He lay back in the middle of his bed, springs squeaking, then patted a spot at the edge.

"I'd say this is the first time I've had a girl in my bed . . . if I didn't mind sounding like a total loser."

I reached over to put my books on the beside table, hiding my blush. As I opened my text, to look like we were working on it, I knocked the binder off Derek's. I glimpsed the cover and did a double take.

College Algebra with Trigonometry.

I flipped through the pages.

"If you can understand any of that, you're way ahead of me," Simon said.

"I thought Derek was in tenth grade."

"Yeah, but not in algebra. Or geometry. Or chemistry, physics, or biology, though he's only in twelfth grade in the sciences."

Only twelfth . . . ?

When he said that no one would question us working on math together, he hadn't meant that he needed help. Great. It was bad enough Derek thought I was a flighty blond, jumping at every noise. Apparently he figured I wasn't too bright, either.

I put the binder back on top of Derek's text.

"Tori . .. she didn't give you a hard time or anything, did she?" he asked. "About yesterday."

I shook my head.

He exhaled and crossed his arms behind his head. "Good. I don't know what her problem is. I've made it clear that I'm not interested. At first, I tried being nice about it, brushing her off. When she didn't take a hint, I told her I wasn't interested. Now, I'm downright rude to her and she still won't back off."

I twisted around to see him better. "I guess that would be hard —having someone really like you and you aren't interested back."

He laughed. "The only person Tori really likes is Tori. I'm just a stand-in until she can get back to her football captains. Girls like Tori need to have a guy —any guy—and here I'm her only option. Peter was way too young and Derek's—Derek's not her type. Trust me, if another guy walks in here, she'll forget I exist."

"I don't know about that. I think she might really —"

"Puh-lease. Do I look like diva bait to you?" He turned onto his side, head propped on his arm. "Oh, sure, when Derek and I start at a new school, I'll get some attention from the clique girls. Like" —he raised his voice to a falsetto—"'Hey, Simon, I was, like, wondering if you could maybe, you know, help me with my homework after school? 'Cause it's, like, math and, like, you're Chinese, right? I bet you're sooo good at it.'"

He rolled his eyes. "First, my Dad's Korean and my mom was Swedish. Second, I totally suck at math. I don't like cuckoo clocks or skiing or fancy chocolate either."

I sputtered a laugh. "I think that's Swiss."

"Huh. So what's Swedish?"

"Urn, I don't know. Meatballs?"

"Well, I kind of like those. But probably not Swedish ones.

"So what do you like?"

"In school? History. Don't laugh. And I'm not bad in English. I write mean haiku, which, by the way, is Japanese."

"I knew that." I glanced up at the drawings on his walls. "You must ace art, though. Those are amazing."

His eyes lit up, amber glinting in the deep brown. "Not sure about amazing, but thanks. Actually, I don't ace art. Last year, I barely passed. I pissed off the teacher because I kept handing in my comics. I was doing the assignments, just taking the techniques and using them for my stuff. She thought I was being a smart-ass."

"That's not fair."

"Well, when I kept handing in my stuff even after the first couple of warnings, I probably was being a smart-ass. Or just stubborn. Anyway, I'm not that great in school overall —a solid B minus student. Derek's the genius. My best class is gym. I'm into cross-country, hurdles, B-ball, soccer . . ."

"Oh, I played soccer." I stopped. "Well, a while ago. A long while ago. Like back when we'd all chase the ball like a swarm of bumblebees."

"I remember those days. I'll have to give you some brush-up lessons, so we can start a team. The Lyle House soccer club."

"A very small club."

"No, a very exclusive club."

I leaned back on my elbows, reclining on the bed. The last time I'd talked one-on-one like this with a guy was . . . well, probably back before I stopped thinking of them as "other kids" and started thinking of them as "boys."

"Speaking of exclusive clubs," I said, "I hope you asked me up here planning to answer some questions."

"My company isn't enough?" His brows shot up in mock outrage, ruined by the gleam in his eyes. "Okay, you've been patient long enough. What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

We grinned at each other.

"Okay, you're a necromancer and I'm a sorcerer. You speak to the dead and I cast spells."

"Is that why you're here? You did something?"

"Nah." He paused, a shadow crossing his face. "Well, kind of, but not magic. Something happened. With Der —" He cut himself short. From Derek's file, I knew why he was here, though I wasn't about to admit it. "Anyway, something happened, and then my dad disappeared and it's a very long story, but the short version is that we're stuck here until someone figures out what to do with us."

And until Derek was "cured," I supposed. That's why Simon didn't have a file or go to therapy. He wasn't here for any problem. When their dad left, the authorities must have brought Derek here, and decided to leave Simon with him.

"So what else is there? What other kind of. . ." I struggled for a word.

"Supernaturals. The different types are called races. There aren't very many. The biggies would be necros, sorcerers, witches —which are the girl spellcasters. Similar, but a different race, and not as strong as sorcerers, or so everyone says. What else? Half-demons, but don't ask me about them because I know next to nothing. Derek knows more. Oh, and shamans. They're good healers and they can astral project."

"Astral . . .?"

"Leave their bodies. Move around like a ghost. Cool for cheating on tests or sneaking into the girls' locker room . . . for guys who'd do that kind of thing . . ."

"Uh-huh. You said Derek knows more about half- demons. Is that what he is?"

He glanced toward the hall, head turning as if making sure he could still hear the water running.

"You dragged it out of me, okay?"

"Huh?"

He turned onto his side, moving close enough to brush my leg. His voice dropped. "About Derek. What he is. If he asks, you dragged it out of me."

I straightened, annoyance flickering. "So Derek doesn't want me to know what he is? The same guy who threw necromancer in my face and demanded I accept it. If he doesn't want —"

"He does. He will. It's just. . . complicated. If you don't ask, he won't tell you. But if you ask . . ."

His eyes lifted to mine, pleading with me to make this easy.

I sighed. "Fine, I'm asking. What's Derek? One of these half-demon things?"

"No. There's not really a name for what he is. I guess you could call it the superman gene, but that's really cheesy."

"Uh-huh."

"Which is why they don't call it that. Guys like Derek have . . . physical enhancements, you might say. Extra strong, as you saw. Better senses, too. That kind of thing."

I glanced at the math text. "Smarter?"

"Nah, that's just Derek. Or so my dad says."

"Your dad's a . . . sorcerer, too, then, I guess. So he knows others . . . like us?"

"Yeah. Supernaturals have a kind of community. Maybe network is a better word. You know others so you can talk to them, get things you can't get from the regular world, whatever. My dad used to be right into it. These days, not so much. Stuff. . . happened."

He went quiet for a moment, plucking at a loose thread on the comforter, then he dropped it and flopped onto his back again. "We'll get into all that later. Huge story. Short answer is, yes, Dad used to be into the whole supernatural network. He worked for this research company, supernatural doctors and scientists trying to make things easier for other supernaturals. Dad's a lawyer, but they needed people like that, too. Anyway, that's how we got Derek."