When school finally started back, my reunion with Alex didnʼt go quite how I imagined it. He didnʼt stride into Mr. Beckʼs class, give me a slow smile, and tell me he missed me. In fact, he didnʼt look at me at all. Of course, we were supposed to be flying under the radar. He couldnʼt exactly wrap an arm around my waist and lead me to the theater for our Shakespeare class.

So I was okay with fact that he talked to everyone except me, explaining that the situation with his relatives hadnʼt worked out. I wasnʼt jealous that other girls could hug him and say how happy they were he was back. It was cool. I could handle it.

However, I could not handle seeing Ashley Johnson pressed up against him, her finger trailing slowly down his chest.

That was not cool.

What the Hades was he doing? How could he just stand there with her like that after everything we shared? After the way he kissed me? It had been over a week and I could still remember the way he tasted. Had Christmas night meant more to me than him?

“Whatʼs your problem?” Talley asked, situating herself in the seat beside mine.

“What makes you think I have a problem?” I rooted furiously through my purse for a writing utensil. All of my pens and pencils apparently had been spirited away by goblins.

“You normally donʼt terrorize poor Tori just for fun.”

“All I did was ask her to move.”

“You told her to get the hell out of your way and looked at her like you would enjoy ripping her still-beating heart from her chest. I think she may have wet herself.” I looked over where Tori Alyson stood clustered with a group of her artsy friends. When she saw me looking, she let out a tiny whimper and quickly averted her eyes.

Good grief.

“Must you always be so intimidating?”

“Iʼm intimidating?”

“That is the general consensus,” Alex answered. He was standing just inches away, waiting for me to let him pass.

I refused to acknowledge him. I wasnʼt about to be deluded yet again by the gleam in his eye or the quirk of his lips.

How did Alex respond to my aloofness? He stepped on my toes. I cursed my body for responding so enthusiastically when he grabbed onto me for support as he stumbled.

“Iʼm sorry,” he said, face level with mine. He squeezed my knee, and I knew he wasnʼt just apologizing for assaulting my feet.

I briefly considered withholding my forgiveness for a bit longer. “Just donʼt let it happen again. Ever . ”

His fingers lightly brushed against my arm as he righted himself. “Scoutʼs honor.” And thus began what I liked to think of as the Secret Relationship Game. The premise was very simple: The contestants were to have as much contact with the other player as humanly possible, while making sure everyone else believed them completely indifferent. The major plays included brief but meaningful eye contact; the accidentally-on-purpose brushing of fingers, arms, or any other reasonable body part; and an obsessive number of text messages, e-mails, and even old-fashioned, unsigned notes in the locker. Occasionally, Alex and I would reach a bonus round and find ourselves alone in the theater prop room, media supply alcove, or even the janitorʼs closet. The bonus rounds featured frenzied kisses, eager hands, and the abject fear someone would open the door or notice our swollen lips and mussed hair.

To someone who has never actually played the Secret Relationship Game, it might sound fun and romantic. At times, it was. But it was also heartbreakingly difficult. Every touch and kiss made me aware of how few I received and left me aching for more. We wrote back and forth to each other constantly, but I longed for a conversation. Mrs. Sole hadnʼt felt the need to resume the point/counter-point articles, so we didnʼt even have afternoons at the library together anymore.

And then there was the constant threat of being discovered. When I thought about how much was at risk, I hated myself for letting it continue. How could I be willing to risk Alexʼs life for a few stolen kisses? Every night I would resolve to break it off. Then, the next day, I would show up in Calculus and there he would be, looking at me without looking at me, and I couldnʼt do it. I wanted him. It was reckless and stupid, but I wanted him. I couldnʼt just give him up and walk away.

I wished on the first star of every evening for just one day to be with Alex, to talk and laugh together without having to look over our shoulder. After five weeks, my vigilance paid off.

It was a Saturday morning, which meant that I was curled onto the couch, a behemoth bowl of Capʼn Crunch perched on one knee, and Toon Disney on the TV. I was trying to helpfully point out to the endearing Dr. Doofenshmirtz that Perry Platypus was once again breaking free of his constraints and about to ruin yet another brilliant plan when someone started pounding on my front door. I hit “Pause” on the DVR and sat my half-eaten bowl of cereal on the coffee table. I was certain it was Mr. Roberts from down the road. He had a tendency to start long conversations that would begin with the weather, end with his first wifeʼs infidelity, and hit every single topic in between. My yummy breakfast would be inedible mush before he could segue from rainfall averages to last yearʼs tobacco crop.

“Just a minute,” I called out, instantly feeling guilty for the irritation in my voice. I was supposed to be working on being more sympathetic. Mr. Roberts was a sweet man; he was just lonely. I should at least try to be nice.

I forced my face into a pleasant, friendly smile and yanked open the door.

“Well, someone is happy to see me,” Alex said, looking for all the world as if he belonged on my front porch. He noted my ensemble -- hair that hung in two sloppy braids, unicorn themed pajamas, and a pair of pink and yellow stripped toe socks — with a smirk. “Good morning, Beautiful.”

“What are you doing here?” My eyes darted wildly around the yard as if they expected to find Toby hiding behind a tree.

“Arenʼt you happy to see me?”

Of course I was happy to see him. Ecstatic even. I was also scared to death. “The treaty, Alex. Iʼm pretty sure you being here is in direct violation of that.” He somehow managed to make a shrug look smug. “What the Hagans donʼt know—”

“Wonʼt get you killed?”

“Stop being so melodramatic. No one is going to murder me today, although I may freeze to death standing on your front porch...” He looked at me expectantly.

I could have left him out there. I should have left him out there. And told him to go away.

And explained that I wasnʼt really worth all the trouble. Of course, I did none of those things.