“S’what I been tellin’ her for years,” Mr. Bird agreed. “Any hack can take a picture of a pelican. Sell it as a postcard for twenty-five cents. Big deal.”

“Whereas this”—Tommy pulled out a picture I’d taken of Liam and my dad tossing a football out on the lawn, my dad’s expression intent, Liam looking a little frightened—“tells an actual story.”

“Are you following me?” I demanded, snatching my photos back from Tommy and then giving him the evil eye. Which wasn’t easy. Giving him the evil eye, I mean.

Because he looked even better today than he had last night, even though he clearly hadn’t put much effort into getting dressed. He was just wearing a pair of baggy cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a Billabong slim tee.

Which was even more annoying given that it was essentially what I was wearing, minus the baggy part.

And he looked much better in it than I did.

“Wow,” Tommy said. “You used to be able to take artistic criticism. What happened?”

“You aren’t my editor anymore,” I snapped, stuffing my photos back in the envelope Mr. Bird had given me. “Now, seriously. Are you so hard up for female companionship that the only way you can get it is to stalk people?”

“What, I can’t shop in downtown Eastport if you’re in the same five-mile radius, or something?” Tommy looked more amused than insulted.

“Right,” I said sarcastically. “You aren’t following me. You just happened to walk into Eastport Old Towne Photo because you needed film.”

“Um, no,” Tommy said. “I noticed your bike parked outside. I was in the pharmacy next door, picking up a prescription for my grandmother.” He held up a white plastic bag that did, indeed, have a prescription bottle inside it.

“You think I don’t have anything better to do,” he asked, “than harass you?”

“Well, what am I supposed to think?” I demanded, flushing. “You show up where I work, you show up here…” I looked over at Mr. Bird. “Do you think that constitutes harassment?”

Mr. Bird shrugged grumpily. “What do I know about it? All I want is my twenty-seven dollars for the prints, and whatever you’re putting down today on the Digilux.”

Still blushing — what is it about this guy that I can’t stop turning red when he’s around? — I reached into my backpack and pulled out my wallet, counted out twenty-seven dollars to pay for my photos, and laid an extra fifty-dollar bill on top.

“Here,” I said to Mr. Bird. “What’s the balance on the Leica?”

Mr. Bird took out his little layaway book (he’s one of the only merchants left in the historic seaport district who’ve yet to computerize his business, or even learned how to use a computer), looked up my page, and carefully calculated my new total.

“Four hundred twenty-eight dollars,” he said. “And seventeen cents.”

Tommy whistled. “Four hundred bucks,” he said. “For acamera?”

“Actually, it’s a two-thousand-dollar camera,” Mr. Bird said, adding, almost as if he were defending me (but then, seeing as how he was Mr. Bird, I knew this wasn’t possible), “She’s paid off almost sixteen hundred dollars of it already.”

Tommy shook his head.

“No wonder you’re going for Quahog Princess,” he said to me, almost pityingly.

Something about the way he was looking at me made evenmore blood rush to my face. It was almost like — I don’t know — he feltsorry for me, or something.

Which is ridiculous, because if there’s anyone on the planet Tommy Sullivan should be feeling sorry for, it’s Tommy Sullivan.

“Thanks, Mr. Bird,” I said, throwing my prints and my wallet into my backpack and zipping it up. “See you next week.”

Then I headed for the exit, ignoring Tommy, who trailed along behind me.

It wasn’t until he sauntered over to where I was unchaining my bike from the ornate iron rack it was locked to that I lost it.

“Seriously, Tommy,” I said, straightening up from where I’d been bending over my combination lock.

“It’s Tom now,” he said calmly. He’d slipped a pair of Ray-Bans over his eyes, so I couldn’t see what color they were today. But I was guessing amber.

“Tom. Whatever,” I said. “What do you want from me?”

He didn’t look the slightest bit ruffled by my question. He didn’t even bother to answer it. “What are those prints for? The ones you just picked up?”

“I–I don’t know.” The question threw me. We weren’t talking about me. We were talking about him. And what a freak he is.Still is. “Are you trying to get back at me for not hanging out with you anymore after the whole cheating scandal came out? Is that it?”

“So are you going to have a show?” Tommy wanted to know. “A photography show? As your talent for the pageant?”

