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Benjamin Phoenix escaped from the black ops facility on a skateboard, dodging ghosts and plasma fire.

The night was young in San Nogales City. Out here, on the edge of town, there were only power lines and abandoned train tracks, the detritus of an industry boom that had come and left the sleepy beachside city behind. In the ruins of progress, a government agency had established a covert research facility, dedicated to the study of all things supernatural. Project G.H.O.S.T. was their name.

Ghosts are what they received.

Right now, the facility was bursting at the seams with spectral power. The a ripped with ghastly screams. All of G.H.O.S.T. security was on high alert, trying to douse the holes in reality's walls with streams of experimental plasma, but it was far too little, far too late—Benjamin Phoenix had sabotaged the project known as Eternity's Gate, releasing all the wraiths the project had tortured at once.

At the moment, Benjamin was roaring down the hill back into town, beams of moonlight shining silver on the asphalt, the smell of sagebrush warm on the breeze. His skateboard wobbled with speed. On his shoulder, a voice called out in need.

“Ben. . . ." Lynn whispered.

“Don't talk, babe," he replied, wind ripping through his golden hair. He slung the delicate rat higher on his shoulder. “I've got you."

Close behind, a helicopter crested above the facility, its long body slicing a shadow across the moon. It chased Benjamin down the hill. The wind of its blades ripped through the brush. As it hovered above, the director of G.H.O.S.T. leaned out from the side of the craft, bringing a minigun to bear. Half his face was melted into spectral goo.

“BEEEENNNNJJAAAMIIINNNN!"

“Bring it on," Benjamin said.

The director spooled the minigun. Right as he fired, Ben began to dodge and weave his skateboard across the road, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets stitching a line across the pavement. The director snarled, holding the trigger down. Casings poured. Asphalt belched and sprayed. An oncoming car peeled off the road. For a moment, the helicopter was blocked by a small copse of juniper trees, forcing it to bank away.

Benjamin used the few seconds of peace to comfort Lynn, trying to squeeze her pink hand, hoping to say—

“Benjamin?"

He needed to tell her—

“Benjamin!"

Ben tore his gaze from the window.

He was in AP Lit. The walls were covered in posters of Mark Twain and John Steinback. The morning sun slanted through the window. Up ahead, his serval teacher was prowling around the whiteboard, giving him an unamused flick of her ear.

“I would appreciate," the serval said, “if you paid attention."

He heard whispering behind his back, coming from Hannah's friends. In particular, he seemed to feel Hannah herself, grinning at the back of his head.

“Sorry," he mumbled, flipping open his copy of As I Lay Dying.

His teacher—Mrs. Kimathi—swished her tail. “We were talking about themes." She gestured toward the black marker lines across the whiteboard. “Obviously, the book delves very heavily into the Southern Gothic, with a particular focus on life, death, and the impermanence of being. It's a study of how different people process grief."

Ben nodded along, his mind racing for possible answers.

“But what do you think," Mrs. Kimathi said, “is another equally important theme? Why, in particular, do you think Faulkner chose to use stream of consciousness, all while employing so many different narrators?"

Ben flipped through the open book.

Kill me.

“Well," he said, “I think it's about . . . perception and communication. How hard it is to know someone else, and how hard it is to . . . coalesce all the thoughts in your head into words."

The serval nodded, gesturing for him to continue.

Fuck you.

“Um," Ben said, looking at the book again. “Yeah. You know, all these characters are having very vivid thoughts, very deep emotions, but they're all very bad at expressing it to anyone else, and even kinda understanding it themselves. They all see Addie's death differently, so they all act in different ways, which ends up causing them a lot of trouble. The book is about communication, perception, and—and—you know, how hard it is to . . . translate raw experience. That's what the stream of consciousness is for."

His voice petered out. He looked back at Mrs. Kimathi, trying not to seem desperate.

“Very good," she said, giving a feline grin. “That's exactly right. Did you all hear what he said?" She tapped the whiteboard with a claw, writing quickly with a felt black marker. “Communication. Perception."

Ben sighed with relief.

“Don't zone out again, mister."

