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First published in the United States of America in 2015 by Balzer + Bray,

an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright Jasmine Warga 2015
The right of Jasmine Warga to be identified as the Author of the Work has
been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the
prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without
a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN 978 1444 79153 2
eISBN 978 1444 79154 9
Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
Hodder & Stoughton policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and
recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The
logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the
environmental regulations of the country of origin.
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
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London NW1 3BH

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THURSDAY, M ARCH 14
24 days left

dont have my own car, but I do have a car that Im allowed

to use to get to and from work. The old Ford Taurus smells

like stale fast food and has torn seats, but the engine is still
chugging so its good enough for me. Steve bought it a few
years ago from a buddy of his. Its going to be Georgias car
when she turns sixteen. The good news is I wont be around
to have to share it with her.
Pulling out of TMCs parking lot, I take a left and head
toward Route 36. The road is bumpy, full of potholes. No one
here wants to pay taxes to repair it. Its kind of sad because
it could be a really scenic road since it borders the river. Not

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that the Ohio River is anything to brag about. Its muddy

and polluted and tainted with an awful history, but no matter how gross looking a river is, theres always something
magical about it because it moves. Rivers are never stuck.
When everything with my dad first happened, I used to
imagine floating down the Ohio. I fantasized that Id build a
raft and drift aimlessly downstream to where the Ohio meets
the Mississippi, and there I figured some nice family would
take me in. I used to picture them as a childless couple that
would be so happy to have a young girl. They wouldnt know
who my father was or what he did. They would love me; they
would make the bad feelings go away.
I never built that raft. And now I know that no one is
going to make the bad feelings go away.
As I continue down Route 36, I think about how this
road connects Langston to Willis. Connects me to FrozenRobot, whoever he is. Its impossible to tell when Langston
turns into Willisthe only thing separating them is this
stretch of worn road, framed by the muddy river on one side
and crabgrass on the other. Both Langston and Willis are
podunk little towns, filled with old rickety houses, rotting
wooden benches, and rusted Civil War monuments. They
both have a gas station, and it was a big deal last year when
Langston got a Wal-Mart. And they both advertise themselves as charming, trying to lure travelers to stop and have
a soda at the old diner on Main Street or take their picture
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next to the large bronze fountain that sits in front of the

courthouse. But no one ever comes to Langston or Willis
intentionally. Theyre places you cross through, not places
you visit.
As the root beer stand comes into view, I notice it looks
fairly crowded. Langston High didnt have a game tonight,
but maybe Willis did. I park my car in the gravel lot and sit
in the front seat for a few minutes. I take a couple of deep
breaths and pull at the collar of my striped shirt. My heart
pounds against my rib cagea sensation that I would have
thought is more typical of first-date jitters. Not that Ive
actually ever been on a real date, unless you count a fifthgrade rendezvous at the mall where my supposed date ate
too many Cheetos and rubbed the orange dust all over my
brand-new shirt.
But I shouldnt be nervous. This kid is obviously a loser,
just like me. We both need each other. I sneak a quick glance
at myself in the mirror and then feel like an idiot for even
caring what I look like. Its not like Im auditioning to be
FrozenRobots girlfriend.
A tap on my window startles me. I jump forward in my
seat, my chest pressing against the steering wheel. I see a boy
about my age staring at me. Hes wearing a red cap. He leans
over and taps the window again.
I roll it down.
ALS0109?
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Thats my screen name from Smooth Passages. I should

