn't even ask him why he'd done it.

Maybe the high school didn't have to go up in mental flames for his mood to improve. At least not until after cheerleader practice.

Lane sucked in a breath. "So. I guess I'd better head inside; they can't start without me."

"Hostile takeover went that well, huh?"

"Oh, it's much better than a hostile takeover. I've officially been elected sole provider of the soundtrack to our routines for the remainder of the semester," she told him, and he saw her teeth flash into full view in excitement.

"No Doubt?"

"Madness."

"I was close."

"Might be a short-lived reign, though; I'm running out of material to get past Mrs. Heady," Lane went on, reaching back to pat her backpack. "Ska and instrumentals she'll allow, but I'd kill to be able to play some R.E.M or even The Verve. More baseline."

"How 'bout The Police?"

She rolled her eyes in resignation. "No-go, I only have Synchronicity and two very well-loved, very exhausted Ghost In The Machines. Less of a backup thing and more of a perverted desire to exclude others from the frankly-spiritual experience that is Invisible Sun, let me tell you—"

Jess scoffed. "You have two Ghost In The Machines and you blew right past Outlandos?"

"Hey, I am a victim of circumstance," Lane explained, now brandishing both hands. "Three CD stores between Stars Hollow the greater Hartford area, and not one of them is selling anything by The Police that outdates 1984. Believe me, I've checked and re-checked. I even sent Rory on recon when my mom grounded me over the whole Picnic Day debacle. I've never tested my limits, but I truly believe I would engage in actual fisticuffs for even a triple-scratched copy of Outlandos d'Amour."

"How do you feel about fingerprints?"

"What?"

"Just on the casing." Jess teetered a palm in the air, eyes narrowed.

Lane's whole body froze right in front of him. "You have it?"

"Got it buried somewhere in Luke's apartment," he confirmed, tongue rolling against the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. "Last of my stuff got here on Friday."

Actually, it had taken the course of an entire eight days to get there, and Friday had been the blessed end to all the package-signing he and Luke had been doing each morning. They kept getting Jess's boxes mixed up with the cans of tomatoes and peaches for the diner downstairs; Liz hadn't bothered labeling anything properly.

"Are you offering to let me borrow your Outlandos CD?" Lane demanded, almost in a warning tone, and when he glanced up, the big brown eyes were locked on him behind those glasses, practically sparkling like a Disney movie.

His mouth kept twitching up; he tried to reign it in. Harder to do when you were basically looking at Korean Bambi. "Depends on if you ever say fisticuffs again."

"I won't! I swear!" Lane actually gave a little bounce with both feet, fingers curling into fists. "Deal, so deal, oh my gosh—"

Jess leaned backward, hands in his pockets. He didn't know what to do with Bambi's eyeballs so he parked his own gaze on the right-hand corner of the step, jaw working. Waiting for her to knock it off. Hoping none of the hicks nearby could see this display. "Geez. Save some pep for Fertman, okay?"

"Sorry." Lane immediately quit jumping, plastering a frown on in submission. It didn't last. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—"

"God, stop squealing, I'm getting a headache." His mouth would not stop twitching. Like his muscles were staging a coup.

"Sorry," she said again, grinning making her whole face redder. "Okay, I'm going. But thank you. Seriously—"

Jess rolled his eyes hard, already backing down the steps.

She turned to go inside and then whipped back around, hair almost catching in her open mouth. "Wait! We need a strategy!"

"What?"

"I can't just borrow a CD," she said, and she actually looked around like paparazzi had embedded themselves behind the gazebo. "I am a closeted audiophile. I get my fix only under deep cover. Can you hide it in a textbook or something?"

Jess raised an eyebrow.

"Right. Literary abuse. Plus textbooks are majorly expensive, so. Also a no-go. And I'd never be able to hide The Police and The Clash inside my backpack tomorrow. I'm supposed to return Sandinista! to Lorelai after school." Lane wound her fingers around one another, the picture of deliberation. "Okay. Okay, um—how about Luke's?"

"Luke's?"

"Yes! You live there."

"Thanks for the status update."

"So, Luke's." Lane pointed at him. "That could work. But not midday. My mom goes to bed at nine—" She took another breath, like she was having real trouble functioning now. It was entertaining, watching the wheels turn. "And I'm supposed to be in bed by half past nine—"

"Nine fifteen."

"Outside the diner?"

"Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it."

"I'll bring the ski masks."

"I'll bring the canvas bags," she replied, not missing a beat.