That got a few laughs. Ben pretended to chuckle with them, looking down with a blush.

“Now," Mrs. Kimathi said, “with that in mind, I want to revisit the line 'my mother is a fish'. At first, it seems meaningless, but, when you really think about Vardaman's perspective, and you remember the fish he catches later in the chapter, you can start to see how he relates the death of his mother to a simple. . . ."

Ben looked away, already tuning out.

For a few minutes, he stared out the window, watching the PE kids struggle to run a mile and a half around the soccer field. The eastern hills shined bright with the rising sun. Almost on instinct, he looked at the different species roaming across the grass. He found himself searching for rats.

Stop.

You know what you're doing.

Stop it.

He kept looking.

Eventually, he decided that one of the far away figures did indeed seem like a rat, or possibly just a mouse. It was hard to tell. Either way, it probably wasn't Lynn. This rat was trying to make a good pace on her lap. He imagined Lynn would have snuck off to smoke behind the bleachers, or started playing bloody knuckles on the stairs beside the portables.

His chest felt tight again.

It was Wednesday, the third day of the semester. Because Saint Carver High operated on a block schedule, he hadn't seen Lynn since their little adventure in the hall, when he had outright lied to the school's truant officer about her not being a nefarious trickster who was currently smuggling illicit material into school. Also, she had kissed him.

Yeah.

Anyway, block schedule. This meant that, for most of the week, he only attended three out of his six classes at a time, with Monday being the one exception where he had all six at once. Yesterday, his schedule had been second, fourth, and sixth period. Today, it would be first, third, and fifth. All of these classes were two hours long.

After lunch, he would be stuck in a room with Lynn for two hours.

He didn't know what to do.

We're definitely not dating. I mean, probably not. Right? It'd be too risky to just assume she's my girlfriend. I can't seem desperate. Most anthro girls can smell a horny dude from a mile away. So, really, I need to assume that we're just platonic, at least until proven otherwise.

Which essentially means that I need to play it cool.

Play it easy. Act like I don't care.

It was nothing, really.

He stared at the distant hills.

Look, okay, I just did her a favor. She kissed me as a sign of gratitude. It probably didn't mean much to her.

The kiss, I mean.

And, you know, that doesn't mean I'm calling her a slut. But . . . maybe she is.

I don't know.

Fuck.

Ben glanced at the whiteboard, just to make sure he wasn't missing anything important. He returned his gaze to the window. Down below, the PE kids were gathered for a soccer scrimmage. He found himself searching for the rat girl again. When he found her, he took note of her pink hands, the long slender sweep of her tail, and the glow of her ears as the rounded flaps caught in the morning sun. He felt something shudder through his chest.

Stop doing this.

You don't have a crush. You're infatuated.

You're lonely.

You're grabbing on to the first person who gave you attention.

He dragged his hands across his face.

He really hoped that he didn't have a crush. He was a teacher's pet with a 4.6 GPA, a kid who had been in advanced classes since he was spitting out baby teeth, and she was some trashy, burnout punk who had barely said two words—

He felt something brush his elbow.

A folded paper slithered out from the gap below his arm, landing softly on his open textbook. A rough, gray-skinned hand retracted behind him. He didn't hear Hannah snickering behind him, but he very much felt her stare.

Not now.

Christ.

He pretended to ignore the note. A minute went by. Eventually, a pencil poked into the small of his back.

Fine.

He opened the note. Specks of sand fell onto his desk. The note itself was written in a very elegant cursive, which no one their age even used anymore. It said:

Do you like me?

YES NO

He grimaced. He watched his teacher talk about literary conventions and subtle foreshadowing. After a while, he uncapped his mechanical pencil and drew a very crude dick at the bottom of the page, complete with a shark-like bite chomping through the shaft and a rope of blood sneezing out from the head. In the exact same cursive, he wrote:

Eat a dick

He folded the note and placed it on the windowsill. A greedy hand snatched it away. Moments later, he heard an eruption of giggling. He felt Hannah kick the back of his calf, trying to grab his attention.

He didn't acknowledge her.

