DEDICATION

ForJim

CONTENTS

Dedication

One:MadisonTwo:JesseThree:MadisonFour:JesseFive:MadisonSix:JesseSeven:MadisonEight:Jesse

Nine:MadisonTen:JesseEleven:MadisonTwelve:JesseThirteen:MadisonFourteen:JesseFifteen:MadisonSixteen:JesseSeventeen:MadisonEighteen:JesseNineteen:MadisonTwenty:JesseTwenty-One:Madison

Twenty-Two:JesseTwenty-Three:MadisonTwenty-Four:JesseTwenty-Five:Madison

AcknowledgmentsBackAdAbouttheAuthorBooksbyRobinConstantineCreditsCopyrightAboutthePublisher

ONEMADISON

“BREATHE,”LEIFCOMMANDED.I reached out from my

waist, hips aligned, thenleading with my right hand,tilted toward the ground,forming a perfect triangle.

Trikonasana was my pose. Iwasastatue.Arock.Myfeetfirmly planted on my stickymat.

Leif, a.k.a. Hot Yogi,stalked the room with hishands clasped behind hisback. Slouchy black pants,gray tank, dark eyes lookingateveryoneandnoone.

Itwashardnot topicturehimnaked.

“Trikonasana is a full-

bodyopener.Spiralthefemurbone inward, feel the stretchacrossthefrontofyourchest,same as cobra. Imagineyourself between two panesof glass.” His gravelly voiceechoed all the way down tomyrootchakra.

Between two panes ofglass.

Withyou,Leif.Wren looked over her

shoulder and wiggled her

fingers in greeting as shereached toward the ceiling.We’d been taking class onThursday nights at NamasteYoga along with my momsinceNovember.Momtookitto stave off her midforties.When she asked me to joinher, I beggedWren to comealong so at least I’d havesomeone to snicker with.Turned out,we both enjoyedthe chill feelingwehadafter

class.IalsolikeditbecauseIwas height-challenged, butafter an hour of stretching, Ifeltaboutsixfeettall.(Okay,maybemorelikefivefootsix—still, taller.) For the firstmonth a pear-shaped, aginghippienamedLenataughttheclass.Heramplebootydefiedgravity but halfway throughJanuary she herniated a discinher lowerbackand tookaleaveofabsence.

InwalkedLeif.The class had started out

with fifteen women. Afterword of the Adonis in yogapants, it doubled in size.Wren and I were the tokenhigh schoolers. The majorityof the class was made up ofmomsandtwentysomethings.Therewereahandfulofguyswhoeithercametoclasswiththeir wives or seemed toknow Leif from the other

studio where he taught. I’dnever wished for an hour tofeel longer inmywhole life.HemadeSanskritsexy.

LeifstoppedbesideWrenandtouchedthespotbetweenher shoulder blades, thenleaned down and whisperedsomething to her. Shelengthened into the pose,reaching upward with heroutstretchedarm.Her fishtailbraid slipped from her

shoulder as she lookedtoward the ceiling. The sideof her mouth curled in analmostimperceptiblegrin.

“Nice,” he said, beforewalkingovertothenextmat.

The thought of royallyscrewing up so Leif wouldcome over and adjust mecrossed my mind. On theother hand, I wanted him tonotice how effortless I madeevery pose. I was beginning

todefygravitymyself.Itooka breath and settled intostillness.Leifmovedpastme.Forthebarestofseconds,myeyesmethis.

“This is an active pose.Feel the energy shooting outfromyourfingertips.”

In that sip of a moment,energy shot through moreplaces than my fingertips.Zowee.Iwobbled.

In our next downward

dog,Wrenpeeredatmefromunderherarmpits.

Omigod,shemouthed.Bitch, I mouthed back,

butsmiled.We’dhadabetonwhich

one of us Hot Yogi wouldadjust first. I owed her anafter-class chai latte. Sheshookherheadandsmiledaswe moved forward intowarriorone.

“Breathe.”

