“No,” Nate and I said in unison. I felt my face flush.

The kid sat back. “Then no eating. Girlfriends are the only exception to carpool rules.”

“Gervais, pipe down,” Nate said.

Gervais picked up his book, flipping a page. I looked at Nate, who was now pulling out onto the main road, and said, “So . . . where do you take him? The middle school?”

“Wrong,” Gervais said. His voice was very nasal and annoying, like a goose honking.

“He’s a senior,” Nate told me.

“A senior?”

“What are you, deaf?” Gervais asked.

Nate shot him a look in the rearview. “Gervais is accelerated, ” he said, changing lanes. “He goes to Perkins in the morning, and afternoons he takes classes at the U.”

“Oh,” I said. I glanced back at Gervais again, but he ignored me, now immersed in his book, which was big and thick, clearly a text of some kind. “So . . . do you pick up anyone else? ”

“We used to pick up Heather,” Gervais said, his eyes still on his book, “when she and Nate were together. She got to eat in the car. Pop-Tarts, usually. Blueberry flavor.”

Beside me, Nate cleared his throat, glancing out the window.

“But then, a couple of weeks ago,” Gervais continued in the same flat monotone, turning a page, “she dumped Nate. It was big news. He didn’t even see it coming.”

I looked at Nate, who exhaled loudly. We drove on for another block, and then he said, “No. We don’t pick up anyone else.”

Thankfully, this was it for conversation. When we pulled into the parking lot five minutes later, Gervais scrambled out first, hoisting his huge backpack over his skinny shoulders and taking off toward the green without a word to either of us.

I’d planned to follow him, also going my own way, but before I could, Nate fell into step beside me. It was clear this just came so easily to him, our continuing companionship assumed without question. I had no idea what that must be like.

“So look,” he said, “about Gervais.”

“He’s charming,” I told him.

“That’s one word for it. Really, though, he’s not—”

He trailed off suddenly, as a green BMW whizzed past us, going down a couple of rows and whipping into a space. A moment later, the driver’s-side door opened, and the blonde from my English class—in a white cable sweater, sunglasses parked on her head—emerged, pulling an overstuffed tote bag behind her. She bumped the door shut with her hip, then started toward the main building, fluffing her hair with her fingers as she walked. Nate watched her for a moment, then coughed, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Really what?” I said.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Ahead of us, the blonde—who I had now figured out was the infamous, blueberry Pop-Tart-eating Heather—was crossing to a locker, dropping her bag at her feet. “Nothing,” I said. “See you around.”

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding, clearly distracted as I quickened my pace, finally able to put some space between us. “See you.”

He was still watching her as I walked away. Which was kind of pathetic but also not my problem, especially since from now on I’d be sticking to my original plan and catching the bus, and everything would be fine.

Or so I thought until the next day, when I again overslept, missing my bus window entirely. At first, I was completely annoyed with myself, but then, in the shower, I decided that maybe it wasn’t so bad. After all, the ride was a short one. At least distance-wise.

“What kind of shampoo is that?” Gervais demanded from the backseat as soon as I got in the car, my hair still damp.

I turned back and looked at him. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why? ”

“It stinks,” he told me. “You smell like trees.”

“Trees? ”

“Gervais,” Nate said. “Watch it.”

“I’m just saying,” Gervais grumbled, flopping back against the seat. I turned around, fixing my gaze on him. For a moment, he stared back, insolent, his eyes seemingly huge behind his glasses. But as I kept on, steady, unwavering, he finally caved and turned to stare out the window. Twelve-year-olds, I thought. So easy to break.

When I turned back to face forward, Nate was watching me. “What?” I said.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Just admiring your technique.”

At school, Gervais did his normal scramble-and-disappearing act, and again Nate walked with me across the parking lot. This time, I was not only aware of him beside me—which was still just so odd, frankly—but also the ensuing reactions from the people gathered around their cars, or ahead of us at the lockers: stares, raised eyebrows, entirely too much attention. It was unsettling, not to mention distracting.

When I’d started at Perkins, I’d instinctively gone into New School Mode, a system I’d perfected over the years when my mom and I were always moving. Simply put, it was this: come in quietly, fly under the radar, get in and out each day with as little interaction as possible. Because Perkins Day was so small, though, I was realizing it was inevitable that I’d attract some attention, just because I was new. Add in the fact that someone had figured out my connection to Jamie—“Hey, UMe!” someone had yelled as I walked in the hall a couple of days earlier—and staying anonymous was that much more difficult.

Nate deciding we were friends, though, made it almost impossible. Even by my second day, I’d figured out he was one of the most popular guys at Perkins, which made me interesting (at least to these people, anyway) simply by standing next to him. Maybe some girls would have liked this, but I was not one of them.