Seconds later, Ms. Kimathi turned to write on the board, and Hannah immediately shot up from her desk, chomping her teeth right next to his ear. He barely stopped himself from flinching. Just as quickly, Hannah flopped into her seat right as Ms. Kimathi turned back to the class, continuing the lecture without a care in the world.

Ben looked out the window, feeling a deep pit in his stomach.

God, please, just leave me alone.

In the distance, all the PE kids were heading back to their lockers, leaving the soccer field empty. They formed groups. They jostled and laughed. If Ben listened closely, he almost swore he could hear their voices through the glass. He searched the face of a dozen different species, gazing over fur and scales and feathers, trying to identify faces beneath the glare of the morning sun.

He didn't see the rat again.

---

He carried his tray to the library.

Today, he'd managed to grab several slices of pizza, a bag of crispy fries, two cartons of milk, and a freshly boxed salad. His third period had been orchestra, which was located right next to the school's main concourse, which put him in the best possible spot to rush out during the bell and get an early place in line. The other kids just couldn't compete.

As he ascended the stairs toward the library, he got to work on some of the fries, losing himself in thought.

Imagine this.

I stand alone on the stage, beneath a bright halo of light. The entire school is spilling across the auditorium. They whisper and joke. They think I'm the same loser I've always been. They're just waiting to see me fail.

I look them all in the eye, and I play the best violin solo they've ever heard.

Ben reached the second story. He balanced his lunch tray on his arm, pretending to play.

People don't believe it. Thousands are enraptured. Every note is sinfully divine. So many are brought to tears, and so many more are on their feet, shouting my name, throwing their panties, losing their goddamn minds.

Also, Lynn is there.

She keeps it cool. She sits in the front seat, eyeing me. As the last note rings out across the stage, she blows me a warm, gentle kiss. I catch it in the air. Smirks are exchanged.

You can just call my fiddle the “vio-Lynn", because, baby, I'm going in.

Into Lynn.

Heh.

Ben snorted. He looked around to make sure no one saw. Slowly, he continued to stroll across the second-story walkway, gazing at the sea of hungry students below. He watched the lunch lines grow like water spilling through the cracks of a sidewalk.

But no.

That's stupid.

What I could really do to impress her is help her out in class. Like, yeah, I should've been in AP Bio, but I was already taking so many other APs that I just wanted something easy, you know? Oh, sure. I can help you with that worksheet.

No problemo.

Why, sure, I'd be more than happy to teach you about amino acids.

Because.

Heh.

I'll be givin' you some of my proteins, baby.

He adjusted his backpack straps, munching on a fry.

No, no, no.

Okay.

Be realistic here.

Sit down, and you talk to her. Ask her about herself. Listen. Ask about her clothes, ask about the music she likes. Did McNamara say something about a board? She probably skates. Offer to skate with her. Maybe she'll teach me, or just laugh when I fall. Whichever works.

I have to treat her like a person.

I just gotta be. . . .

He was so focused on gazing down at the crowd, so intent on picking out faces and imagining his own conversation, that he barely noticed when he reached the library itself, and one of the double doors came swinging out like a battering ram. He flinched. Plexiglass slammed. Pizza and milk went spilling across the tiles.

When he looked up, Lynn was staring back at him.

He blinked. His mouth fell open. As she met his eye around the corner of the library door, her gaze seemed to burrow into him again, rooting him hard to the spot. He felt as if the dumb expression on his face was immediately betraying every single thought he'd been holding in his head.

Mission alert

Mission alert

Mission alert

She remained at the entrance, pink hand holding open the door. Her grungy vest fell open. He saw the words DEAD KENNEL DEEDS printed in a loud, garish red.

A silence stretched until it tore.

“Sorry," Ben said, trying to scoop up his food. “Zoning out."

Lynn glanced back at the library, flicking an ear. It occurred to him that she was now wearing the backpack she had tried to hide from McNamara. Before he could say anything, she bent down to pick up a slice of pepperoni pizza, which had left a smear of orange grease across the linoleum tile. The fall had left it covered in dirt and various tufts of fur.

