"You look like someone," said the girl. She didn't sound as he thought she would. She had red-blonde hair and eyes the color of redwood, but neither of those could be natural; she was oriental, or possibly an Amerasian. Her nose was a little narrower, a little more sharply chiseled, and her face seemed a little longer. But that could be plastic surgery. Her eyes were definitedly oriental, but they didn't have the pinched look of so many Asians. Maybe some work on those, too . . . Anyway, he had expected an accent, but she talked regular American—white American.

Well, whatever her story, his business wasn't her business. "I look like someone to you? Who, O. J."

The girl's lips thinned, but she held her temper. "You look like Louis Spotts."

There are words that put a feeling in the back of your neck, and the words the girl had said were such to Evan Maxwell. "Louis Spotts? Who dat?" he said, as mockingly as he could manage.

"He helped Lissette," the girl said. "I haven't seen you around here before."

"Yeah. Well, I guess I just musta got outta jail."

Two other girls had approached while Maxwell confronted the girl. One was another oriental, far more ordinary-looking; the other was a sister. The sister said to him, "You got a nasty mouth. Maybe we tell your mama about it."

Maxwell slammed his locker shut and stepped off, moving between the girls so they had to step aside. He didn't look back, but he saw their reflection for a moment as he opened the glass door on his way out. They were still looking at him as he left, looking and talking.