I hadn’t talked to her privately yet. I hadn’t talked to any of my teachers outside of class. I’d kept to myself. That was my way. I know I got “new kid” stares. One day, a group of girls were giggling in my direction. One came up to me and said, “Can I, like, have your phone number?”

Confused, I gave it to her.

Five minutes later I heard giggling and my phone vibrated. The text read: My friend thinks you’re cute. I didn’t respond.

After class, I approached Mrs. Friedman.

“Ah, Mr. Bolitar,” Mrs. Friedman said with a smile that lit up her face. “I’m glad to have you in my class.”

I wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so I went with, “Uh, thank you.”

“I never had your father,” she said, “but your uncle was one of my favorite students. You resemble him.”

My uncle. The great Myron Bolitar. I didn’t like my uncle and was really tired of hearing how swell he was. My father and my uncle were very close growing up, but then they had a major falling-out. For the last fifteen years of my dad’s life-basically from the moment I was conceived to the moment he died-the two brothers hadn’t spoken. I guess I should forgive Uncle Myron, but I’m not much in the mood.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bolitar?”

When some teachers call you Mister or Miz, it comes across as either patronizing or too formal. Mrs. Friedman hit the right note.

“As you probably know,” I said slowly, “Ashley Kent has been absent.”

“And so she has.” Mrs. Friedman was a short woman and it took some effort for her to look all the way up at me. “You two are close.”

“We’re friends.”

“Oh, come, Mr. Bolitar. I may be old, but I see the way you look at her. Even Ms. Caldwell is upset she isn’t catching your eye.”

I reddened when she said this. Rachel Caldwell was probably the hottest girl in the school.

“Anyway,” I said, dragging out the word, “I was thinking maybe I could help her out.”