“Still want this?" she asked.

Ben made a face.

Lynn shrugged, brushing some of the floor grime away from the pepperoni. She picked up a milk carton with a leaking hole in the bottom. “You followin' me, man?"

“What?" Ben asked, completely startled.

She raised the carton and sipped the leaking milk from the bottom, giving him a side eye. Below the walkway, a sea of students roared with voices.

Ben blinked rapidly. “Uh—no?"

“You sure?" Lynn asked.

“. . . yes?"

“Keep runnin' into you, somehow."

He blinked at her. “This is, like, the second time."

“So what?"

“. . . what?"

The punk rat looked at him as if he was lying to her face.

“I'm sorry?" Ben said, his voice rising several octaves. He struggled beneath her gaze. “It's not like—I mean, I just happened to—"

Lynn tossed the pizza and milk. They went sailing over the edge of the walkway, spiraling out in a stream of fluid and grease. A second later, screaming rose from the crowd.

“See you in class," Lynn said, slinging up her backpack.

“What the fuck?" someone shouted.

She walked toward the stairs, leaving Ben alone. Down below, in the main concourse of the school, he could see dozens of heads turning to study the commotion. He ran into the library. The receptionist hadn't noticed any of what happened. She looked up, greeted him by name, and returned to her work as Ben furiously powerwalked into the aisles and shelves. He spent five minutes cowering in the back, pretending to reread the same front cover blurbs over and over, before gaining the nerve to sit down at a table.

He spent a longer time staring at his lunch, feeling no more hunger to eat. He was replaying the conversation in his mind, trying to work out where he had gone wrong. Of all the ways he had expected his next meeting with Lynn to go, getting accused of stalking her had not been one of them.

Why would she even think that way?

Because you've ambushed her twice, and she's smuggling something into school. You saw her backpack. You know she's up to something. Something that could easily get her expelled, according to the police officer guarding the school, who you've directly lied to on her behalf.

Why do you think she acted that way? She's paranoid about you, and rightly so.

You're a liability to her. An unwanted alliance.

A burden.

He munched on a fry, barely tasting it.

What were you hoping for?

I mean, really, what did you expect?

He didn't know. He sat at the table, eating a lukewarm lunch, trying to ignore the conversations of other students. When he was done, he stared at the empty tray. Eventually, he pulled his copy of Animorphs out of his backpack, smearing the pages with pizza grease as he cracked it open.

He read in silence until the bell rang again.

---

Benjamin Phoenix dodged to the side, barely avoiding a slash from Lynnette Pendragon.

His heels dug through sand. Blood stung his eye. The roar of the crowd flooded into his ears. He had barely a second to catch his breath before Lynnette was on him again, pulling a feint toward his knee. He saw it coming. He backstepped, swatted away the real thrust, giving a flick of his rapier across her snout. Blood welled through the whiskers.

She snarled, lashing out with a burst of her wrist-mounted railgun.

He leaped over thirty feet into the air.

The gravity of Citadel Station was derived from rotational force, with the blood duel arena located far along the axis of spin. The feeling of weight was only an illusion. Benjamin found himself sailing in a wild arc through the air, careening like a broken parabola, only barely catching himself on the edge of a floating rock.

Lynnette fired another magnetic slug.

He dodged, desperately leaping from rock to rock.

She emptied the clip.

Rocks shattered with metal tungsten.

As he scrambled across the back face of a hanging meteor, she finally leaped into the air herself, the rapier at her side spraying droplets of his own blood. They braced on opposite sides, found some momentary footing, and leaped sideways, crashing above the arena. Swords hissed and clanged.

Eventually, Lynnette won the clinch, kicking him in the ribs, sending him slamming toward the sandy floor.

He deserved this, Benjamin thought.

He shouldn't have grown close to her. He should have remembered that he was a double agent, that he had a mission to sabotage the rat people of Solaria IV, not fall in love with one of the princesses of empire. As he crashed headlong into the sand, blood and breath exploding from his lips, Benjamin Phoenix kept only one thought locked in his head.

He should never have broken Lynn's heart.

