The day after the whole "skating thing" with Luke, I go back to school. Still wearing the overly-baggy sweaters, still wearing skirts with leggings, still not looking at anyone or talking to them. Nothing has changed for me at school, but things have changed for everyone else.

I shuffle my way through the halls and make it to my writing class, dropping my bag at my seat in the front and pulling out a beaten-up green notebook with a worn cover. Our assignment, as dictated by the whiteboard, is to write a short story that is exactly 4,000 words and then swap the story with someone else. Peer editing, the teacher calls it.

I have my story all ready to go. It's about Luke, narrated from his point of view, about him exploring my room. Mr. Scholler has pretty much just accepted the fact that most of the stuff I write is "fiction", as he puts it. No one at school knows about Luke, and that's exactly the way that I plan to keep it. But then something else happens. Something I wasn't expecting.

A new boy walks into the classroom, which isn't too surprising. Kids transfer in and out of classes all the time here; it's a miracle anyone ever passes enough courses to graduate. But this kid isn't old new, just another familiar face coming in. This kid is new new, meaning that I've never seen him before. And our town isn't that big; it's actually pretty tiny, which means that this kid must have just started school here.

He's wearing a green cardigan, and it hangs down over his hands. His black hair flops all over the place; it's shiny and looks like it would be soft and silky-smooth to the touch. But I wouldn't know, because he's probably going to end up hating me. He has a black backpack with leather straps, and his notebook looks like mine, only it's purple instead of green.

There are empty desks scattered all around, and Mr. Scholler tells the new kid to just sit wherever. I leaf through my notebook, looking for the short story that I wrote, when I hear three thumps in succession right next to me. The new kid dropping his bookbag, the new kid setting down his notebook, and the new kid himself, sitting next to me.

"Hi," he says. "My name is Joey, I just moved here. What's your name?"

I introduce myself in a whisper. "Callie."

Before Joey can ask me anything else, the bell rings, and Mr. Scholler starts talking.

"Today, we welcome Joey Evans, our new student in this classroom and also this school." A smattering of applause circles the room; not much, though. I tap my hands together a few times before I stop. I've always found clapping to be stupid, like high-fiving yourself for someone else's accomplishments.

"And today is Peer Review day! Get out your short stories and find someone to swap with. Joey, you can just find someone whose story you'd like to read," Mr. Scholler says, dismissing us to our sidebar conversations with a wave of his hand. I finally pull out the five pages of looseleaf, covered front and back in my neatest handwriting, that contain my short story, fully prepared to self-correct it, like I always do. But Joey interrupts my plans.

"Can I read your story?" he asks me.

I look at him, dumbfounded, and he interprets it as either confusion or offended, because he apologizes hastily. "Sorry! I just meant - you seem kinda nice, and everyone else is already partnered up, and even if they weren't I'd still wanna read yours and - "

He's reeling off words now, speaking way too fast. So as a manner of shushing him, I plop my story onto his desk and open the book I brought with me - one of the Harry Potter ones. Less than three pages into my book, Joey is tapping my shoulder. There is a red pen in his hand andhe's somehow managed to smear ink all over himself. It kind of looks like Native American war paint, and I laugh a little bit. He grins.

"I corrected your paper, just like I was told to," he says breathlessly.

I look down and see plenty of red ink. I thank him quietly and begin reading his corrections.

But they aren't exactly corrections. It's more like commentary. Joey has added his thoughts about what I wrote, and in some places there are illustrations. and on the last page, in bright green ink, it says, I love your stories. Check this place out for more recognition of your awesome skills! Oh, and email me if you have an email - or the chance :)

Written below are the name of a website and an email address, as well as a username that I figure goes with the website. I look from the green ink to Joey, who has more ink smeared across him than the last time, if that's even possible.

"I thought, maybe, you know, you could share your awesomeness with the world!" he says. "I'd love to keep up with what you're doing, I'm super psyched to be able to have read that. And, well . . . I figure, you could use an editor, right?"

I take one look at his face, so bright and happy and full of hope, and then I pull out my favorite blue pen, open to the very last page in my notebook, and copy down the website, the username, and the email address. Then, in a moment of weakness, I scribble down my own email address and give it to him.

Joey and I spend the rest of the class period talking to each other, and I even convince him to start writing his own 4,000 word short story to turn in to Mr. Scholler.

"What do I write about?" he asks me. I shrug at him, too busy with working on a sketch to be carved for the paper town to even consider that he's actually being nice to me.

Don't fall for it, Callie. You know it's an act, just like all the others. Don't let him past the walls and guards. You can't. You'll go crazy.

"I based that off of something in my real life," I tell him. "I took my room and imagined what it would seem like to a small person, and then I wrote about that."

"I could write about my dad," Joey suggests. "Or, my idea of a dad, at least. Haven't got one."

He says it matter-of-factly, the way someone else might state, "I have blonde hair," but I can still tell that it bothers him. I know because that's the way I feel about my dad. I don't say anyhing to him, don't even push him to tell me more. Instead, I just say, "That seems plausible. Just remember: 4,000 words."

"How will I know when I've written that much?" he asks me.

"When your hand hurts, then burns, and then finally goes numb, that's when you've reached your limit. And then you turn it in and hope and pray to God that it's 4,000," I say. The sound of my laughter startles me; I've never laughed in school before. I don't laugh a lot, because I've never had any reason to.

