I used to think this was because he was really sensitive and deep.

But lately I’ve sort of come to realize it’s because most of the time, he’s just thinking about what he’s going to eat next…a lot like my brother, Liam.

Guys aren’t actually all that deep, it turns out.

Well, except Tommy Sullivan. Who apparently has been carefully plotting my social annihilation for the past four years. It’s obvious he’s just been waiting until I’d risen to my current level of popularity/happiness before making his move. Because the higher they are, the harder they fall.

And what could be higher than being Seth Turner’s girlfriend, and Sidney van der Hoff’s best friend?

And, freakishly, I played right into his hands with my own weakness where hot guys are concerned. If he hadn’t caught me making out with Eric Fluteley, he’d have nothing on me.

Well, nothing except my desire to make out with him, too.

God, what iswrong with me?

Rehearsal couldn’t end soon enough. The minute the photo op was over — Ms. Hayes had me snap shots of Morgan dancing and Sidney pretending to sing — and Ms. Hayes was like, “Well, I think that’s it for the day, people. Remember, you need to be here no later than six tomorrow night,” I kissed Seth good-bye and took off for my bike, saying I had to get my photos over to Mr. Gatch at theGazette in order for him to publish them in tomorrow morning’s edition.

After all that emotional trauma (not to mention Ms. Hayes), it was a relief to cruise over to the offices of theEastport Gazette. Because whatever crazy thing tends to be going on in my life, it fades in comparison to the crazy things that go on at a small-town newspaper. When I walked in, someone was standing at the classifieds desk screaming about his neighbor’s barking dogs, and how the paper had to print a story about it or this person was going to take his story to theNew York Times …and then we’d all be sorry.

I swear the entire town of Eastport, Connecticut, is made up of wackadoos.

I downloaded my pageant pictures into the art director’s computer. She promised to look them over and forward the best ones to Mr. Gatch, the editor in chief. I thanked her and was on my way out — I had to get home to change before my shift at the Gull ’n Gulp (Peggy won’t allow us to wear shorts to work, unless they’re neatly pressed white or khaki ones) — when I noticed the person Mr. Gatch had been having the meeting with coming out of his office.

And nearly had a coronary.

Because the person was over six feet tall, dressed in cargo shorts and a Billabong slim tee, with broad shoulders and longish, red-brown hair.

He didn’t see me. Mostly because I ducked behind a filing cabinet.

I couldn’t believe it.I couldn’t believe it. What washe doing here?

As soon as he was gone, I hurried over to Mr. Gatch’s office door, which was still open, and went,“What was Tommy Sullivan doing here?”

Mr. Gatch, who is a big, brusque man with no patience for anyone, most of all freelance photographers who are still in high school, looked up from his computer monitor in an annoyed way and went, “I’m sorry. But I fail to see how that is any of your business, Ellison.”

I blinked at him. Mr. Gatch has a reputation for crankiness, but this seemed particularly ornery to me. It wasn’t like he and I were close.

But he had asked ME, and not Dawn Ferris, the staff’s only other freelance photographer (she also works part-time at Office Max), to photograph his great-grandson’s second birthday party. I had thought this afforded us a certain level of closeness.

Apparently, I had thought wrong.

Flummoxed, I stood there in his office doorway, trying to figure out what to do. I could not — would not — leave the building until I knew why Tommy Sullivan had been in it.

Because, deep down, I was pretty sure I did know. I just needed confirmation to make sure I was right, before springing to action.

Mr. Gatch had already turned back to his computer monitor. “Shouldn’t you be at Quahog Queen practice or something?” he asked.

“It’s QuahogPrincess,” I said. He knew perfectly well what the proper royal title was. He had only been reporting about it for the past thirty years…maybe even more, if the rumors that he was in his seventies were true.

“And I think you should know,” I went on, despite the fact that Mr. Gatch’s fuzzy gray eyebrows were lowered, a sure sign he was concentrating on a particularly complex game of computer solitaire, and did not wish to be disturbed. Still, it was as if I were seized by some kind of mania. Ihad to know what Tommy had been doing in his office. I justhad to.