She fell from above, sword bared, whiskers curled back in a soundless scream.

He knew it was his end.

He only wished—

“—to work with your partner!"

His badger teacher, Mr. Peterson, slapped a stack of papers on his desk. It was a worksheet. As Ben blinked back to reality, he saw pictures of cell organelles, electron transport chains, and semi-permeable membranes.

“Remember," the badger said, waddling back to the whiteboard. “The mitochondria—"

A few people mumbled.

“—is the powerhouse of the cell," he finished. “Good!" He slugged down some thermos coffee. “You'll do fine."

Drearily, Ben took out a sheet for himself, tossing one in Lynn's general direction and passing the rest over his shoulder. He wrote his name at the top and stared at the questions.

His mind quickly wandered.

It was nearly an hour into their two hour biology class. Most of it had been spent in lecture. The first day syllabus readings were over—now, it was time to actually learn the material, which mostly involved sitting in silence, writing down notes, and trying not to be bored. Mr. Peterson had dove straight into the anatomy of a cell. It was all review for Ben. Even now, staring at the worksheet, he found all the questions to be trivially easy.

That wasn't what concerned him.

He hadn't said a single word to Lynn. He had slithered into his seat as soon as the door opened, waiting for her to arrive, but she had only appeared a few minutes after the tardy bell, when Mr. Peterson was already starting the lecture, and it was no longer a good time to talk. She had barely glanced his way the entire time.

He had also noticed, very quickly, that she was no longer carrying her backpack. She must have stashed it somewhere during lunch.

But why?

What was she doing?

He could feel a tension lingering between them. He knew it wasn't in his head. He stared at the sheet, knowing they were supposed to work together, knowing Peterson was huffing around, watching everyone's progress, and knowing that now was the time to say something. He had to clear the air. He had to prove that he wasn't weird.

Well, maybe I am, but still. . . .

He spent half a minute working up his nerves.

Fuck.

All at once, he turned to Lynn.

He discovered, very quickly, that she was slumped in her chair, her eyes closed, her arms folded below her breasts, whiskers and snout sticking up in the air like the branches of a tree. She hadn't taken any notes during class, and she gave no indication she was going to do the worksheet, either.

He stared at her, noting the silver piercing and wedge-like scar on her ear. Her short gray fur was ruffled on the cheeks.

Say something.

Speak.

He opened his mouth.

With her eyes still closed, Lynn blew out an irritated breath.

Ben turned to his worksheet.

Goddamnit.

He started answering the questions on his own. They were so easy he didn't even have the distraction of thinking them through. Instead, he was painfully aware of what he wasn't doing, and all the ways he was disappointing himself.

Whatever.

Fuck her.

She's gonna fail this class, anyway. She'll be a burnout. More likely, she'll get caught smuggling whatever's in her backpack.

It doesn't matter if—

Lynn moved.

Ben tensed, trying to pretend like he wasn't watching. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stretch and crack her neck. She blew out another sigh. Eventually, she leaned over on the desk, planting a cheek in her palm.

Ben answered a few more questions, getting to the end of the front page. When he flipped over the sheet, he chanced a look.

He discovered that Lynn was staring at him.

He froze.

She remained leaning on the desk, cheek in hand, one of her pink ears eclipsing the hand clock on the wall behind her, her eyes burrowing into his face with an intensity equal to a power drill. More than ever, he felt like he was being dissected.

For a long moment, the only sound between them was the scratching of pencils, mixed with the steady click of Mr. Peterson's shoes.

“Uh," Ben said. “Hey."

“Hey," Lynn replied, almost lazily, as if she weren't stabbing him with her eyes. “What's up, chucklefuck?"

Ben gave a vague gesture. “Fucking—"

“Fucking the chuckles," Lynn finished.

“Yeah," Ben said.

“You said that, yeah. I remember."

“Thanks."

“Thanks for what?"

“What?"

“What're you thanking me for?"

“Thanks for . . . remembering. I guess."

Lynn continued to stare. Ben flicked his gaze between the worksheet on the table and the piercing green of her eyes. He tried not to fidget.

