Don't Blame the Music by Caroline B. Cooney

records. But what would be a simple query in another family could be suicidal in mine. So Whit was my only source.
    It was nice that my only source was so handsome and so nice and so mysterious.
    Sw—Halsey followed my gaze, I supposed because it lasted so long and involved twisting all the way around in my seat as Jeffrey turned right into the parking lot and Whit walked left into the school. “Jeez, Susan,” he said softly. “I mean, follow up on Anthony. Don’t go falling for some druggie.”
    â€œHe’s not a druggie,” I snapped. But very softly, so Emily wouldn’t hear.
    Emily heard. “Who?” she said. “Who are we talking about?”
    â€œNobody,” I said.
    â€œTell me, Swan,” said Emily.
    â€œI can’t be bothered with people who call me Swan,” said Halsey.
    Another honorable man! I loved it. I leaned over the seat and hugged him, and he grinned, and I said, “You should gave gotten your braces off years ago, Halsey, it’s done wonders for you.”
    â€œYeah,” he said. “Yeah, yeah.” But he liked it.
    Trig passed in its usual frightening way, with me having a dim sense of what might be going on, but not a sufficiently strong sense actually to do any of the problems.
    I had no chance to speak to Whit and when I looked his way he never looked mine.
    In Brit lit, we abandoned Chaucer and were steaming toward Shakespeare. Whit sitting silently behind me was almost more than I could bear. Even when I turned in my seat he didn’t look my way, and I was only inches from him. It’s a real skill to look casual about ignoring somebody that close.
    But I took the egotistical way out. I said to myself, He must like me. Otherwise he wouldn’t care enough to pretend I’m not here.
    All I can see is our bodies entwined,
    Both our lives entirely redesigned.
    I spent Brit lit trying different versions of that in my journal.
    When the bell rang I was the only one not poised for the dash. Nothing at our school is sweet, and bells are no exception: raucous, violent, like something in prisons. Two thousand of us leaped simultaneously out of chairs, which scraped the linoleum on dozens of classroom floors, and began yelling and flinging locker doors open and singing our favorite rock songs and turning on the ghetto blasters for the three minutes of precious passing period freedom.
    Except me. I slammed my journal shut, slipped it between two other books, gathered my junk and yelled, “Whit!”
    He kept going.
    I slithered between the desks and leaped for him, catching a scrap of fabric between my fingers. Rough thick wool. Whit stopped to see what he’d caught his shirt on and saw me down there. He said nothing. He simply looked at the place where I was pulling his shirt out of shape, as though this might be my idea of a joke, but it was his idea of stupid and I’d better let go. Now.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œI have a class in sixty seconds, Susan.”
    â€œI’ll be quick,” I promised. “Incredibly succinct. A model of brevity.”
    â€œYeah? No sign of it yet.”
    He did not seem to be joking. Courage and conviction seeped out of me. I glanced around to be sure no yearbook staffers were in earshot. Already the next class was filtering in; Whit and I were blocking the road. “I’ve thought of my yearbook idea, Whit.”
    He shrugged, removed my fingers and walked out of the room. I trotted along like an unwanted mutt. How broad-shouldered he was. The shirts barely stretched across the solid muscle of his back. “I need your help, Whit. Please? Would you spend a little while with me after school? I won’t—I won’t fall apart on you like I did before. I promise.”
    Whit stopped walking and looked skeptically down at me. As one remembering his mother’s lectures on good manners, he said, “What’s the idea?”
    He has no more faith in me