Jess gave up on the twitching and offered her the meagerest of smiles. Just for a second. As Lane smiled back and headed into the school, he turned and made a beeline for the bookstore. That was enough of that. But inside his ribcage, clear skies had been forecasted at last.

Lane had never climbed down the tree before.

Had she thought about it? Of course. Had she daydreamed about it, especially after Henry? Obviously. Had she seen Rory do it about seventeen times since they'd met and then wondered if she'd ever find the perfect reason to try it herself? Definitely.

But she'd never actually had the spine to do it before.

Only now there was The Police. Now there was the opportunity to have the entire squad cheer the team on to Roxanne, or at least the karaoke version. Rehearsals could include lyrics regardless. Details for another time, after she'd actually obtained the holy grail.

No. No, she wasn't going to climb the tree outside her bedroom that night. She did glance at it on her way downstairs, past the clock on her wall that read 9:10 PM, but she just couldn't bring herself to open the window and give it a shot. Not this time. Maybe next time. Maybe someday.

Instead, Lane crept inch by inch through the hall, past her mother's bedroom, down every step holding her breath, and out the front door with the slowest, most painfully-ginger movements she could have made. Like an invalid. Like she was made of pure smoke. In fact, she even imagined she was floating as she went, just to ensure every part of her body made as little instinctual, residual noise as possible.

When she got outside, Lane felt a horrible stab of terror, turning around with eyes stretched to capacity to stare up at Mrs. Kim's window. She expected to see her mother's hawk-like face behind the glass, tracking her every movement.

Nothing. No one.

Something like a phantom gopher or a weasel was digging in at her chest with every pace she took down the street. The night air was crisp and damp and a little bit dangerous. She couldn't believe she was doing this. It wasn't the first time she'd snuck out, far from it—but it was the first time at night. After her mom had gone to sleep. Impromptu slumber parties at the Gilmore household didn't count.

She knew this wouldn't take long, and she knew, too, that she probably wouldn't get caught. That didn't matter. The knowledge that she was out past her bedtime clawed at her like she was eight.

When she got to Luke's, she wasn't sure what to do. She couldn't throw rocks at Jess's window—not just because she didn't want to, but because she had no idea which window belonged to Luke's apartment upstairs. And she couldn't go inside; it was locked.

For a moment, Lane stood and fretted on the diner's doorstep in the dark. She took a step down, then back up. She felt safer pressed against the door, letting the frame seem to hide her. No one was really out at this time of the evening in Stars Hollow—but she couldn't resist the urge to jerk around and look for anyone, any pair of eyes that might be attached to a mouth that would rat her out to Mama Kim.

She could also hear something loud and muted—something that sounded exactly like Joey Ramone. Music—blaring—coming from somewhere above her.

Finally she couldn't take it anymore. She scurried away from the door and stood under the window she thought might be Luke's, where the music was loudest, checking her watch. 9:16 PM. Maybe she could catch a glimpse of movement up there. Maybe the CD would be lowered from a basket or something. Or a stuffed in a sock and thrown at her head. Or maybe Jess had forgotten the whole thing and was upstairs, fast asleep, and she was out her risking her skin for nothing—

The opening and shutting of the diner door made her jump about six feet into the air.

Jess snorted, strolling up to her like they were in broad daylight. The ends of his hair were wet, as if he'd been sweating, which made no sense since it was about 42 degrees outside.

"Relax, wouldja?" he said.

"I'm relaxed," she replied quickly, jamming her thumbs under her arms. Suddenly cold. "I'm totally relaxed. I'm the Beach Boys and this is Hawthorne. I have never been more relaxed in my life."

"Why are you whispering?"

"I'm not whispering," Lane whispered.

"You're kind of whispering," Jess whispered back, very loudly, very exaggeratedly.

"Do you have it?"

"It's not ecstasy, Fomorowski, it's a CD."

"Thank you for the clarification, do you have it or not?" Lane held out her hand. That was probably rude, but she could feel the cover of night fading with every passing second. Emotionally, not literally.

Jess smirked at her and resurrected the case from his coat pocket, passing it to her between two fingers. He did it with no ceremony, no fuss. It was like he didn't realize how precious this was—how important it was. Almost as if he got to listen to whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, in front of other people, including relatives. Such luxury.

Lane took one look at Sting's beautiful face and let all anxiety leak right out of her lungs. Holding the CD in both hands, she glanced from the cover to Jess, feeling her face split open with a smile too wide for rock and roll. "I can't believe I'm actually in possession of Mosoko Tanga right now."

His head reared. "That's the worst one on the album."

"Hello, So Lonely?"

"Too repetitive?"

"At least the Tanga hides it better."

