I sighed, wishing Sam’s attentions were sincere, and watched as our teacher wrote the title of our new novel on the chalkboard. Pride and Prejudice. Then out came the big box of paperbacks, distributed to us like the slap of breaded chicken patties on our hot-lunch trays.

I picked up my copy. A second later I felt Sam trace a pattern on my arm with his pinky, and I rolled my eyes. Guess he was more bored than usual. Just as I was about to tell him to knock it off yet again, I heard the first tsk.

In a panic of self-consciousness, I dropped the book back on my desk and glanced at our classmates. No one seemed to be paying any attention to us in the far-right row. Everyone looked lost in their own daydreams or make-out fantasies or whatever.

But I heard more tsking.

“Who said that?” I asked Sam, shooting a look behind me.

“Who said what?”

“The tsk, tsk noises.”

Sam’s forehead crinkled. He motioned me closer and I bent back toward him, a mere three inches away from his mocking blue eyes and those ever-smirking lips. I tried hard to keep my view of him peripheral. Gazing head-on at Sam’s striking features always made me sweat.

Another tsk came from somewhere in the room.

“That! Did you hear it?” I asked, swiveling around in my seat until I faced him. My eyes darted around in hopes of spotting the tsker.

But Sam didn’t seem to have heard it. Instead he simply grinned, his hand nudging my left shoulder until I made full eye contact with him. “Must be your subconscious speaking. It’s saying — ” He tilted his head to the side and squinted as if in deep concentration. “‘Ellie Barnett needs more sexual experience or she’ll die a virgin.’”

Then his hand slipped lower.

He covertly grazed the side of my left breast with his palm, his fingers daring to dance along the bra’s underwire before breaking the connection between us.

I stifled a gasp and stared at him, my mouth agape. For a split second I thought, Did he mean to do that? Was he seriously making a move on me? Then common sense took over, and I knew this had to be one of his little jokes. Sam loved games.

He sent me a smug, defiant look. His hand, an inch away, was still poised for grasping.

Before he could try that trick again, I seized his wrist with my long, strong, meticulously polished fingernails, and I used them as pink claws to dig four crescent-shaped notches into his hairless inner arm. Deep, darkening imprints against that pale skin.

Sam grunted and pulled away. Unfortunately, his moan elicited the attention of our teacher.

“Miss Barnett. Mr. Blaine.” She elongated her syllables with believable menace. “Please flirt on your own time.”

The class snickered and my face burned, making me wish I could bolt out the door and hide in the girls’ bathroom. I stole a glance at Sam. He didn’t quite have the decency to blush, but he slunk down in his seat, obviously displeased at getting caught.

With her reprimand delivered, Mrs. Leverson busied herself locating the handouts for our next novel.

The second she turned her back, Sam hissed in my ear, “Shit, Ellie. Are you trying to scar me for life?” He pointed to the marks on his inner wrist and had the nerve to look indignant.

I fought for a retort that wouldn’t get me in trouble. All I could come up with, though, was the really bitchy glare my sister had perfected on my parents, my brother and me.

“Leave me alone, Sam,” I managed to say, attempting to replicate the glare. “I mean it.”

Of course, I didn’t mean it. And Sam knew this.

He was too bright not to have noticed the way I’d studied him all semester, how I sparkled like a mirrored disco ball whenever he paid attention to me. Even getting to second base might’ve been okay if his interest in me were genuine. And if we were somewhere private.

But Sam did not exude earnestness of any kind, and his motives were nothing if not a complete mystery. He had what the adults called “an attitude,” and he was copping it big-time that day.

“You…don’t…want me…to…touch you?” Sam said, his tone indicating disbelief. He knew I knew that virtually every other girl in our grade would’ve gladly agreed to be manhandled by him.

But I whispered, “No.”

As if guessing the hypocrisy of my words, he narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth. I turned away before he could speak.

Why? Because even then I craved this silly romantic thing. Craved it despite knowing it was stupid. I wanted my first real boyfriend to write me love notes that I could hide in my pocket and reread later. Or hold my hand and dance with me to the latest Journey ballads. Or refuse to tell his friends the exciting things we might do in the back row of a dimly lit movie theater.

