“What kind of favor?” I was pretty sure it was an innuendo, and I grappled for a way to change the subject. “Free time,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I take pictures.” I printed Photography on my paper. “I wasn’t finished,” he said. “I’ve got quite a collection going of an eZine columnist who believes there’s truth in eating organic, who writes poetry in secret, and who shudders at the thought of having to choose between Stanford, Yale, and … what’s that big one with the H?” I stared at him a moment, shaken by how dead on he was. I didn’t get the feeling it was a lucky guess. He knew. And I wanted to know how—right now. “But you won’t end up going to any of them.” “I won’t?” I asked without thinking. He hooked his fingers under the seat of my chair, dragging me closer to him. Not sure if I should scoot away and show fear, or do nothing and feign boredom, I chose the latter. He said, “Even though you’d thrive at all three schools, you scorn them for being a cliché of achievement. Passing judgment is your third biggest weakness.” “And my second?” I said with quiet rage. Who was this guy? Was this some kind of disturbing joke? “You don’t know how to trust. I take that back. You trust—just all the wrong people.” “And my first?” I demanded. “You keep life on a short leash.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You’re scared of what you can’t control.” The hair at the nape of my neck stood on end, and the temperature in the room seemed to chill. Ordinarily I would have gone straight to Coach’s desk and requested a new seating chart. But I refused to let Patch think he could intimidate or scare me. I felt an irrational need to defend myself and decided right then and there I wouldn’t back down until he did. “Do you sleep naked?” he asked. My mouth threatened to drop, but I held it in check. “You’re hardly the person I’d tell.” “Ever been to a shrink?” “No,” I lied. The truth was, I was in counseling with the school psychologist, Dr.