“Here’s one, Saint Patrick. Over a hundred fifty years old,” Trey says.

Sawyer pulls up the map and zooms in until he has a street view. “Nope. The building is wrong.” He looks up at me. “You know, you might be on to something. The scene of the building in the vision has a tall section. Reminded me of a church.” He digs further, and Trey and I keep track of the schools he rules out. Then he finds a list of private schools by neighborhood all within the city limits. There are dozens of them.

It’s frustrating. “We need a better computer at home,” I say. “This is crazy. I think we’re the only kids in the entire city who don’t have laptops.” I drum my fingers on the table.

Sawyer gently places his hand over mine, stilling my fingers, but his eyes never leave the screen and his other hand moves swiftly around the keyboard. “We can go to school at seven when the doors open and try—” He shakes his head. “Oh, that’s right. We’re not breathing, typing, or speaking a word of this there.”

Rowan finally comes back with a tray of food, then retraces her steps and returns with the coffees.

She joins us as we work and eat, and sits quietly, respecting our love, listening as we talk through the various options and why they don’t fit the puzzle in front of us. When seven o’clock rolls around and it’s time to head over to school, we have nothing.

Nobody talks as the four of us walk into school, dejected shoulder to dejected shoulder: Trey, Rowan, me, Sawyer. As we reach the freshman hallway, Rowan peels away from our sad little group, but not before shoving a folded note into my hand.

“Second hour,” she says. And then she frowns. “Put some makeup on or something, sheesh.”

Twenty-Three

Five things Rowan rocks at:

1. Writing fake notes from our mother

2. Disrespecting my love

3. Being on time

4. Flying under the radar

5. Picking gorgeous boyfriends

There are many things Charles Broderick Banks is not. He is not Italian. He’s not grumpy. He’s not hard on the eyes. He’s also not American born. He’s South African– Irish-English, he says. The lilt in his voice is swoony. No wonder Rowan is in love.

Rowan and I huddle at a cubicle computer desk, and I take him in: his deep umber eyes, sun-bleached blond hair, and his tanned, lightly freckled skin that makes him look as if he just came home from a trip to the tropics. He has an adorable little scar on his head that looks like an inch-long part in his hair. His smile is warm and sweet, and I watch my little sister’s face come to life when she talks to him. He and Rowan chitchat awkwardly at first with me there, but soon they are bantering back and forth.

He seems to know only the nice things about me, and he asks me pointed questions. “How’s your arm? Do you get your cast off soon?”

“Soon,” I say. “Next week. It doesn’t hurt at all anymore. I practically forget it’s here except when I need to, you know, bend that wrist or something.”

He grins. “Rowan says you’re very brave.”

I blush. “Oh, really?” I glance at her and she smirks. “She’s also very mean,” Rowan offers. “She made me

buy everyone breakfast this morning.”

“I’m sure you deserved it,” he says.

“Okay, I approve of this boy,” I say.

“Approved!” he says, doing an English version of The

Target Lady from Saturday Night Live. And then he turns his head away from the camera, distracted by a distant voice.

I look at Rowan. “Uh-oh? Or no?”

She shakes her head and listens. “No, it’s his tutor.

BANG Oops, my bad. It’s his mom.” She watches for a second until a tall blond woman appears. “Hi, Mom B!” She waves at the screen.

“Hey, Ro,” the woman says. She’s wearing designer workout clothes drenched in sweat but still somehow manages to look gorgeous and radiant. “Who’s this?”

I wave weakly. “Hi, um, I’m Rowan’s sister.” “Oh, Jules. Cool—heard a lot about you.”

I nod and smile. So it seems.

“We’re excited to see Rowan again. Thank your mom

and dad for us—I left a message the other day but I know they’re really busy.” I glance at Rowan as her face turns red. The little weasel erased it, I’ll bet.

Mrs. Banks continues. “We’ll be waiting at Baggage Claim, and it’s a direct flight so there’s no way she’ll get stranded somewhere. Just follow the signs to Baggage Claim, hon.”

“And I’ll call you when I land,” Rowan says, like they’ve rehearsed this.

“And me,” I say.

“Yes, I’ll call you, too.”

Charlie gives his mom a look, and she waves. “Okay, gotta go. See you Sunday.”

Rowan calls out her good-bye, and she and Charlie share a private joke I don’t get, and they’re all just . . . carefree and having fun, and the biggest stress weighing on them is wondering if rain will delay the flight.

I sit back in my chair, working my fingers through a tangle in my hair, and just watch them. And I can’t wait to have so few worries. I can’t wait to have fun again. I can’t wait to have that kind of light, easy banter with the guy I love.

After a while I excuse myself to let them do their mushy talk in private, ahem. On the walk back to class, I find myself wondering if something horrible will happen while Rowan is gone. Worrying that my parents won’t know where to find her or how to contact her. I clench my jaw and force the thought away. Because that can’t happen. It can’t and it won’t.