Within a minute, I’d found one. In the picture, Ryder was standing between his parents. His dad was older than I expected. Or maybe he just looked old because of stress. I knew politicians supposedly aged quickly. His hair was gray but well kept. He had Ryder’s bright green eyes and a charismatic smile that could definitely win a vote or two. On Ryder’s other side was his mom, a very pretty black woman in a perfectly tailored suit. She was tall — taller than her husband — and while her eyes were darker than Ryder’s, they had the same shape, large and striking.

And in the middle was Ryder, dressed in a suit very similar to his dad’s. His hair was a little longer then, but not too much. What I couldn’t help noticing, though, was his smile. It was huge and genuine and … so happy. I’d never seen the boy from my class smile like that before. I didn’t know he could.

ME: I could help you Parent Trap them if you like?

RYDER: What?

ME: The Parent Trap?

RYDER: Sorry. Still lost.

ME: Oh. My. God.

ME: You’re kidding, right?

ME: THE PARENT TRAP? Twin girls meet for the first time at summer camp and scheme to reunite their parents? The remake starred pre-train-wreck Lindsay Lohan?

ME: YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN THE FREAKING PARENT TRAP????

RYDER: I have not, but does this really warrant cyber-shouting?

ME: YES!!!!!!

RYDER: Okay.

ME: I weep for your childhood.

I spent the next twenty minutes explaining the plot of The Parent Trap to him, complete with YouTube clips from both the original film and the remake. When I was done, Ryder informed me that it didn’t sound like that great of a movie, and I told him to, with all due respect, shove it.

But we kept IMing after that. About other movies (he was totally into indie art-house flicks, the more subtitles the better, which is, frankly, disgusting) and books (we both struggled with Shakespeare and hated Nathaniel Hawthorne with equal passion) and just … random stuff.

ME: Okay, deep dark secret time. I am a wannabe grunge rocker.

RYDER: Seriously?

ME: Seriously. I don’t play any instruments. I can’t sing to save my life. But I guess that didn’t stop Courtney Love. And I have a lot of secret angst.

ME: If I could pull off flannel, I’d wear it every day.

RYDER: I think you’d look cute in flannel.

I blushed, then realized I was blushing and immediately felt disgusted with myself.

RYDER: So what are you secretly angsty about?

RYDER: If I can ask.

ME: Mostly my mom.

RYDER: This seems to be a running theme this evening.

ME: She is … flaky. To say the least. Unreliable. Truthfully, sometimes I think she wishes she never had me. Sometimes I think she pretends she didn’t.

The second I sent that message, I regretted it. It was way more than I’d planned to share. It was too honest. Too much. Too close.

I didn’t talk about my mom. Not in detail. Not even with Amy. I was the queen of glossing over things. Of turning small truths into big lies.

But now Ryder Cross, of all people, knew one of my darkest secrets. Or, at least, a tiny piece of it. I felt uncomfortable, suddenly, and I was eternally grateful that he couldn’t see me. That even though I’d shared too much, I could at least hide behind this computer screen.

RYDER: Wow. That does sound like inspiration for a grunge album.

RYDER: I won’t push you to talk about it, but obviously I understand complicated family situations, so if you ever want to share, I’m here to listen.

ME: Thank you.

We chatted for a little while longer, mostly about his favorite band — Goats Vote for Melons, which I’d never heard of, despite his fears that they were becoming too “mainstream.”

ME: God, you are such a hipster.

RYDER: Ugh. I’m NOT a hipster.

ME: Exactly what a hipster would say.

He sent me the smiley face with its tongue sticking out. Very mature and all. Then he wrote:

RYDER: I should probably go. It’s late.

RYDER: Whoa — look out your window.

ME: Both creepy and cryptic, but all right.

I glanced up and gasped, startled. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to peek over the trees. I looked at the clock and was stunned to see that it was nearly six in the morning.

I’d been IMing with Ryder all night.

ME: Wow.

RYDER: I know.

ME: I had no idea we were on here this long.

RYDER: Me either.

ME: I should get to bed.

RYDER: Me, too. But I really liked “talking” to you.

ME: I liked “talking” to you, too.

And, weirdly, I had.

ME: Let’s do this again sometime.

RYDER: I’d like that.

ME: Okay, well … good night. Or, good morning?

RYDER: LOL. Good morning, Amy.

I frowned, reading his message again.

Amy?

I was about to write back, to correct him, but he’d already logged off. I figured maybe it was just a typo, a mistake. We were both sleep deprived, after all. But as I was about to log out, a terrible realization hit me.

Amy had never logged out earlier. Why would she? It was her computer, after all.

I’d been instant messaging with Ryder for hours, and this whole time — this whole damn time — he thought I was Amy Rush.

And that’s how this whole stupid thing began — with a lie that I, for once, hadn’t even meant to tell.

“Wait … so he thinks he was talking to me?” Amy turned to face me, stopping our Saturday morning trek through the hub of commercialism and public massage chairs known as Oak Hill Mall.

I gave her a sheepish grin, one I had perfected a long time ago. Amy didn’t look so much angry as … horrified.

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were logged in. On the plus side, he’s not mad about the e-mail.”

I expected her to point out that it was her laptop and Ryder had e-mailed her so of course she was logged in and how could I be so stupid? But this was Amy. Ever-sweet, ever-forgiving Amy.

“It’s an honest mistake,” she said. We kept walking, dodging around a group of middle school girls who were emerging from Hot Topic. “But what does this mean? What did you two even talk about all night?”

“Nothing,” I said. “And … everything? It was bizarre. He’s obnoxious, but … maybe he’s not quite as awful as I thought?”

“Well, I guess that’s nice to know.”

We stepped into the food court and headed toward the closest counter. A bored-looking guy stood behind the cash register, readjusting his navy-blue hat that was, by far, the worst part of his work uniform. It made me wish I didn’t have to ask him my next question, but alas, a girl’s gotta make a living.

Or at least make enough money to buy a new cell phone.

“Hey,” I said to the bored guy. “This place hiring?”

“Yeah.”

That was seriously all he said. Then he stared at me, his eyes nearly as dead as his monotone voice. Dear God, I hoped something besides this job had been responsible for sucking out his soul.

“Can I get an application?” I asked.

“I guess.”

He turned around and went in search of an application, moving slow and stiff, like a zombie. A zombie that smelled like deli meat.

I turned to Amy and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged.

“So, anyway,” she said. “About Ryder —”

“Amy!”

Amy jumped and we both turned to see a thin, blond girl waving. She was probably a few years older than us, and she was sitting alone, eating a burrito. She kept waving, then signaled Amy to come over and join her.

I looked at Amy. The smile she gave in return was fake, but only I would’ve known that. She raised her hand in a small, embarrassed wave and then turned away, ducking her head as if she hadn’t realized the girl wanted us — well, not us, Amy — to join her.