He said with a smile that I suppose he meant to match mine, but which was actually pretty wan, "No permanent injury. Except to my pride."

In an effort to diffuse some of the nervous energy in the room, I flopped down onto one of my mom's armchairs - the one with the Pottery Barn slipcover she was always yelling at the dog for sleeping on - and said, "Hey, it wasn't your fault the mall authority did a shoddy job of hanging up their mardi gras decorations."

I watched him carefully to see how he replied. Did he know? I wondered.

Michael sank into the armchair across from mine. "That's not what I meant," he said. "I meant that I'm ashamed of the way I acted today. Instead of thanking you, I - well, I behaved ungraciously, and I just came by to apologize. I hope you'll forgive me."

He didn't know. He didn't know why that puppet had come down on him, or he was the best damned actor I'd ever seen.

"Um," I said. "Sure. I forgive you. No problem."

Oh, but it was a problem. To Michael, it was apparently a great big problem.

"It's just that - " Michael got up out of the chair and started pacing around the living room. Our house is the oldest one in the neighborhood - there's even a bullet hole in one of the walls, left over from when Jesse had been alive, when our house was a haven for gamblers and gold rushers and fiances on their way to meet their brides. Andy had rebuilt it almost from scratch - except for the bullet hole, which he'd framed - but the floorboards still creaked a little under Michael's feet as he paced.

"It's just that something happened to me this weekend," Michael said to the fireplace, "and ever since then … well, strange things have been happening."

So he did know. He knew something, anyway. This was a relief. It meant I didn't have to tell him.

"Things like that puppet falling down on you?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Michael said. "And other things, too." He shook his head. "But I don't want to burden you with my problems. I feel badly enough about what happened."

"Hey," I said with a shrug. "You were shaken up. It's understandable. No hard feelings. Listen, about what happened to you this weekend, do you want to - "

"No." Michael, usually the quietest of people, spoke with a forcefulness I'd never heard him use before. "It's not understandable," he said vehemently. "It's not understandable, and it's not excusable, either. Suze, you already - I mean, that thing with Brad earlier today - "

I stared at him blankly. I had no idea what he was getting at. Although, looking back on it, I should have. I really should have.

"And then when you saved my life at the mall....It's just that I was trying so hard, you know, to show you that that's not who I am - the kind of guy who needs a girl to fight his battles for him. And then you did it again...."

My mouth dropped open. This was not going at all the way it was supposed to go.

"Michael," I began, but he held up a hand.

"No," he said. "Let me finish. It's not that I'm not grateful, Suze. It's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do for me. It's just that...I really like you, and if you would agree to go out with me this Friday night, I'll show you that I am not the sniveling coward I've acted like so far in our relationship."

I stared at him. It was as if the gears in my mind had slowed suddenly to a halt. I couldn't think. I couldn't think what to do. All I could think was, Relationship? What relationship?

"I've already asked your father," Michael said from where he stood in the center of our living room. "And he said it was all right as long as you were home by eleven."

My father? He'd asked my father? I had a sudden picture of Michael talking to my dad, who'd died over a decade earlier, but who frequently shows up in ghost form to torture me about my bad driving skills, and other things like that. He'd have gotten an enormous kick, I knew, out of Michael - one I'd never likely hear the end of.

"Your stepfather, I mean," Michael corrected himself, as if he'd read my thoughts.

But how could he have read my thoughts when they were in such confusion? Because this was wrong. It was all wrong. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Michael was supposed to tell me about the car accident, and then I would say, in a kind voice, that I already knew. Then I'd warn him about the ghosts, and he either wouldn't believe me, or he'd be eternally grateful, and that would be the end of it - except, of course, I'd still have to find the RLS Angels and quell their murderous wrath before they managed to get their mitts on him again.

That's how it was supposed to go. He wasn't supposed to ask me out. Asking me out was not part of the program. At least, it had never gone like that before.

