When I get back to the den, Alex is up, staring out the windows at the city below. I put our glasses down and stand next to him. It’s snowing again.

“It’s pretty out there,” I say, leaning forward so my forehead is against the glass. We’re on the thirtieth floor of a huge highrise, and you can see everything. It’s still another weeks until Thanksgiving, but lots of people have holiday lights already strung up on their roofs or their balconies. The trees down in the park are all bare and spindly, and the sky is super inky black with flecks of white. The people walking around look like tiny ants.

Alex turns to me with a big grin on his face “You want to go for a walk or something? I’m not tired.”

“Now?” It’s after midnight, and I’m basically in my sleeping clothes. “But we’ve got school tomorrow.” Plus, my feet kind of hurt from all the walking we did today. I’ve got two blisters coming, one on each pinkie toe. I didn’t want to wear heels, but Mom insisted because I was going to an interview. And when we were strolling around Wellesley’s campus, she leaned in and whispered, “Never, ever, ever, Lillia,” and pointed to a group of girls who were walking to class in PJ bottoms and slippers. I rolled my eyes, because yeah, right, like I would ever.

“Come on, Lil. Let’s have an adventure without any chaperones.” He groans. “This was supposed to be a trip about our futures, but I haven’t felt more like a little kid in a long time.”

I laugh. I know what he means. Both our moms were completely on top of us today. They asked, like, double the questions Alex and I did on the college tour. Mom picked every restaurant we went to, not that I minded. I love the homemade gnocchi at Sorrento’s. I sometimes ask Daddy to bring it home for me when he takes the hospital’s private plane, but it never tastes the same when it’s not fresh fresh fresh. And Mrs. Lind kept fussing with Alex’s hair or his tie.

I’m about to admit to Alex that I’ve never actually walked around Boston alone, and definitely not at night. But he looks so excited, and I’m not that tired either, especially not after all those sweets. So I say, “Okay.”

I tiptoe into my room, trade my leggings for a pair of jeans. I put some Band-Aids on my pinkie toes and slip on a pair of boots. Before I walk out the door, I grab my phone and I see that I have a text from Reeve. It says, So did you and Lind go to the opera or are you having a spa day? I laugh out loud at the thought of Alex and me getting mani-pedis in matching robes. I text back, Spa day. Duh!

When I come out, Alex has cleaned up our mess in the den. He’s changing in the corner, where he’s put his duffel bag full of clothes. He’s wearing jeans too, and he’s putting on a pair of sneakers, but he doesn’t have a shirt on yet. His back is cut; I can see every muscle in his shoulders and arms. I pop around the corner and pretend like I don’t see him, and give him a few seconds of privacy.

We’re so quiet as we sneak down the hall and open the front door. Alex shushes me as I unlock the dead bolt and slowly pull the door open. Once we’re in the elevator, I let out a deep breath. We walk past the doorman together and out onto the street. Alex gives me a high five.

Boston is even prettier at night. It’s an old city, with a lot of charming details, like gas streetlights and wooden signs.

“I like this city,” Alex says. “So much to see and do. I’ll probably die of boredom in Michigan. “

“Do you think that’s where you’ll end up going?”

Alex shrugs. “My dad’s donated a bunch of money. And his best fraternity brother is on the board of directors. I think it’s inevitable.”

I rub his arm. “You’ll make the best of it,” I tell him. Because that’s the kind of guy Alex is.

Our apartment is somewhat close to Harvard Square, so that’s where we walk to. At first I’m a little scared, because there aren’t a ton of people out, and the street we take has a bunch of dark alleys. I keep close to Alex, my arm threaded through his. But the closer we get to the school, the more kids we see out on the streets. I guess it doesn’t matter that they have class tomorrow or that it’s snowing out. We follow a flow of them to a street where there are a lot of bars.

He takes my hand so we won’t lose each other in the crowd. “They should put this on the tour,” Alex says with a laugh.

