"Chloe!" The door shuddered under Annette's meaty fist.

"I'm on the toilet," I shouted back. "Can I get some privacy maybe?"

I tried just one clip at the back of my head, holding the sides up. Not bad. When I turned my head for a side view, the clip slid from my baby-fine hair.

I never should have gotten it cut. But I'd been sick of having long, straight, little-girl hair. I'd decided on a shoulder-length, wispy style. On the model it looked great. On me? Not so much.

I eyed the unopened hair color tube. Kari swore red streaks would be perfect in my strawberry blond hair. I couldn't help thinking I'd look like a candy cane. Still, it might make me look older . . .

"I'm picking up the phone, Chloe," Annette yelled.

I grabbed the tube of dye, stuffed it in my backpack, and threw open the door.

I took the stairs, as always. The building might change, but my routine never did. The day I'd started kindergarten, my mother held my hand, my Sailor Moon backpack over her other arm as we'd stood at the top of the landing.

"Get ready, Chloe," she'd said. "One, two, three —"

And we were off, racing down the stairs until we reached the bottom, panting and giggling, the floor swaying and sliding under our unsteady feet, all the fears over my first school day gone.

We'd run down the stairs together every morning all through kindergarten and half of first grade and then . . . well, then there wasn't anyone to run down the stairs with anymore.

I paused at the bottom, touching the necklace under my T-shirt, then shook off the memories, hoisted my backpack, and walked from the stairwell.

After my mom died, we'd moved around Buffalo a lot. My dad flipped luxury apartments, meaning he bought them in buildings in the final stages of construction, then sold them when the work was complete. Since he was away on business most of the time, putting down roots wasn't important. Not for him, anyway.

This morning, the stairs hadn't been such a bright idea. My stomach was already fluttering with nerves over my Spanish midterm. I'd screwed up the last test —gone to a weekend sleepover at Beth's when I should have been studying—and barely passed. Spanish had never been my best subject, but if I didn't pull it up to a C, Dad might actually notice and start wondering whether an art school had been such a smart choice.

Milos was waiting for me in his cab at the curb. He'd been driving me for two years now, through two moves and three schools. As I got in, he adjusted the visor on my side. The morning sun still hit my eyes, but I didn't tell him that.

My stomach relaxed as I rubbed my fingers over the familiar rip in the armrest and inhaled chemical pine from the air freshener twisting above the vent.

"I saw a movie last night," he said as he slid the cab across three lanes. "One of the kind you like."

"A thriller?"

"No." He frowned, lips moving as if testing out word choices. "An action-adventure. You know, lots of guns, things blowing up. A real shoot-'em-down movie."

I hated correcting Milos's English, but he insisted on it. "You mean, a shoot-'em-up movie."

He cocked one dark brow. "When you shoot a man, which way does he fall? Up?"

I laughed, and we talked about movies for a while. My favorite subject.

When Milos had to take a call from his dispatcher, I glanced out the side window. A long-haired boy darted from behind a cluster of businessmen. He carried an old-fashioned plastic lunch box with a superhero on it. I was so busy trying to figure out which superhero it was, I didn't notice where the boy was headed until he leaped off the curb, landing between us and the next car.

"Milos!" I screamed. "Watch —"

The last word was ripped from my lungs as I slammed against my shoulder belt. The driver behind us, and the one behind him, laid on their horns, a chain reaction of protest.

"What?" Milos said. "Chloe? What's wrong?"

I looked over the hood of the car and saw . . . nothing. Just an empty lane in front and traffic veering to our left, drivers flashing Milos the finger as they passed.

"Th-th-th —" I clenched my fists, as if that could somehow force the word out. If you get jammed, take another route, my speech therapist always said. "I thought I saw some-wha-wha—"

Speak slowly. Consider your words first.

"I'm sorry. I thought I saw someone jump in front of us."

Milos eased the taxi forward. 'That happens to me sometimes, especially if I'm turning my head. I think I see someone, but there's no one there."

I nodded. My stomach hurt again.

BETWEEN THE DREAM I couldn't remember and the boy I couldn't have seen, I was spooked. Until I got at least one question out of my head, focusing on my Spanish test was out of the question. So I called Aunt Lauren. When I got her voice mail, I said I'd phone back at lunch. I was halfway to my friend Kari's locker when my aunt called back.

"Did I ever live in a house with a basement?" I asked.

"And good morning to you, too."

"Sorry. I had this dream and it's bugging me." I told her what bits I could recall.

"Ah, that would have been the old house in Allentown. You were just a tyke. I'm not surprised you don't remember."

"Thanks. It was —"

"Bugging you, I can tell. Must have been a doozy of a nightmare."

"Something about a monster living in the basement. Very cliché. I'm ashamed of myself."

"Monster? What —?"

The PA system on her end cut her off, a tinny voice saying, "Dr. Fellows, please report to station 3B."

"That'd be your cue," I said.

"It can wait. Is everything okay, Chloe? You sound off."

"No, just . . . my imagination's in overdrive today. I freaked Milos out this morning, thinking I saw a boy run in front of the cab."

"What?"

"There wasn't a boy. Not outside my head, anyway." I saw Kari at her locker and waved. "The bell's going to ring so —"

"I'm picking you up after school. High tea at the Crowne. We'll talk."

The line went dead before I could argue. I shook my head and ran to catch up with Kari.

School. Not much to say about it. People think art schools must be different, all that creative energy simmering, classes full of happy kids, even the Goths as close to happy as their tortured souls will allow. They figure art schools must have less peer pressure and bullying. After all, most kids there are the ones who get bullied in other schools.

It's true that stuff like that isn't bad at A. R. Gurney High, but when you put kids together, no matter how similar they seem, lines are drawn. Cliques form. Instead of jocks and geeks and nobodies, you get artists and musicians and actors.

As a theater arts student, I was lumped in with the actors, where talent seemed to count less than looks, poise, and verbal ability. I didn't turn heads, and I scored a fat zero on the last two. On a popularity scale, I ranked a perfectly mediocre five. The kind of girl nobody thinks a whole lot about.

But I'd always dreamed of being in art school, and it was as cool as I'd imagined. Better yet, my father had promised that I could stay until I graduated, no matter how many times we moved. That meant for the first time in my life, I wasn't the "new girl." I'd started at A. R. Gurney as a freshman, like everyone else. Just like a normal kid. Finally.

That day, though, I didn't feel normal. I spent the morning thinking about that boy on the street. There were plenty of logical explanations. I'd been staring at his lunch box, so I'd misjudged where he'd been running. He'd jumped into a waiting car at the curb. Or swerved at the last second and vanished into the crowd.