He looks over at the merry-go-round, watching it circle in place. “I’m sorry. I figured you’d be like all those other screaming girls, and I was in a grouchy mood, I guess.”

“Because of your parents? Because they didn’t show?”

He nods and hops through the numbered blocks. “You were mean to me too, you know. When you stormed out of my dressing room, I thought, Who is this mean, sexy punk girl?”

“I am not mean!”

The side of his mouth quirks up. “You’re mean as hell. Always yelling at me and telling me what to do.”

“Someone has to.” I step closer to him and shove his stomach. He retaliates by grabbing me around the waist. His cologne smells so good, and I can barely fight the urge to rest my cheek against the white T-shirt covering his strong chest. He tickles my side, and I jerk away, laughing, and that’s when he pulls me up against him for real. His body presses to mine, and his warmth radiates down to the tips of my toes.

“Seriously though,” he whispers. “If you want to sing on your own, just keep working at it, and don’t worry if people make fun of you. There will always be critics, but you have to trust your instincts. If you’re serious about being a musician, you can’t let other people decide what music you should play… You could end up going down a path that you were never meant to take…and then you could end up living a life that’s not yours.”

He suddenly takes a step back and looks away, putting distance between us that somehow feels greater than when we first met.

That’s when he jerks his head at the two reporters who have been following us. Behind them, a few moms with toddlers are taking pictures of Jesse with their cell phones, nudging each other and pointing at us.

“I can see the headlines now,” he says. “Jesse Scott Plays Hopscotch with Mean Sexy Punk Girl.”

I stick my tongue out at him and start hopping through the blocks again, and then Jesse jumps in too.

“You don’t care about being in the tabloids?” I ask.

“My parents care.” He hops through the blocks again. “But Mark says nearly any kind of publicity is good. You know, except joining a cult or hiring a hit man.”

“Don’t you think Mr. Logan is worried since you just took off after lunch?”

At that, Jesse takes out his phone, pushes a button, and puts the receiver to his ear. “Guess what I’m doing?… Playing hopscotch… No, I’m not making that up, Mark… Yes, I’m wearing my boots… No, I’m not telling you where I’m at… I don’t care if Uncle Bob’s mad—we’re having a nice time. He called eight times?… Tell him not to worry. We haven’t done anything against the law. Yet.”

That’s when I remember to check my cell—I don’t think I’ve ever gone so long without checking it—and discover four missed calls from the school number I dialed earlier, two missed calls from my mother, a text from Dad telling me I’m grounded (I wasn’t aware he knew how to send texts), ten texts from my brother demanding an explanation for why I went off the grid on shadow day, and one from Jordan telling me to disregard everything my brother says and enjoy myself.

I can’t believe Dr. Salter told on me to my parents! I am going to be in such deep shit when this day is over. I text Jordan and ask her to tell my family and Dr. Salter that everything is fine and put my phone back in my purse as Jesse ends his call.

Jesse walks over to the marble fountain, fishes a penny out of his pocket, and lobs it into the water.

“What’d you wish for?”

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

I’m so glad he seems happier than this morning. Maybe he needs more fun in his life. Fun, without a rhythm. Like how he ditched today’s schedule. We should do more of that.

I slip my ankle booties off. “Here’s some publicity for you!” I step into the fountain and start splashing around in the chilly water. I shriek at the cold and the joy.

The reporters aim their cameras at me, and Jesse grins and pulls his red boots and socks off. He rolls his jeans to his knees and hops in.

We splash and throw coins at each other, and I try to push him down, but he escapes through the water. The little kids rush over and squeal and try to join us. Their moms scoop them up, horrified, but not so horrified that they can’t snap pictures with their phones.

A cop gallops up on a massive brown horse, and Jesse and I tear out of the fountain and grab our shoes. The cop is on our tail!

Laughing, we dart across the street to his bike, water dripping off us.