“I do know that living in the past only messes up your present”

“If I told you, you'd only know it in your mind, not in your heart. There's a big difference.”

“You could call him,' Wes suggests. 'Why be a spectator in the game of love? Take charge. Don't wait around and let the boy call all the shots.' 'As cheesy as all of that sounds,' Kimmie adds. 'Cheese or not,I know what I'm talking about.' He sulks. 'I've lived it. I've learned it.'Kimmie lets out a laugh. 'With who,Romeo? That Wendy girl you paid to date you?''Oh, and because I don't have a dating history as big as your mouth, it doesn't quite measure up?''I hate to break this to you, but that isn't the only thing of yours that doesn't measure up.' 'Wouldn't you like to know?' He grins.”

“Oh, and because I don’t have a dating history as big as your mouth, it doesn’t quite measure up?” he asks.“I hate to break this to you, but that isn’t the only thing of yours that doesn’t measure up.” She waggles her pinkie at him.“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He grins.“I think I’m all set,” I interrupt, zipping up my bag.“Don’t forget this.” Still cuddling my sweater, Wes purrs a couple of times before tossing it my way.“Yeah, I can’t imagine why your dad thinks of you as feminine,” Kimmie mocks.”

“It's after school, after my double detentions for gym and chemistry, and I'm at Knead, about to begin working on a new piece. I wedge the clay out against my board, enjoying the therapeutic quality of each smack, prod, and punch.As the clay oozes between my fingers and pastes against my skin, images of all sorts begin to pop into my head. I try my best to push them away,to focus instead on the cold and clammy sensation of the mound and the way it helps me relax. But after only a few short minutes of solitude, I hear someone storm their way up the back stairwell. At first I think it's Spencer, but then I hear the voice:"I'm coming up the stairs," Adam bellows. "I'm approaching the studio area, about to pass by the sink."I turn to look, noticing he's standing only a few feet behind me now."I hope I didn't startle you this time," he says."Ha-ha." I hold back my smile."I would have called your cell to tell you I was coming up, but you never gave me your number.""I'm fine," I assure him, unable to stifle a giggle.”

“I clear my throat, realizing how little I’ve accomplished during this conversation. “So, everything with you is great?” I say in a final attempt to get some scoop. “No problems? No demons in your closet? Nothing weird going on?”“What’s up with you?” he asks, double-dipping a fry. “You were like this on the phone the other day, too.”“Just making conversation.”“Psycho conversation, maybe.”“Speaking of psychos,” I half joke. “Anyone in your life I should know about?”“Just one,” he says, giving me a pointed look.”

“He fakes a smile and then turns to unlock the door.I follow him inside; he stops me at the kitchen island. “I found it right here.” He points to the countertop.“You found what right where?” I ask, feeling my face scrunch up in bewilderment.“The crossword puzzle from today.” He pulls it out of his pocket. “I found it here when I was making breakfast this morning.”“Wait, you didn’t get it in the mail?”“I’m sorry; I thought I mentioned that.”“No,” I say, holding back from whacking him in the head. “I think I would’ve remembered if someone had broken into your apartment.“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and then lets out a stress-filled sigh.“So, someone broke in here last night while you were asleep?”“I’m not sure. I was thinking that, too, but then . . . what if I just didn’t see it last night when I got home?”“Are you sure you didn’t set your mail down here, maybe even for a second, and then leave this piece behind?”“What difference does it makes?”“It makes a huge difference.” My voice gets louder. “The difference between someone breaking in or not.” I peer around the kitchen and living room, trying to see if anything looks off.“I don’t know.” He reaches for a box of cereal. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed getting another puzzle in the mail, especially since we’ve been talking so much about this stuff.”“Who has a key to your apartment?”“No one that I know of.”“None of your friends? Did you leave a spare under the doormat, maybe?”“No, and no.”“Then what?” I ask, completely frustrated.“Look,” he says, running his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. “I don’t have all the answers. That’s why it’s a puzzle.”“This isn’t funny,” I tell him. “Someone’s sending you threatening notes, writing twisted messages on your door, and possibly breaking into your apartment. Worrying isn’t an option. It’s an order.”“So what do you order me to do?”“Call the police.”“And tell them what? That someone’s sending me crossword puzzles? That I got an angry message on my door, but I didn’t even feel the need to save it? They’ll give me a Breathalyzer test and ask me what I’ve been drinking.”