I opened my mouth - not in astonishment this time, but to say, Gee, no, Michael, I'm sorry, but I'm busy this Friday … and every Friday for the rest of my life, incidentally - when a familiar voice beside me said, quickly, "Think before you say no, Susannah."

I turned my head, and saw Jesse sitting in the armchair Michael had vacated.

"He needs your help, Susannah," Jesse went on, swiftly, in his deep, low voice. "He is in very grave danger from the spirits of those he killed - however accidentally. And you are not going to be able to protect him from a distance. If you alienate him now, he'll never let you close enough to help him later when he's really going to need you."

I narrowed my eyes at Jesse. I couldn't say anything to him, of course, because Michael would hear me and think I was talking to myself, or worse. But what I really wanted to say was, Look, this is taking everything a little too far, don't you think?

But I couldn't say that. Because, I realized, Jesse was right. The only way I was going to be able to keep an eye on the Angels was by keeping an eye on Michael.

I heaved a sigh, and said, "Yeah, okay. Friday's fine."

I won't describe what Michael said after that. The whole thing was just too excruciatingly embarrassing for words. I tried to remind myself that this was probably what Bill Gates was like in high school, and look at him now. I bet all the girls who knew him back then are really kicking themselves now for having turned down his invitations to prom, or whatever.

But to tell you the truth, it didn't do much good. Even if he had a trillion dollars like Bill Gates, I still wouldn't let Michael Meducci put his tongue in my mouth.

Michael left eventually, and I made my way grumpily back up the stairs - well, after enduring an interrogation from my mother, who came out as soon as she heard the front door close and demanded to know who Michael's parents were, where he lived, where we'd be going on our date, and why wasn't I more excited? A boy had asked me out!

Returning at last to my room, I noticed that Gina was back. She was lying on the daybed, pretending to read a magazine, and acting like she had no idea where I'd been. I walked over, snatched it away from her, and hit her over the head with it a few times.

"Okay, okay," she said, throwing her arms up over her head and giggling. "So I know already. Did you say yes?"

"What was I supposed to say?" I demanded, flopping down onto my own bed. "He was practically crying."

Even as I said it, I felt disloyal. Michael's eyes, behind the lenses of his glasses, had been very bright, it was true. But he had not actually been crying. I was pretty sure.

"Oh, my God," Gina said to the ceiling. "I can't believe you're going out with a geek."

"Yeah," I said, "well, you haven't exactly been exercising much discrimination lately yourself, G."

Gina rolled over onto her stomach and looked at me seriously. "Jake's not as bad as you think, Suze," she said. "He's actually very sweet."

I summed up the situation in one word: "Ew."

Gina, with a laugh, rolled onto her back again. "Well, so what?" she asked. "I'm on vacation. It's not like it could possibly go anywhere anyway."

"Just promise me," I said, "that you aren't going to … I don't know. Get full frontal with one of them, or anything."

Gina just grinned some more. "What about you and the geek? You two going to be doing any lip-locking?"

I picked up one of the pillows from my bed and threw it at her. She sat up and caught it with a laugh. "What's the matter?" she wanted to know. "Isn't he The One?"

I leaned back against the rest of my pillows. Outside, I heard the familiar thump of Spike's four paws hitting the porch roof. "What one?" I asked.

"You know," Gina said. "The One. The one the psychic talked about."

I blinked at her. "What psychic? What are you talking about?"

Gina said, "Oh, come on. Madame Zara. Remember? We went to her at that school fair in like the sixth grade. And she told you about being a mediator."

"Oh." I lay perfectly still. I was worried if I moved or said anything much, I would reveal more than I wanted to. Gina knew … but only a little. Not enough to really understand.

At least, that's what I thought then.

"You don't remember what else she said?" Gina demanded. "About you, I mean? About how you were only going to have one love in your life, but that it was going to last until the end of time?"

I stared at the lace trim of the canopy that hung over my bed. I said, my throat gone mysteriously dry, "I don't remember that."

"Well, I don't think you heard much of what she said after that bit about you being a mediator. You were in shock. Oh, look. Here comes that … cat."