Possess

staring up at her.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked.
    “What are you doing here?”
    Bridget returned to her locker. “Getting my books, Peter. Locker equals books.”
    “You’re late for class.”
    Bridget didn’t like his tone. “Yeah, I know. And you’re making me later.”
    “You’re never late for class.”
    Bridget slammed her locker door and wheeled on him. “How would you know? What are you, my stalker?”
    He didn’t answer, just stood there and stared. Peter held himself rigid, like he’d been injured and was keeping his body in a certain position to minimize the pain. His face was blank and pale. Paler than usual.
    “Peter, what’s going on?”
    “I need to talk to you.”
    “You’re supposed to be in homeroom. Zero tolerance policy for tardiness? Detention, your mortal enemy?”
    “I don’t care.”
    Bridget’s mouth fell open. Peter Kim didn’t care about detention? Peter Kim? Had the whole world gone mad?
    “I need to talk to you,” he repeated.
    “Peter, I see you every day. We have homeroom and first period together, for chrissakes.”
    She started down the hall toward homeroom, but Peter stepped in front of her, blocking her way. His eyes were hard and flat. “I need to talk to you alone .”
    She sighed and leaned back against the row of lockers. He’d been acting so weird lately. Well, weirder than normal weird. Like, creepy serial killer weird. How many times did she have to tell him that they were just friends?
    “All right, Peter. What? What do you need to talk to me about?”
    “Are you going to the Winter Formal with Matt Quinn?”
    Bridget’s jaw dropped. “What the hell?”
    His voice was very calm. “I said, are you—”
    “I heard you, Peter. I heard. How did you know about that?”
    “It’s true?”
    “Well, um . . .” A quick montage of the various times Peter had asked her to the same dance flashed through her mind: at the library, walking to the library, walking home from the library. Flail.
    “You lied to me.”
    Bridget cringed. “I didn’t lie to you.”
    “Liar,” he growled. She’d never heard such rage in his voice before.
    Was everyone in her life ganging together to put her on trial? Questions, accusations, apologies—she was sick of it. Bridget covered her eyes with her hand, rubbing her now-throbbing temples with thumb and forefinger. She didn’t need to justify herself to Peter Kim. This wasn’t any of his business.
    “Well?” Peter’s voice was a harsh whisper.
    “Look,” she said, dropping her hand to her side in a gesture of defeat. “I wasn’t planning on going. Then he asked and I—”
    The sight of Peter’s face froze the words of explanation in her mouth. He was red, deep cherry red, and shaking.
    “I. Asked. You. First!”
    His shout filled the empty hallway, bouncing off the tile floor and metallic lockers before fading to a hollow echo. He took several steps toward her, backing Bridget up against a row of lockers. His lip curled up over his teeth and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “You lied to me, Bridget Liu. You lied to me.”
    She’d never seen Peter like that. The one constant, the one lovely thing about Peter Kim was that he was as passive as a freaking kitten. She said no, he backed off. That was the pattern.
    Bridget pressed her body against the cold lockers, trying to get as far away from Peter as she could. This wasn’t the friend she’d known since she was seven. His features were contorted and his small eyes were black with rage.
    “How did you know I was going to the dance with Matt?”
    The question seemed to shake him for a moment. His eyes flickered away from her face and the redness drained from his features.
    “I, uh . . .” Peter’s voice died away. A spell had been broken. “I don’t remember.”
    Bridget sensed the power swing. She shimmied out from between Peter and the lockers. “You don’t remember who told you?”
    “Um . . .”
    The old Peter was back. Timid, unsure. He wrung his hands in front of him, and his eyes wandered around the hall like he had no idea how he’d gotten there. Poor guy.
    “I have to go,” he said. His feet stumbled forward like he was a marionette propelled on strings, pigeon-toed and jerky. “I have to go.”
    “Peter?” She couldn’t help feeling like she’d wounded him. She tried to touch him, but he flinched from her hand.
    “Leave me alone!” he screamed, then broke into a full sprint and disappeared around the