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thirty-three,” I said, figuring, what do I care? I never have anything important in my locker anyway.
    Spinning the dial, Carson asked, “Who else has it?”
    “What?”
    “Your combination.”
    Just because I’ve never given my combination to anybody before doesn’t mean I never can, or that it means anything if I do tell somebody. “Nobody.”
    “So I’m your only one.” He grinned at me.
    “Well,” I hedged. “Besides me.”
    He yanked open my lock. “I’m in,” he said. “There’s no getting rid of me now.”
    “Hey, do you have a dark spot on your eye?” I had never noticed it before, but in the midst of his wide hazel iris was a tear-shaped spot of black.
    “That’s my witch-eye,” Carson whispered, leaning close. “My bio teacher, Mr. Garcia—did you have him?”
    I nodded.
    “He told me it was a witch-eye. He said I have magical powers. So watch out—maybe I’ll bewitch you.”
    “The bio teacher believes in witchcraft?” I shook my head. “What does that say about our science curriculum?” I couldn’t help noticing some of the girls in my grade congregating at the end of the row of lockers, watching this. They really follow him around like a swarm. I dumped my morning books into my locker and excavated my chemistry stuff.
    “Well?” Carson asked. “What do you believe in? Chemistry? Cold hard science?”
    “Chocolate, books, and true love,” I answered.
    He smiled at me. “Me, too. At least chocolate and books. Love is a brat.”
    “Yeah. A brat?”
    “Absolutely,” he said, leaning against the next locker, his face close to mine. “Whatever you don’t love, loves you. But whatever you love tends to kick your butt.”
    “You think?”
    “Trust me,” he whispered. “Stick with chocolate and books.”
    “That’s been my strategy so far,” I told him. “I was kidding about the true love part. It was a quote.”
    “Aristotle?”
    “Zandra.”
    He looked perplexed.
    “My friend. You met her.”
    “Okay,” he said. “Chocolate, books . . . and fate.”
    “Fate? Nah.”
    “How about football?”
    “I don’t think so. Rock and roll?”
    “Keep an open mind. Come over Sunday for the Eagles game.”
    “Um . . .”
    “A bunch of people are coming over around three. We’ll have some food, you know, hang out.”
    “The thing is . . .” I said, thinking, I’d rather stick needles in my eyes . I know the people he’s friends with. Beautiful People. People who toss balls around in the courtyard at lunch instead of arguing about Ayn Rand. Players. Anyway, I was busy. “I have a party from two to four.” I bent down to search for a pen in the bottom of my locker.
    “Blow it off,” he said. “Mine will be more fun. I promise.”
    “I can’t blow it off. I’m working at it.”
    “So come straight from it. I’ll save you a seat.”
    “Thanks,” I said, standing up. “But . . .”
    “Come on, Josie.” He leaned close and whispered in my ear, “I really want you there.”
    “Yeah?” I asked, slamming my locker shut. “And do you always get what you want?”
    “Yes,” he said.

Six
    “CARSON GOLD?” Michael asked, hooking leashes on Fluffy and Sarge. “Seriously?”
    “That’s what I’m saying,” I said.
    “The Golden Boy?”
    “You know another Carson Gold?”
    “Your mother must think she died and went to heaven. Captain of every team, president of every club . . .”
    I shoved Michael, but added, “Able to leap tall buildings, blah blah blah.”
    Michael locked the door behind us. Every day after school he walks Fluffy and Sarge, then brings them home and brushes them, all for twenty dollars a week. I go with him sometimes, since Fluffy and Sarge live with Annabel and Tom in the house between my house and Michael’s, on our little dead end, one of five dead ends in our development. Michael is madly in love with Annabel. That’s really why he walks the dogs, not the twenty bucks. “So what did he ask you to do exactly?”
    “He wants