“That’s because he’s not,” said Theo. “He was trying to stop some of his teammates from smoking, and they let him take the fall.”
“Does anyone actually get thrown out of this school, or are they all given to Miles for safekeeping?”
“I’ve only ever heard of people getting expelled for violent stuff, like fighting or bringing a weapon to school.”
“What about Jetta?”
Theo stared at her physics textbook and sighed. “I think Jetta’s here because of Boss.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jetta came here last year, and she didn’t speak English very well. Boss was the only one who bothered to talk to her.”
“What about Miles?” I asked quickly, before Theo could turn to her homework. “What’d he do to get here?”
“Hmm?” Theo looked up. “Oh, Boss? I’m not sure. Me and Evan and Ian were the first people to join the club, but Boss has always been here. He used to do all this stuff by himself.”
She suddenly stopped talking. Miles was at the big concession stand window. He dropped a worn black notebook on the counter and leaned in.
“How’s the game?” Theo asked.
“Imagine a thousand starving orphans on a sinking ship in the middle of a shark-infested sea, and you’re getting close to how much I don’t want to be there,” Miles said dryly. “I get to hear Clifford talk about how nice Ria’s ass is every fifteen seconds. They’ve been dating since seventh grade; you’d think he’d be over it by now.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m bored,” said Miles.
“What’s new?” asked Theo.
“Let’s play Five Questions.”
Theo snapped her book shut. “Why, may I ask? It’s not going to make you any less bored. And we might as well start calling it Three Questions, because it doesn’t take you five anymore.”
“What’s Five Questions?” I asked.
“It’s like Twenty Questions, only not twenty because Boss can do it in five,” said Theo. “I’ve got someone. Go.”
“Are you a president?” asked Miles.
“Yes.”
“Do your first and last names start with the same letter?”
“Yes.”
“You’re Ronald Reagan.”
“See?” Theo threw her hands in the air. “Two! Two questions!”
I didn’t mind not having many responsibilities with the club, as long as Miles kept reporting that I was doing what I was supposed to. It gave me more time to write out long-winded college essays about how my illness shaped me. My nightly mountains of homework made the Tower of Babel look like a toothpick, and it was only worsened by my late shifts at Finnegan’s. Finnegan’s wasn’t too bad on its own, but as soon as Miles waltzed in, I had the sudden urge to both hide and put soap in his food.
Every time I walked past Miles, I got the distinct feeling that he’d stick his leg out and trip me. He didn’t, of course, because that wouldn’t be subtle at all, and not Miles Richter’s style. Nail files, hedge trimmers, and homemade flamethrowers were more his speed.
I gave him his burger and retreated behind the counter, where I asked the Magic 8 Ball, Will Miles Richter try to kill me?
Most likely, it replied.
By late September, we had regular labs every week. I glanced at him a few times as he made tables in his lab notebook. He was bent over, his glasses slipping down his nose, his left hand curled around so he could write properly. His sleeves were rolled up, and I noticed for the first time that his forearms were freckled, too. Were they warm? They seemed like they’d be warm. Blue Eyes’s hand had been warm. There were four inches between my hand and his arm—four inches and I’d know for sure.
Don’t do it, idiot. Don’t you dare do it.
I stifled the urge and asked a question instead.
“So. Can you really speak another language?”
I hadn’t heard that weird accent from him since the first day, but I knew he and Jetta had been speaking German.
“Where’d you hear that?” Miles didn’t look up.
“Is it true?”
“Maybe. Depends on who told you.”
“I figured it out myself,” I said. “It wasn’t hard. Is it German?”
Miles slapped his pen on his lab notebook. “Why are you here, exactly?”
“Because they put me in this class. Don’t look at me like it’s my fault.”
“Why are you here? In this school? In the club?” His voice was too low for our neighbors across the table to hear. “What did you do?”
“What did you do?” I shot back. “Because it must have been pretty weird if they made you run the whole club by yourself, without a teacher supervising.”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Seriously, though.”
“Seriously, nothing. Now why don’t you answer my question, since you seem so intent on getting information out of me, but refuse to give any up yourself.”
I looked at the calcium carbonate. “I spray-painted the gym floor.”
“Spray-painted what?”
“The gym floor, I just said.”
“What did you spray paint on the gym floor?” The w in “what” came out hard like a v.
“Words.”