“How's that workin' out for ya?" Lynn asked.

“What?"

“Fucking the chuckles."

“Oh," Ben said. “You know. It's, uh—it's no laughing matter."

Lynn began to hum, as if she understood.

“Yeah," Ben continued. “In fact, they call me the Tickling Dick."

Lynn gazed back at him. She started to blink. Her mouth quirked into a smile. A fit of snickering broke through. She tried to clamp it down, tried to remain serious and stern, and soon she was giggling again, pressing a hand to her snout, laughter cracking through her face like static on a radio.

“Tickling Dick," she repeated, breathless.

“You should meet my partner," Ben said. “The Chortling Chode."

Lynn shot back in her chair, erupting with a laughter so loud that several people stopped to look.

“That seems like a non-biological amount of fun over there," Mr. Peterson called, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah!" Ben replied, blushing. “Sorry!"

The badger waved his digging claws. “Yes, yes, the Golgi body looks like a vagina. It eats proteins. I've heard it all before."

“That's really cool, Mr. Peterson!"

Ben gave a helpless gesture. The badger looked at Lynn, gave Ben a knowing look, and returned to drinking his coffee.

Oh, my God.

No.

Don't look at me like that, you fat fuck.

We're not a couple.

Unless. . . .

“Listen, dickwad," Lynn said, her lip still quirking with a smile. “I'm trying to be serious."

“Sorry," Ben replied.

“Stop talking."

Ben tried to look sorry.

The punk rat leaned back on the table, cheek in palm. “Okay, look. That was pretty good. You got points for that."

“Thank you."

“Shut the fuck up."

“Oh, okay."

Lynn stared at him again. Her gaze was just as piercing as before, but there now remained an obvious smile between her whiskers, which told him that he'd managed to blunt some of her edge. As a new silence stretched between them, Ben focused on the sound of fume hoods humming from the back of class. Acetone wafted through the air.

“Uh," he said, when the silence was too much. “We should . . . really do the worksheet. It's worth ten points."

“What're you doing here, man?"

He glanced between her and the worksheet. “What do you—"

“I mean," Lynn said, “why're you in this class?"

Ben blinked several times.

“No offense," Lynn continued, “but you look like the usual dough-body geek who plays in band and jerks off to anime."

Ben frowned. “I kinda do take offense to that."

“Tell me I'm wrong."

“It's orchestra, not band."

“Uh-huh. So, you do jerk it to Death Note or whatever?"

“About as often as you shop at Hot Topic."

Lynn snorted, brushing a hand across her spikes and patches.

“Look," Ben said. “What's your problem, exactly?"

“My problem," Lynn replied, “is that I can't figure you out, and that really kinda skeeves me a bit, because you know a little too much about my operation. For all I know, you're a narc."

Ben absorbed that for a moment. “So, you're smuggling drugs?"

“I didn't say that."

“You just called me a narc. Narc means 'narcotics'."

“Shut the fuck up, dude. That's exactly what a fucking narc would say."

Ben blushed.

She reached over, grabbed his pencil, and chucked it at his face. Ben ducked away, glancing around to make sure Mr. Peterson wasn't watching.

“Tell me why you're here," Lynn said.

Ben looked over to the other side of class, toward the western facing window. The fronds of a palm tree were blocking the afternoon sun. Just below the windowsill, he caught a glimpse of tennis courts and racquetball arenas.

“Yeah, alright," he said. “I'm an AP kid. You're right. I got put into AP Bio this semester, but I chose to take gen ed."

“Why?" Lynn asked.

“Mr. Finch is my dad."

“And?"

“And he teaches AP Bio."

She paused, looking at him for a solid few seconds. A hum came from her chest. “Oooohhh. Okay. There's the money. Don't wanna be seen with dad?"

“He'll try to make me friends," Ben said. “He's done it before. Imagine how cool you look when the teacher forces someone to be your buddy."

Lynn blew a low whistle. “Ouch."

“He always makes it worse."

“Makes what worse?"

