“Better wash up,” mom says. “We’ll be eating in a few minutes.”I glance toward her mixing bowl, in which she’s blending something resembling Cat Chow.Dad grimaces at the sight of it. “What do you say, Camelia?” he says. “Maybe after dinner and I can head over to Flick-tastic to rent a couple videos?”Translation: Let’s save ourselves from this swill by hitting the drive-through of Taco Bell.”

“What about Melissa?” I ask. “She’s angry at you for ending things with her. Maybe this is her way of teaching you a lesson.”“A total possibility. I’m definitely sweet and studly enough to drive a girl literally insane, wouldn’t you say?” He flexes his biceps to be funny.“Can we please try to be serious here?”

“I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t want to lose him.”“Then maybe you should go away for a little bit. After all, absence makes the heart grow horny, right?”“That’s not exactly how the saying goes.”“But it should, because you know it’s true. If you go away for a couple of days, Ben won’t know what to do with himself.”“Maybe you’re right,” I say, tossing more candy corn into my mouth (therapy in a bag). “Damn straight, I am. Now, the biggest question: Can I fit into your suitcase? Because I really don’t feel like staying here by myself.”

“On the drive home, Adam glances at me several times, clearly wanting to talk about what’s happened.But I can barely look up from the door latch.Exactly six pain-filled minutes later, he pulls over at the corner of my street and puts the car in park. “Do you hate me?” he asks.“More like I hate myself.”“Yeah.” He sighs. “Kissing me tends to have that effect on women.”“That’s not what I meant.”“Don’t worry about it,” he says, still trying to make light of the situation. “It’s my fault. It won’t happen again.”“I let it happen.”“Yes, but only because you couldn’t help yourself. I must admit, I’m far too irresistible for my own good.”“I wouldn’t go that far.” I can’t help but smile.”

“I shake my head, knowing that if it hadn’t been for me, Ben wouldn’t have been there in the first place. I try to tell him that, but he swats my words away with his hand and says he wants to show me something.“Sure,” I say, wondering if he’s really as nervous as he seems.He clenches his teeth and hesitates a couple of moments; the angles of his face seem to grow sharper. Finally, he motions to the pant leg of his jeans.There’s a tear right over his thigh.“I know you saw it in the hospital,” he says, exposing the chameleon tattoo through the torn fabric. “I felt you . . . looking at it. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I did this back home, before I ever came to Freetown. Before I ever met you.”“So it’s a coincidence?”His dark gray eyes swallow mine whole. “Do you honestly believe that?”“No,” I say, listening as he proceeds to tell me that a few months before he got to town, he touched his mother’s wedding band—something that reminded him of soul mates—and the image of a chameleon stuck inside his head.“I couldn’t get it out of my mind,” he explains. “It was almost like the image was welded to my brain, behind my eyes, haunting me even when I tried to sleep.”“And you got the tattoo because of that?”“Because I hoped its permanence might help me understand it more—might help me understand what it had to do with my own soul mate.”“And do you understand now?” I ask, swallowing hard.“Yeah.” He smiles. “I suppose I do.”I take a deep breath, trying to hold myself together, desperate to know what he’s truly trying to say here, and what I should say to him as well. I close my eyes, picturing that moment in the hospital when I held his hand and wondering if he would’ve recovered as quickly as if it hadn’t been for the connection between us—the electricity he must have sensed from my touch.”

“Dear Jack:I have no idea who he was. But he saved me. From you.I watched from the doorway as he smacked, punched, and threw you against the wall. You fought back hard- I'll give you that- but you were no match for him.And when it was over- when you'd finally passed out- the boy made direct eye contact with me. He removed the rag from my mouth and asked me if I was okay.'Yes. I mean, I think so,' I told him.But it was her that he was really interested in: the girl who was lying unconscious on the floor. Her eyes were swollen, and there looked to be a trail of blood running from her nose.The boy wiped her face with a rag. And then he kissed her, and held her, and ran his hand over her cheek, finally grabbing his cell to dial 911.He was wearing gloves, which I thought was weird. Maybe he was concerned about his fingerprints, from breaking in. But once he hung up, he removed the gloves, took the girl's hand, and placed it on the front of his leg- as if it were some magical hot spot that would make her better somehow. Tears welled up in his eyes as he apologized for not getting there sooner.'I'm so sorry,' he just kept saying.And suddenly I felt sorry too.Apparently it was the anniversary of something tragic that'd happened. I couldn't really hear him clearly, but I was pretty sure he'd mentioned visiting an old girlfriend's grave.'You deserve someone better,' he told her. 'Someone who'll be open and honest; who won't be afraid to share everything with you.' He draped his sweatshirt over her, kissed her behind the ear, and then promised to love her forever.A couple minutes later, another boy came in, all out of breath. 'Is she alright?' he asked.The boy who saved me stood up, wiped his tearful eyes, and told the other guy to sit with her until she woke up. And then he went to find scissors for me. He cut me free and brought me out to the sofa. 'My name's Ben,' he said. 'And help is on the way.'When the girl finally did wake up, Ben allowed the other guy to take credit for saving her life. I wanted to ask him why, but I haven't been able to speak.That's what this letter is for. My therapist says that I need to tell my side of things in order to regain my voice. She suggested that addressing my thoughts directly to you might help provide some closure.So far, it hasn't done the trick.Never your Jill,Rachael”

“I hope you don’t mind that we’re crashing,” Wes says. “I’m trying to escape a hunting expedition. No joke. Dad thinks I’ll be more of a man if I can blow a rabbit’s head off. And my response? ‘Sorry, Dad, but as tempting as it is to obliterate Peter Cottontail first thing on a Sunday morning, I promised Camelia I’d swing by her house, because she’s been begging to abuse my body for weeks.’”“And speaking of being delusional,” Kimmie segues, “did I mention that my plan to reunite my parents was totally dumb?” She leads us into my bedroom and then closes the door behind her. “They could smell the setup before their water glasses were even filled.”“How’s that?” I ask, taking a seat on my bed.“The violinist I arranged to serenade them at the table might have been a tip-off,” she begins. “Either that, or the wrist corsage I ordered for my mom. I handpicked the begonias and had the florist deliver it right to the table.”“Don’t forget about the oyster appetizer you preordered for the occasion,” Wes adds.“Because, you know what they say about oysters, right?” An evil grin breaks out across her face. ‘I know, I know.” She sighs, before I can even say anything. “I may have gone a little overboard, but what can I say? I’m a dorkus extremus. Hence my outit du jour.” She’s wearing a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform, a pair of clunky black glasses (with the requisite amount of tape on the bridge), and a cone-shaped dunce cap.“Yes, but you’re a dorkus extremus with a nice set of begonias,” Wes teases.”