Joey writes, and writes, and writes, and takes a break to massage his hand, and then he writes. Writing is a double-period course, so when the bell signifies the end of the first period and everyone gets up to stretch or go to their lockers or use the restroom, he slides me his work.

Most kids know what a father is. It's the guy who did the diddly-doo with your mum - even if it seems gross, and you can't imagine it - and produced you, and then stuck around to raise you. Generallly speaking, that's a dad. But that's not true in all cases, and it isn't true in mine.

Dad walked out on Mum and I when I was seven. I remember it well. I came bouncing home from school with an A+ test I wanted to show my parents. But when I got home, all I heard was fighting, fighting, fighting. I was so scared I hid in the closet until I could hear the tramping of boots and the dragging of luggage across the hard wood floor, scraping as it goes.

And I remember the look on my mother's face when she told me that my dad had left, and probably wouldn't ever come back again. I remember thinking it was all my fault, and I was afraid. I still am afraid.

That's as far as I get before the bell rings, and I must have some kind of horrified expression, because Joey smiles at me. "It's isn't me," he says quietly. "That never happened to me. My dad left my mum before I was born, so I don't even know him. I made up a story for this character. And if you'd read all the way through to the end - if you'd had the time - you'd've seen that things didn't work out as well for him as they did for me."

He grins, flashing white teeth at me before Mr. Scholler collects our assignments and sets us the next one - a set of seven haiku about someone who isn't in our family, but who means a lot to us. I immediately think of Luke - I'm not relted to him at all, and he means more to me than almost anything. Joey sits and scratches his head and gets even more ink all over his hands and arms until the bell rings.

One of the jocks, Carson, comes up to me while Joey is talking to another girl with platinum-blonde hair. He slams a meaty, calloused, lacrosse-playing hand onto my desk and growls, "I want you to write haiku about my girlfriend for me. And make sure they're good, not just to pass this class, but because if I don't impress her, I'm gonna lose her."

"And it'll break your heart?" I question.

"Worse," he gulps. "I'm going to lose my popularity. So you better do it right, nerd girl, or we're gonna give you a beating you'll never forget!" Then he storms off, grabs the platinum blonde by the waist, and escorts her away from Joey. Joey mouths What happened? at me from aross the classroom, but I don't want to talk about it. It hits too close to home.

At lunch, I'm sitting my myself again. I don't have any food, just a bottle of water. Caf food tastes like garbage, and I left my lunch at home this morning. I'm trying to think of positive words about Carson's witch of a girlfriend when I hear the three thumps again: a bookbag being dropped, a lunch being set down, and a person sitting themself next to me. Joey again.

"Hey," he says, staring at me with eyes that, upon close inpesction, are a beautiful, silvery shade of green that remind me of Slytherin house. "What was up with that Carson dude giving you grief? Are you okay?"

"Just needed help with an assignment," I tell him, twiddling my pen back and forth between my fingers. "I'm alright, really."

"You're doing his homework for him," Joey growls, taking a vicious bite of what I think is a turkey-cheese-lettuce sandwich. "You wanna know what I think? I think that's - "

But exactly what Joey thinks of Carson and his schemes, I never find out. Two guys come over to our table and I instinctively cringe against the wall: Jackson and Jeff.

"Heeyyy, Joeeeey!" one of them yells. Joey stands up, grinning, and does some sort of handshake with them. And all at once, my stomach is twisting into knots.

Joey, the guy I wanted to be my friend, the guy I trusted, the guy I liked, is best buddies with two of the worst tormentors I have.

"Hey, Jo, ditch the loser trash and come hang with us," Jackson says, slinging his arm around Joey's shoulders and shooting me a nasty grin. Joey looks at me with pain and remorse - or maybe it's just my imagination.

"Callie - " he starts. But I don't let him finish.

"Sure," I choke out. "Go ahead. I have to . . . go . . . anyways . . . bye."

I grab my stuff and hurry away, stopping briefly by my locker to grab my coat. Then I go to the nurse and tell her I'm feeling awful and would like to go home.

Apparently, I look exaclty as awful as I feel after Joey's betrayal, because the nurse looks at me sympathetically and asks if she should call my mother. I tell her no, it's fine, I don't live too far from school so I can walk home. She still looks worried, but I manage to convince her that it's only a one-block walk, instead of three and a quarter. Eventually, I am allowed to leave, and I hurry through the slush and snow on the barely-shoveled sidewalk, trying desperately to stem the flow of tears. The minute I'm home, I kick my dirty shoes off and run up the stairs towards the ladder, tears blinding me and blurring my vision.

I tear off my coat, fling my school pack aside, sit down hard on the bed, and cry. I cry until I can feel a small person tugging worriedly at the hem of my sweater. Luke.

"Callie, what happened?" he whispers.

"I don't want to talk about it," I respond.

"Do you wanna cuddle?" he asks. "And watch a movie?"

So we turn on The Fellowship of the Ring for the millionth time, and then Luke manages to fall asleep snuggled into my chest. I think how wonderful it is to be assured that Luke will always, beyond a shadow of a doubt, be there for me.

However, I also think about Joey, and his soft eyes and kind smile and crazy grin. Then I shake my head resolutely. No. Joey only showed interest in me because he thought that I was like him. He thought that I was one of them. But I'm not, and most probably never will be.