Ben struggled not to sigh. “Everything. Every little thing I do. He makes it hard to just . . . be me. You know? It's always 'you gotta do this', and 'you gotta act like that', and everything he doesn't like is the worst thing I've ever done. He just—" He realized he was rambling, speaking too loud. He finished with an awkward shrug. “I dunno. He tries too hard. With me. You know?"

There was a silence. When Ben looked over, Lynn was giving him the same odd expression that she'd given back on Monday, when he'd saved her from McNamara.

“Yeah," she said. “I get it, man."

“Do you?" Ben asked, a little harshly.

She raised a brow. “What's that mean, dickweed?"

“I—" He sighed. “Nothing. Sorry."

“Hey, dumbass, does it look like I had good parents?"

She gestured down at her clothes, which consisted of a band shirt, a vest covered in spikes, and a ripped pair of jeans. She drew his attention back up to her face, where her gaze was boldly stubborn, and her ears were pierced and scarred. Finally, she waved a hand around herself, as if inviting him to judge the whole package.

“Fair enough," Ben said. He gestured at her punkish outfit. “So, is all this, like . . . daddy issues? Or mommy issues?"

“I'll turn your daddy issue into a mommy issue."

“How?"

“By stomping your dick."

“. . . so you'll be the mommy?"

She socked him in the liver.

Ben grunted, bending over the desk, trying to suppress his own guttural moans. He could feel Lynn's gaze still burning into the back of his head. Her tail whapped against his chair. After a while, he managed to prop himself on an elbow, his face as red as pepperoni pizza.

“One more question," the rat said.

“Okay," Ben groaned.

“Why'd you do it?"

“Do what?"

“What do you think?"

He looked at her. She folded her arms, eyes sharp and serious.

“You mean," Ben said, “why did I help you smugg—"

“Narc," Lynn said.

“. . . right."

He pushed himself up, still feeling a rosy wave of heat crawl across his gut. He looked around to make sure no one was listening. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, gazing up at the styrofoam ceiling tiles.

“I wanted to feel cool," Ben said.

Lynn kept watching.

He gestured. “You know, I . . . think a lot. About doing cool things. And I watch other people do cool things themselves, and I just. . . ." He paused. A silence stretched out. He gestured again, as if fanning out the words. “I wanted to feel like I was actually living my own life. You know?"

Lynn didn't respond. For a long time, she just kept gazing into his eye. And the longer Ben met her gaze, the more he felt like she wasn't actually trying to dissect him, or rip him apart for the sake of being mean—instead, in this one moment of time, she was seeing him for who he really was, beneath all the walls and masks he wore to protect himself. And he realized that, sometimes, it felt good to be seen.

When she opened her mouth, he already knew what she was going to say.

“I get it, man. Really."

He nodded, not breaking the gaze.

Around them, the classroom continued to work, and whisper, and gossip, filling the room with the sound of shifting chairs and scribbling pens. It all seemed very far away.

“Okay," Lynn said. “You pass."

“Pass what?" Ben asked.

“The test."

“Your test?"

“That's right."

“What do I win?"

“Shut up."

“Okay."

Lynn looked at him a moment longer, glanced around the room, and curled a pink finger. “C'mere."

Ben hesitated. “Why?"

“Just c'mere."

“Uh . . . no?"

“I'm not asking."

“Well, I'm . . . still gonna stay. Over here."

Lynn gave him a look somewhere between annoyed and amused. With another outward glance, she grabbed her chair by the legs and dragged herself closer. Ben scooted as far away as he could manage. Their chemistry table suddenly seemed very small. She settled at his side, their thighs rubbing parallel together, and put a pink hand on his shoulder, leaning in for a whisper. He saw her other hand roam into her back pocket.

Up above, her gaze was very serious.

“What's your name again?" she asked.

This was only the second time Ben had ever been this close to a girl. His heart was climbing into his throat. “You—you don't even remember my name? This entire time?"

“Just tell me."

“Ben. Benjamin Finch."

“Cool."

Her hand slithered from her back pocket. Suddenly, Ben felt the point of a three-inch switchblade pressing into his abdomen.

“Don't you fuck with me, Finchy boy," Lynn said.

