Alarmed by her answer, John sets the magazine down, putting his hand in the channel of blanket between them without thinking as he turns. He feels afraid, but it’s a warm, calm sort of fear. Cognizance of the inevitable, merely trying to puzzle a shape out of the unreadable.

“If you don’t like to make a scene, how would someone know you’re about to leave?”

Maybe he’s already overstayed his welcome. Then, a pause: he blinks, catches himself too late, but fully at least.

“Never mind. Your friend Alyssa wants to copy off your math test tomorrow. She just went out on a limb for you by calling up your crush, and you know that this teacher watches the class like a hawk. So you say:

- ‘No way, chiquita.’
- you can't go along with it, but you'd be glad to help her study.
- okay, and hope for the best.”