say something, but my mouth feels like its full of cotton. I
blankly stare at him.
He clears his throat and casts his eyes downward. Oh,
sorry. I guess I have the wrong person.
No, I manage to squeak out. Im Aysel.
He scrunches his eyebrows together, making a wrinkled
star in the middle of his forehead. He takes off the red cap
and holds it at his side.
ALS0109, I explain.
His lips pull into a half-moon of a smile. I dont think Ive
smiled in three years. FrozenRobot should rethink his life
choices. Maybe hes not as depressed as he thinks he is.
You arent flaking out already, are you? he asks, peering into my car. I wonder if he notices all the discarded
fast-food bags on the floor.
What would give you that impression? I think, and grip the
steering wheel. Im half tempted to press the accelerator and
leave. I wasnt ready for this. This kid is not what I expected
at all. Not. At. All. Hes not a scrawny, pimple-faced
boy who looks like hes never seen the sun in his life. No.
FrozenRobot doesnt look so frozen. Hes tall, basketball
player tall, with buzzed chestnut-colored hair and deep-set
hazel eyes. Thin, but not in the awkward, wimpy way. I
guess hes what youd call lanky. Goofy lanky even, maybe.
But still. Hes definitely not what Id imagined.
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Hey, he says. I told you I didnt want a flake. He

shakes his head. I knew this shit would happen. Especially
when I found out you were a girl.
I pull the key out of the ignition and open the door, almost
hitting him with it. Oops. What the hell is that supposed to
mean?
Well, you have to know the statistics. Like guys actually
do it and girls just talk about it.
I glare at him. Thats some sexist bullshit. And if youre
such a hard-ass, whyd you even create an account on Smooth
Passages? Why do you even want a partner?
He recoils. Whoa, I wasnt... He trails off and
scrunches his facial features together like hes thinking about
what I just said. Im not a sexist. He looks down at his
white sneakers. And Im definitely not a hard-ass.
You sure sounded like one.
A hard-ass? He looks up at me and grins. His hazel
eyes are brighter than they should be. This is all wrong.
No, a sexist. I dont return his smile.
Look, he says slowly; his voice is low and soft. Im fine
with you being a girl. Really. Im cool with girls.
Youre cool with girls? I repeat in the most deadpan
way possible.
You know what I mean.
I dont think I do.
He frowns and turns his cap over in his hand. Im really
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sorry. Can we start over?

No, I say quickly. We cant start over.
His frown grows and he shuffles his feet. His posture
was always slightly hunched, but now he starts to sink even
deeper into himself.
I watch him squirm for a second longer and then say,
But Im willing to hear you out if you have a good explanation for why you need a partner.
He sighs and puts his cap back on. He grips the bill and
folds each side down, casting a shadow over his face. Yeah,
Ill explain everything. I just thought maybe we could get
a table and we could talk about it while we eat. He pauses
and stares at me a little too long for my liking. Unless youve
already decided Im a total ass and are ready to bail.
I consider this for a moment and then shake my head.
Im not ready to bail, at least not yet. And besides, Im not
going to leave before I get some cheese fries. I walk away
from him toward the root beer stand. He jogs to catch up
with me. We trudge along in silence toward the counter
where you order.
The root beer stand, which I think is officially named
Tonys, but everyone around here just calls it the root beer
stand, is run out of a trailer. You order at the counter and the
food is prepared inside and then they bring it out to wherever you choose to sit. Theres a carnival-style tent that has
several picnic tables under it, but on really busy nights, its
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almost impossible to find a seat.

I order first. I get cheese fries and a strawberry milkshake. I take my plastic number 7 and find a seat at a picnic
table in the back. I watch FrozenRobot order. He seems to
know some of the other people here. Hes nodding at them
and saying hi. Weird. If FrozenRobot has so many friends,
why does he want to off himself?
I should probably start referring to him as Roman, but
that feels too personal. Its easier for me to think of him in
terms of his screen name. Besides, he doesnt look like someone who would want to kill himselfhes obviously still
concerned with his appearance. His hair looks like its been
recently cut, and yeah, hes dressed casually, a hoodie and
track pants, but theyre the hip kind of athletic wear. Basically, Roman seems like someone who would date Georgia
or wave from a float at the Homecoming Parade. Not someone who fantasizes about throwing himself in front of an
eighteen-wheeler.
A queasy feeling builds in the back of my mouth and I
wonder if this is all a sick joke orchestrated by my sister. I
shake that thought out of my mind. Georgia isnt interested
enough in what I do to waste energy organizing something
like this. At least I dont think so.
FrozenRobot starts to walk toward me, but two other
guys stop him. Both of them are on the taller side, but not
as tall as him. Theyre patting him on the back and hes
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