"You need to get out more."

"Art direction, Michael Ross, I knew it!" Lane exclaimed, turning the case over to examine the back. "Hey, you were right, there are a lot of fingerprints on this thing."

"So. What's with the covert ops?" Jess leaned backward on his heels, pulling out a little matchbox from his back pocket and fiddling with it. If he started smoking, Lane would have to bolt like a deer in the headlights. "Your mom hates New Wave?"

"My mom?" Lane glanced up, momentarily distracted from the tracklist. "Oho, no. No. My mom hates music."

"What?" He blinked rapidly, twisting a match in thumb and forefinger.

"Everything except hymnals are forbidden in the Kim household." Then she lifted a shoulder, pursing her lips. "Actually, everything stimulating is forbidden in the Kim household. Clothing with logos, vinyl's, food with salt. Food with artificial sugar. The male of the species."

She could tell Jess was listening, but she couldn't tell if it was interesting. If it made any impression at all. He kept on blinking like that, as if confused, but his mouth was all bunched up like he wanted to laugh. Maybe he thought she was kidding. By now he was leaning against the brick wall nearby, probably because he had all the time in the world to kill.

"If you met her you'd understand," she finished lamely, turning the CD over again in her hands. "Though, um. In the interest of your well-being, I'd recommend avoiding interaction at all costs. No offense, it's just—besides the fact that you're a guy, not Korean, and you're anywhere near my age, which are all grounds for exile in her book, the fact that you've got that whole wild-child persona thing going? She'd come for you with a baseball bat if she knew we even exchanged glances on a regular basis. So. Be safe out there."

"Baseball bat?" Jess asked, and when she looked up his mouth was twitching the way it had been earlier. On the school steps.

"She's stronger than she looks." Lane ran her finger along the edge of the album case. "She kind of takes the whole helicopter-parent thing to a freaky level, that's all I'm saying."

"That why you were under lock and key for two weeks?"

Lane paused, meeting his gaze. "You noticed I was gone?"

He didn't answer.

"Were you looking for me or something?"

He still didn't answer. No expression change. Like she hadn't spoken.

"I was grounded." She felt like a scrap of dust, saying it out loud. "She tried to convince the school I was highly contagious with something, when in reality—"

"Lock and key."

"Lock and key. She wasn't too thrilled about the whole secret-picnic thing." Lane sighed through her nose. It wasn't worth being embarrassed. He might as well know—what was he going to do with this info, anyway? Who was he going to tell that didn't already know, in the whole town, that Lane Kim was not allowed a life, under pain of isolation? "Anyway. I know she's just trying to…keep me safe. Or something. But—that's why I'm a closet audiophile." She held up the CD, wiggling it. Pressing her lips tight together in a not-really-smile. "This way we both get what we want, right?"

Jess's eyebrows drifted down, just a tiny bit, barely at all, but that was it. That was his only reaction. He asked dully, nodding to Outlandos, "Keep all your hard stuff in books?"

"Oh, no. That would be ridiculous. That's only for transport." Lane grunted. "I will take good care of this, I promise. It goes under the floorboards, safe and sound. The only question is whether it gets filed under reggae or punk."

"Category by genre?" He skipped right past the floorboards.

"Duh." Lane raised her eyebrows.

Jess smiled, very lightly, and she couldn't help feeling proud, for some reason. Nobody in Stars Hollow ever saw that, maybe not even Luke. Maybe just Rory, come to think of it. She felt like she'd been invited into some kind of secret society. She was in or something.

"Thanks for this," she said, edging back in the direction of home. "I should probably go…." Then she stopped, turning partially back around. "Is that the Ramones?" She pointed to the general upper floor of the diner, where the loud music could still be heard.

"Just Joey."

"And Luke's okay with that volume?"

"Drowns out the construction work."

"What construction work?" Lane didn't see so much as a traffic cone in the surrounding area.

"Expanding."

"The apartment?"

"Hole in the wall."

"Sure." She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. "Is it really that bad up there?"

"Guess it beats livin' under a bridge somewhere, but hey. Not much difference between that and the rest of the town if you ask me." Jess screwed his eyes up, leaning his head back against the wall to look in the general vicinity of the window far above them. "Luke seems to think there's not enough room for his frilly curtains and all the stuff Liz shipped out late."

"Liz?" When he didn't clarify, Lane guessed, "Your mom? Luke's sister?"

"That's the one."