I didn’t want some guy playing with my emotions for in-school entertainment, especially not the very guy I’d had a secret crush on for eons. No. I wanted pure romantic fantasy. And I got it.

But not from Sam Blaine.

“Our next novel is Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice,” Mrs. Leverson informed us, waving her handouts in the air before plopping them on Tanya Hammersley’s desk and motioning for her to distribute them. “While Tanya passes these out, take a moment to look at your new novel.”

I picked up the book again, flipped to the back cover and scanned it doubtfully: The sparring of an opinionated young couple in nineteenth-century England creates the classic and enduring romantic theme of Pride and Prejudice.

Oh, ugh. This hardly sounded like high conflict, but I forced myself to keep reading: Clever and vivacious Elizabeth Bennet is both drawn to the aloof Mr. Darcy and repulsed by his arrogance, acrid tongue and condescending behavior toward everyone in the neighborhood.

I imagined using the word “acrid” in a sentence. Like: Sam Blaine deserved to be locked up in a dank dungeon until his groping fingers and his acrid tongue disintegrated. Nice, huh?

The passage continued: Darcy and Elizabeth’s lively and unlikely courtship is played out on a genteel stage, with parlor flirtations, assembly-ball intrigues…And blah, blah, blah.

I decided to go ahead, against all clichéd warnings, and judge a book by its cover. It was written too long ago to be any good, despite boasting a vivacious heroine who had a name similar to mine. And, anyway, between dealing with the rest of my schoolwork and just making it through the day, my attention span was limited.

Our teacher droned on about the setting and the political climate of Regency England and how dear old Jane spent her days confined to doing dull things like strolling in the park and writing letters, because that was what fine women did back then.

I listened, more or less. But then Mrs. Leverson began telling us about the principal characters in Austen’s novel, and the weirdest thing happened.

“Along with Darcy and Elizabeth, George Wickham is an important character to study,” she said. “He’s a militia officer and his regiment is stationed near the Bennets’ family home. As you read your first assignment tonight, pay special attention to the way Austen introduces him and describes his actions.”

I was seized by a curiosity I didn’t understand about a character I’d never heard of before.

As Mrs. Leverson moved on to secondary players in the story, I flipped through the novel, reading random paragraphs until I saw the first mention of the Wickham guy on page sixty-three. I skimmed the section, getting the flavor of this man who, since he didn’t wind up with the heroine at the book’s conclusion, couldn’t really be as admirable as he seemed, when I heard a lady’s voice in my ear.

Beware, Ellie, the voice said before following this up with a decided tsk or two. Sam Blaine is your Mr. Wickham.

Fear seized my throat and all-out panic gripped my stomach. Okay. Who said that?

I blinked, then glanced wildly in every direction. Even Sam was keeping his distance, for once.

“What?” I said aloud to the unidentified voice. A few students nearby turned their heads to shoot me an odd look.

Sam, sounding sulky, muttered, “Don’t look at me. I didn’t do anything.”

I squinted at him, suspicious.

You would do well to heed my advice, friend, said the voice, and I could’ve sworn I heard an ironic little laugh right along with an unmistakably British accent. I am well acquainted with men of his ilk, and they are disinclined to be honourable. You had best keep your distance.

Not that I doubted her words or anything — she’d nailed Sam’s character in a sentence — but this whole hearing voices thing seriously freaked me out. I considered the possibilities:

• Maybe I’d been whacked in the head one too many times with a volleyball that week. Gym class had been brutal.

• Maybe my depraved sister had slipped some acid into my lunch. My turkey sandwich had tasted a little off.

• Maybe I’d been studying too hard. After all, keeping up a 4.0 GPA was draining. Or, maybe —

You are neither ill nor suffering from head injuries, Ellie, the lady’s voice said, her tone still amused.

I couldn’t believe I was going to respond to this, but, hey, it seemed my life wasn’t weird enough already. Even if replying put me into the Potentially Insane category, I needed to know who this woman was and what she was doing in my head.

So I asked, in silence this time, Who are you?

I heard the twittery laughter again, but not one of my classmates had uttered a sound.