I kept right on staring at him. “Ashow? What are you talking about? No, I’m not going to have a photography show for my talent. Are you insane? Did you even hear what I said before? What was I supposed to do, Tommy? You were a social pariah.”

He ignored my question about his mental health. Also the part about being a pariah.

“Why not?” he asked, apparently in reference to my having a photography show. “You should. Those photographs are really good, Katie. Well, the ones with people in them.”

Okay. Now this was just too weird. He was giving mepageant tips?

“First of all,” I said, bending down to yank my bike lock from the rack, “since when do you know anything about photography? And second of all, you have toperform something at a beauty pageant. You have to sing or dance or something.”

Tommy’s eyebrows went up. “Wait…you’re singing?”

I glared at him. I can’t believe he remembered that I’m tone deaf.

No. Wait. I can, actually. Leave it to Tommy Sullivan to remember everynegative thing there is to know about me.

“I’m not,” I said. “I’m playing piano.”

His eyebrows went up even further. “Oh, God. Not ‘I’ve Got Rhythm.’”

I couldn’t believe it. Truly. I couldn’tbelieve he remembered.

“What?” I demanded. “I’ve gotten a lot better at it since eighth grade, you know.”

“I’ve never understood your obsession with that song,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “Especially since you don’t have any.”

“Any what?” I asked.

“Rhythm,” he said.

“I do so!” Now Ireally couldn’t believe it. “God, Tommy! And for your information, I didnot want you to kiss me last night, okay? I already have a boyfriend.”

“Two of them,” Tommy reminded me.

“Exactly. Whatever you think was going on last night…well, it wasn’t. It was all in your imagination. I mean, don’t even flatter yourself.”

“And here comes one of them now,” Tommy said.

“One of what?”

“Your boyfriends.”

I followed his gaze, and nearly choked on my own spit. Eric Fluteley was pulling up beside us in his dad’s convertible BMW.

“Katie,” he said, when he’d come up alongside the sidewalk. “There you are. I’ve been calling you all morning. Don’t you have your phone on?”

I said my favorite curse word (inside my head, though, since Quahog Princesses don’t swear), and reached into my bag. My phone was off. As usual.

“Sorry,” I said, pressing thePOWER button. “I forgot.”

“Thought so,” Eric said, with a friendly smile at Tommy, as if to say,Isn’t she cute? It was clear he had no idea who Tommy was, even though the three of us had been in many of the same classes in middle school. “I was wondering if you were going to be around later. I’m having trouble figuring out which of those headshots you took to use with my college apps, and was hoping you could come over to help me figure it out.”

Which was Eric Fluteley code forcome over to make out with me while my parents aren’t home.

“Uh,” I said, flushing. Because all this was doing was giving Tommy more ammunition to use against me. Even though he was unfamiliar with Eric Fluteley code. Still, I figured he wouldn’t have any trouble figuring it out, since college apps weren’t due for months. “I can’t today, Eric. I’ve got Quahog Princess rehearsal.”

“Oh, right,” Eric said, laughing in a very fakey way. “How could I forget? I guess I’ll see you there. Morgan Castle asked me to be her escort, you know.”

“I know,” I said flatly. Really, he was enjoying this whole make-Katie-jealous-by-hanging-out-with-Morgan-Castle thing a little too much.

“But you’ll be at the Gulp later, won’t you?” Eric asked in a way-too-casual voice.

“Uh.” I couldn’t believe this was happening. That the guy I was cheating on my boyfriend with was trying to make an appointment for more cheating…right in front of Tommy Sullivan. And he didn’t even know it. “Yeah. But. Um.”

To my astonishment, Tommy Sullivan came to my rescue.

“Is this the Z4?” he asked Eric, indicating the car Eric was driving.

“Uh,” Eric said, looking at him. “Yeah, it is. It’s my dad’s. Hey…do I know you from somewhere, dude? You look familiar.”

And before I could stop him, Tommy was leaning over the side of Eric’s car with his right hand extended. “Sure, you know me, Eric. Tom Sullivan.”

I closed my eyes. I closed them because I was pretty certain a gigantic chasm-size void had just opened up beneath my feet, and that I was about to be sucked down into it.

Because Eric Fluteley only has the biggest mouth in the entire town (well, except for Sidney). The only reason he hasn’t told everyone in Eastport about our extracurricular activities behind the emergency generator is because I told him if he did, he’d have to pay a professional photographer to do his headshots. And that could run into thousands of dollars.