I start to say something back when a pack of drunk frat guys stumbles out the double doors. A wave of nausea and abject fear crashes over me, and I freeze up. For a second I think I see him. Mike. But then he turns around and it’s not him after all.

“Are you okay?” Alex asks me and gives my hand a tender squeeze. I can barely hear him through the sound of my own heart beating in my ears.

What if I did run into Mike? Would he remember me? Would he apologize for . . . what happened? Or does he think it was nothing? That’s probably it. He probably doesn’t even remember me.

My chest feels so tight it’s hard to breathe. Amherst is a few hours away from Boston. That’s what I say to calm myself down. But they could be here. It’s not a crazy idea; it’s totally possible. I bet lots of college kids come to Boston on the weekends to party. Every weekend, even.

Maybe I don’t want to come to school in Boston. Maybe I’ll apply to a school on the West Coast—UC Berkeley maybe, or UCLA. I’ll run as far as I have to to never see his face again.

I think I finally get what Mary has been going through all these years. Why she ran, and why she came back. She wants closure. It’s not something I’ll ever get, but I’m going to help her get hers.

“Are you okay?” Alex asks me again.

I nod. “Let’s keep walking, okay?”

My pace is decidedly quicker, but Alex keeps up with me fine.

When I get back to my room, I check my phone and there’s another text from Reeve. It says, What are you up to for real? Bored out of your mind? I text back, We just got back from a walk in the snow! So beautiful here! There. Let him chew on that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

On Friday, Alex and I are supposedly working on practice resumes, which is stupid because it’s not like college apps even ask you for a resume. But Ms. Chirazo keeps saying “in the real world” you need them, so we might as well get some practice in.

But I start to freak, because when it comes down to listing all my extracurriculars, my resume is looking pretty thin. Pretty much just my name and GPA. Oh yeah, and my summer job at the marina. I quick put that down too. I sneak a peek at Alex’s, and he’s got all kinds of shit on there—interning at his dad’s company, volunteering at an animal shelter in Boston, some choir.

I lay my head down on my notebook and close my eyes. I still haven’t revised my essay to include stuff with my mom. I know Ms. Chirazo is pissed about that. She didn’t even act excited when I mentioned that I think I did well at my SAT retest a few weeks ago. Hopefully I’ll crack 1900, by the grace of freaking God. That will put me a few points over what you need to get into Oberlin. But this, this resume shit, it’s a problem I’ll have to work on.

When Ms. Chirazo leaves the room to take a phone call, I lean into Alex and say, “Hey, how was Boston? Did you check out Berklee?”

Alex looks up from his paper. “Nah, I didn’t get a chance. Our schedule was packed.”

“Alex, you dummy! Why didn’t you at least stop by?”

“I didn’t see the point.”

“What? Why not?”

Alex leans back in his chair and taps the table with his pencil. “If I were going to apply to a music program, I’d do USC. Los Angeles is, like, the center of the music biz. And the emphasis there is more on contemporary songwriting, not classical, which is what I’m interested in.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, there’s no point, because I’m not applying to any music programs.”

“But you love music.”

“Sure. But, like my mom was saying, it’s not like you’re guaranteed a record deal or anything like that if you graduate from a music program. If I do a business program, I’ll be set. And I could still take a music class as an elective.”

I give him the side eye. “Business? Since when do you care about business?”

“I have to think long-term, Kat. And with my dad’s contacts, I could—”

“But you want to write music.” I shake my head. “And sure, nothing is guaranteed, but that’s what makes it awesome, you know? The fact that it isn’t!” I glance around the room. Everyone’s looking at me. Probably because I’m getting loud. I lower my voice and say, “You’ve got to go balls to the wall because you love music. Fuck everything and everyone because you’re going to give it a shot regardless.”

Alex wants this. I can tell, because he doesn’t say anything to me right away. He stares off into space for a second, working it over in his head. Then he frowns and says, “You know, even if I got in, I doubt my parents would pay for it. They don’t exactly envision a life for me as a starving artist. My dad’s always talked about me working for his company when I graduate college.”