Which is the only explanation for why I blurted out what I did next. Which was, “The Quahogs are planning a blanket party for him.”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I was desperately wishing them unsaid. What waswrong with me? I was ratting out my own boyfriend — well, one of them, anyway — to my town’s biggest gossip (well, besides my best friend and my other boyfriend).

Mr. Gatch’s fuzzy gray eyebrows instantly lurched upward. But not, as I assumed, because he sensed a lead and was trembling with excitement to write it.

“Are they, now?” he asked me mildly. “And just what do you expectme to do about it?”

“Well,” I said, flummoxed again. “I…I don’t know. I just thought you should know.”

Mr. Gatch’s hatred for the Quahogs (due to his dislike for all organized sports) was legendary. He was the one who’d spied Tommy’s story in theEagle, and had gone ahead and checked on Jake Turner’s SAT score (which had, indeed, gone up by three hundred points from his previous attempt at the exam), and the scores of the other team members Tommy fingered (equally impressively — and incredibly — spiked), and blew the story townwide (and, ultimately, statewide).

Surely, hearing that the Quahogs were now planning something as dastardly as a blanket party, Mr. Gatch would leap to his favorite cub reporter’s defense…maybe write one of his scathing, bitter editorials, like the one that had outraged so many town officials, about how so many cats in town were suffering from hyperthyroidism, a direct result, Mr. Gatch believes, of impurities in Eastport’s drinking water supply.

But instead, Mr. Gatch said, “If there’s anyone who should know, it would be Tommy Sullivan, don’t you think, Katie?”

I stared at him, openmouthed. WarnTommy? Was that what he was saying? That I ought to warn Tommy what Seth and his friends were planning?

But…what would be the point in that? Tommy Sullivan was back in town for one thing, and one thing only: revenge. To ruin the lives of everyone who contributed to the ruination of his, four years earlier.

In other words…mine.

Surely, it was in my best interest to let Seth and his friends do their worst.

Wasn’t it?

And yet…if it were, what was I doing in Mr. Gatch’s office, hoping my telling him what the Quahogs were up to would induce him to stop them, somehow?

There was only one explanation for it. And it wasn’t one I liked one little bit.

Swallowing hard, I said, “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Gatch.”

And then I turned around. And I got out of there as fast as I could.

Twelve

So. It had happened at last. Liam’s taunt, with which he’d been teasing me for years, was finally coming true.

I should have realized what was going on a long time ago. It all made perfect sense. The fact that I was going out with the hottest, most popular guy in school…yet making out, behind his back, with another guy.

The fact that I couldn’t bring myself to decide which of these guys I liked better, because the truth was, I didn’t like either of them all that much, except to make out with.

The fact that I had lied about it to both of them — and my best friend, and all of their friends, and my parents, and myself, too — so many times, I couldn’t even figure out anymore who I’d told what when about whom.

It had been there all the time, the plain, simple truth. Liam had been the only one ever to accuse me of it to my face:

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

It was true. I’m a liar. And I can’t stop thinking about boys.

I knew Mr. Gatch was right, and that I had to tell him. Tommy, I mean. Even though I was convinced he was up to no good — and the fact that I’d seen him in Mr. Gatch’s office just proved it. Whatever the two of them were cooking up together, you could bet that nothing good was going to come out of it. At least, nothing good for Katie Ellison.

And yet…could I really stand by and let that gorgeous face get bashed in?

No. I couldn’t.

Which I will admit makes me insufferably weak. But is that really such a surprise? That I’m weak, I mean?I make out with guys behind emergency generators. What else is someone going to call me? Besides a tease, which Sidney already told me I’m in danger of becoming if I don’t start putting out. As if I care.

I tried to stop myself, though. I took my time about changing clothes when I got home. I checked my e-mail. I flipped through the newUs Weekly. I played around with my makeup. I made and ate a tuna fish sandwich. I waited until the absolute last minute until I had to leave the house, or be late for work, then looked up the number to Tommy’s grandparents’ house and dialed it.

Tommy’s grandmother answered.

“Hi, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said in the chipperest voice I could manage. “It’s Katherine Ellison, Tommy’s old friend from school?”