Ben gaped in terror.

“Shhhhh. Don't sing, little bird."

She twirled the blade. It was pressing right into his side, just hard enough for him to feel the sharpness without actually breaking the skin. Every breath bulged against it. Up above, Lynn was still giving him a very serious expression.

“Listen," she said.

“What the fuck are—"

“Shut up. Don't make a scene."

Ben struggled not to look around. Lynn had angled the switchblade just carefully enough that it was hidden beneath the table, sheltered between their own leaning bodies. The classroom discussions carried on as normal.

“This is just a formality," Lynn said, casually, as if they were answering the worksheet. “Gotta do it. You know?"

“No," Ben hissed. “No, I don't fucking know."

“Well, don't make it hard."

“I'll try."

“Good boy."

He looked at her, feeling the fear turn into adrenaline. She continued to twirl the blade. Their lips were inches apart.

“You know," she said, “you're cute when you're mad."

Ben did not reply.

“Always look ready to shit, man." She cocked a slight grin. “Guess you found your balls, huh?"

“Could you please start threatening me now?" Ben asked.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry."

Their eyes clashed. Her head tilted. Whiskers danced on the edge of his cheek, their breaths hot and mingling.

“So," Lynn said. “You don't say a word about me. You don't talk about what you saw, or what you think I'm doing. That shit stays between us. No cops, no nothing. Is that clear?"

“Yes," Ben replied, starting to get mad.

“Say it again."

“I got it. It's clear."

“One more time."

Ben blew a breath from his nostril, ruffling the fur on her snout. “I'm not gonna say shit."

“That's my little birdie."

The switchblade vanished, clicking shut and leaping into her pocket. Lynn continued to grip his shoulder. For a few long moments, neither of them moved.

Ben let himself frown. “Are you gonna leave me alone now, or. . . ?"

She kissed him on the cheek.

The contact lingered. His face exploded with heat. He felt her breath, her fur, the smell of her clothes, the twitch of her ear, the soft yielding of her lips as they pressed and sucked away, making an audible sound. It gave him such a weak, fluttery feeling that he almost thought he'd been socked in the gut again.

The rat pulled away. When she saw his bewildered expression, she broke out into a grin.

“Oh, you're too easy," Lynn said. “I'm gonna have fun with you."

Words tumbled from his mouth, half-formed. He could not put them together. His face burned brightly red. Lynn began to snicker, picking up her chair and screeching it over to her side of the table.

“Oh, yeah," she said. “One more thing."

“Oh my fucking God," Ben replied.

“I owe you one."

Ben struggled to breathe for several moments. “Yeah?"

“Yeah," Lynn confirmed, as if it were obvious. “You helped me out, dude. You saved my ass. I owe you a favor. I don't make a lot of debts, but I pay 'em back when I do."

“I don't know how you're supposed to help me."

“You know my talents. Think about it. Keep it in your pocket." She shrugged. “Just let me know whenever you wanna feel cool, Mr. AP Honors."

Ben shook his head.

She gave a smile. “Happy you met me yet?"

“I'm fucking thrilled."

She pretended to bow, which quickly turned into her snatching his worksheet. “Gonna steal your answers real quick."

He snatched it back. “No. I'm gonna finish. You can copy."

She pawed for the sheet. He held it back. After a few more lazy attempts to cheat off his work, she pretended to look hurt.

“Fuck off," Ben said.

Lynn gave a bucktoothed grin.

He grabbed his mechanical pencil from the floor and went to work finishing the back page questions. It was all braindead multiple choice. Lynn scooted in, leaning over and quickly bubbling in the same answers as him. He didn't stop to let her catch up, but he didn't hide it from her, either.

When he was done, she reached for the paper. He rolled his eyes. She snatched it away, copied the entire front of the sheet, and politely handed it back. They sat in their chairs, looking at different things. Eventually, Mr. Peterson waddled up from his chair and dimmed the lights for the projector. The lecture started again.

For the last forty minutes of class, Ben found himself focusing less on the material, and more on the feeling of her kiss, still burning against his cheek.