Lane shifted her weight, trying to see which window he might be glancing at in particular. Trying to picture what Luke's apartment would be like. All she could come up with was a mini version of the diner, albeit a bed and some more shelves. Maybe a lot of baseball caps lying around. He was kind of a recluse—Mrs. Kim always called him private, which was actually a huge compliment coming from her. Lane knew Mrs. Kim respected Luke. She seemed to see him as more like a big helpful service dog rather than an actual grown man.

Maybe Jess would grow up to be the same way. He was already quiet and didn't seem to have many friends. No friends, actually, unless you counted Luke and Caesar, who he at least seemed to argue with on a day-to-day basis.

Scratch that. Unless you counted them—and her.

Lane blinked down at the CD in her hands, then back to Jess, who was now watching the stars come out with his whole head of hair mussed against the bricks. His tee shirt was bright red and his pants were baggy and he looked tired, and short, and young. At least Luke had the town's affection. Jess didn't even seem to have the town's tolerance.

She came to lean beside him, figuring she had at least ten more minutes to kill before Mrs. Kim left the bedroom for water or the bathroom or the routine checking of prison cells. Jess shifted ever so slightly, making room so their shoulders didn't touch, which was the only acknowledgement he gave that she'd moved.

Lane smiled down at Sting's yellowy eyes and looked sideways at Jess, turning it on him. "Does that mean all your clothes and CDs and everything have been AWOL? This whole time you've been here?"

"No biggie."

"What did you do for music?"

"Lane."

"Wait. How many times have you worn that shirt since you got to town? Do you keep a schedule?" She pointed at his shoulder, close enough to poke him, but not quite. "Because I—I would lose it if I were you. And I have to keep a hidden chart of all the clothes my mother doesn't know about so I don't wear two AC/DC tees within the same five-day period, so—I mean, with you—"

"Your house is that way." Jess jerked his chin toward Kim's Antiques.

Lane let the energy fall out of her voice, glancing at him more seriously. More fully. "I guess your mom just…forgot."

She watched his chest rise—and then, very slowly, imperceptibly almost, fall again. A sigh trying not to be a sigh.

"Did she?"

His jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. Lane looked him up and down, looked at his muddy shoes and the stain on the hem of his tee shirt. Caught the mild whiff of something smoky—maybe cigarette smoke after all, how would she know? She watched Jess's mouth form a very thin line and watched him perfectly control every square inch of his face. Perfectly control the inhaling and exhaling. It was like watching a wind-up toy.

She had no idea what it would be like to have Mrs. Kim forget to send her what she needed. She had no idea what it would be like to have Mrs. Kim forget anything. From the apple every morning to the dishes every night, from the homework calendar to the five minutes of phone time, every single thing Lane had ever known was planned.

She hated that. But she thought now that she might be looking at what it was to be without it. In a way.

"Um. Does she do that a lot?" Lane leaned forward a bit, trying to catch his eye.

Jess didn't turn his head, eyes on the sky. When he finally spoke, it was dry, and he said it out of one side of his mouth on an exhale. A shrug without moving his shoulders. "If you met her you'd understand."

Lane switched the CD to her other hand, pursing her lips. Avert gaze. Abort mission. Stare at asphalt. "Well. I should get home."

"Tired of the nightlife already?"

She unbuttoned her coat, tucking the CD into the inner pocket, ignoring the bite of cold air against her cherry-patterned pajama top. "You know actually, I think I could get used to the whole undercover rendezvous thing."

"Yeah?" His head came off the wall, finally turning to look at her.

"A little adrenaline is good for you." Lane re-buttoned, raising her eyebrows. "Plus, excellent practice for when I'm touring with The Hives out of college."

"Guess we better make it a habit, then, don't wanna get rusty before the big day."

"Seriously?"

Jess's mouth twitched again, but this time Lane beat him to it, smiling outright. That made his eyes a little less faraway-looking, she noticed. "I got Guns N' Roses too."

"Please," she said, scoffing. Guns N' Roses were easy.

"Not interested?"

"That depends. Do you have Appetite?"

"That and Use Your Illusion."

Child's play. "First or second?"

"Both." Jess bounced his eyebrows.

Not child's play, then. "Oh, we are definitely making this a habit."

"Gotta get my CDs back sometime."

With a nod and a more subdued, toned-down grin goodbye, Lane turned and headed off, The Police in her coat and illegal joy thrumming through her chest. Getting the album had been fun—even sneaking past her mother had been fun, weasels or no weasels. But something else was making her feel like helium incarnate. Something was different—it was similar, somehow, to the sensation she got the first time Rory shared a box of crayons with her in kindergarten.

And she didn't even have to keep a lookout. She felt Jess watching her the whole way home.