“Alex, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you’re f**king rich. You’re going to have money no matter what. You already have a safety net! Your parents aren’t going to let you starve in the street. Apply to USC. What can it hurt? Maybe you won’t get in. I don’t know. Maybe you suck. I’ve never heard your stuff.” I elbow him and he laughs.

“Because it’s hard! I’m shy!” He drops his head in his hands. “And . . . what if I’m not any good?”

I groan. “Stop being such a little bitch and give it a shot. What do you have to lose? So they reject you. So what. Then you pick yourself back up and you go to business school like your daddy wants. But you’ll never know unless you try.”

“I guess.”

I think about mentioning how I’ve heard Oberlin has a kickass conservatory, but I swallow it down. My life is complicated enough. I put my hand on his back. “Go for it. Balls to the wall. California or bust!”

He scratches his head. “Maybe I’ll look at Berklee. At least if I went to school in Boston, I’d have Lillia there.”

I feel a pinprick in my chest. “Dude, you said USC is the program for you. Don’t shoot for second best because of a girl.”

Alex looks startled. “What? That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Oh no?”

“No! Geez, lower your voice, Kat. I like Boston. And we just . . . we had a nice time hanging out. That’s it. It’d be nice to have a friend there.”

“A friend,” I repeat. “That’s what you guys are. Like you and me.”

He cocks his head to the side and looks right at me. “I’ve never hooked up with Lillia.”

I lean back in my chair, pleased. “Send in the USC application, Alex. You need to start going after what you want.”

Ms. Chirazo comes back in and shoots me a warning look like she knows I’ve been goofing off. Of course she’s only looking at me and not Alex, because she thinks Alex is a freaking redheaded angel.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I hang around after school on Friday to go to a Spanish tutorial that Señor Tremont is holding in advance of our midterm. I get to the classroom first and worry for a second that maybe I got the date wrong, but then ten other kids from my class arrive and sit in the same seats as they do in sixth period. They’re the students I’d expect to see here, ones who never, ever, ever talk in class. Like me. We’ve all perfected the art of staring down at our desks when Señor Tremont asks for volunteers to do conversations with him.

The only one who isn’t here is Señor Tremont.

Ten minutes go by, then fifteen. The halls have emptied out and quieted; the noise comes from outside. I unzip my school bag, open my Spanish textbook, and review the stuff Señor Tremont covered in today’s class. But the others are way less patient. After twenty minutes, one of the other kids makes a big, huffy show of standing up. He says, “What the eff, man?” and a few others push back from their desks, ready to follow him out.

But then Señor Tremont bursts through the door with a cell phone in his hand. He shouts excitedly, “Mi esposa está teniendo un bebé!” the words coming out faster than the dialogue in the Spanish soap operas he lets us watch on Fridays.

The students stare at each other like Huh?, because we don’t have a clue what Señor Tremont is saying. Did he forget that this is a remedial session? Señor Tremont doubles over laughing and translates it for us.

“My wife is having a baby!” With this news, the entire mood of the room shifts from annoyed to happy in a second. Everyone claps for Señor and cheers him on as he shoves his papers into his briefcase and sprints out the door. The whole thing brings tears to my eyes; I’m not sure why. Maybe because I have this feeling that Señor Tremont will be a good dad. Or because I miss my parents. It’s probably both.

On my way out of the classroom, I see Lillia down at the other end of the hall. I can tell it’s her because of her hair. No one in our school has hair as long and as shiny as Lillia Cho.

I open my mouth to call out for her, but then change my mind. Lillia’s probably on her way to the pool to swim with Reeve. I hang back but keep her in my sights. And I follow her, to be sure.

Lillia walks through the snow to the new pool building. She doesn’t use the same side door we used to, back when she, Kat, and I would meet up to plan our revenge schemes, back when the pool was being renovated. Instead she follows the sidewalk to the main double doors at the front of the pool building. By the time I reach them, I see Lillia make a left into the girls’ locker room.