All the reminders tobreathe used to get on mynerves; as if breathing wassome airy-fairy cure-all andnot something you didautomatically. One littlepause, though, wassometimes all it took for metorefocus—evenoff themat.Breathe. When I wonderedhowI’dscrapeupthemoneyto go to the summer artsprogram at the NJ Design

Institute.Breathe.WhenZachkept bringing up the subjectof getting serious. Breathe.Whensometimesitfeltlikeitwouldbeyearsbeforemylifereallybegan.

I dreamed of buildingsomething beautiful. A treehouse. A home. Hell, askyscraperthatglowedpurpleatnight.Andthejourneyofathousand steps toward mydream was a summer

program to gain somepractical experience so myrésumé would stand out. I’dwanted to go to Pratt’ssummer program, but NJDIwasmore inmy price range.And if I kept my GPA over3.8,killeditontheSATs,andhad a portfolio to die for—Pratt could be my future.Wheneveranyonetellsyoutoshoot for your dreams,though, they never mention

the cashish involved.Buzzkill.

We moved down to thefloor series, ending withhappy baby, a pose thatrequired you to grab theoutside of your feet and pulldownward so your kneesopenedwide and your vadgewas presented to the worldlikeacookie tray.Sookay, Igot thebaby thing,butdoingthis pose felt far from

innocenttome.“Happy Grayson,” I

whisperedtoWren.That was all it took. She

snorted. Her belly convulsedand she lost her grip in thepose. She rolled to her side,hands over her face, bodyrockingwithlaughter.Oneofmy greatest pleasures wasmaking her lose it. Shescurried from the room anddidn’t make it back for

savasana. As the final “Om”sounded,Wren crept back intorolluphermat.

“Mads, I’m freakin’mortified.”

“Come on,” I said,folding my mat. “That wasprettygood.”

HotYogiwassuddenlyinfront of us. Wren’s faceflushed.

“I’m, um, I’m so sorry,for um, laughing like that, it

wasn’t—” she stammered,herhandsgrippingherrolled-upstickymat.

“Hey, that’swhatyoga isfor.Release.Laughter.Tears.No judgment,” he said,lookingfromWrentome.

Thetwoofusweremute,butIswearIcouldhearWrenswallow as the word releasecrossed his lips. The kind ofreleasethatcametomindhadnothingtodowithlaughteror

tears.Whoa,breathe.“I hope you two are

comfortableintheclass.Youknow they have one withmusic for teens on Sundaynights?”

“This fits better in ourschedule,” I said, bummedthathenoticedhowyoungwewere. Up close there werefinelinesaroundhiseyes,buthe couldn’t have been morethan, say, twenty-sixwasmy

guess. That would make usten years apart. Maybe aworld apart at this stage, butsomeday...hmm.

“I think it’s awesomeyou’rehere.IfIhadpracticedin high school, I might havehad an easier go of it,” hesaid as my mother sidled uptous.

“Thank you, Leif. I’malways ready for a goodnight’ssleepafter thisclass,”

she said as she ran a handthroughhersweatybob.Evenmy mother was not immunetoHotYogi’s charms.Everyweek, she freshened up herpedicure and put on tintedantiaging moisturizer beforeleaving the house for class.Seeing them together Irealized that she actuallycould go for it, if she reallywanted to, but that wouldhave been so, um, ew, to be

crushing on the same guy asmymother.

Leif smiled, clasped hishands at heart center, andgaveusasmallnod.“Gladtooblige.”

He turned away and wasapproached by two womenwho gushed about how theirshoulders had never feltbetter since coming to thisclass. Right. Their shouldersfelt better. The subliminal

undertone of this wholeexchange was almost toomuchtobear.

Wren pinched me. “Youowemeachai.”

Mugshotwasthecoffeeshopnexttotheyogastudio.Itwasa littleplace thatwas alwaysjam-packed after class—whetheritwasbecauseofthetool behind the coffee barmessing up orders or that it

was theoneplaceasidefromthe diner where you couldhangoutforthepriceofacupof coffee, I wasn’t sure. Thelinewasslowlystranglingmyyogabuzz.

“So, details, what was itlike?”Iasked,steppingclosertothecounter.

Wren’s eyes grew wide.“Whatdoyoumean?”

“WhenHotYogi touchedyou.”

A glow rose in hercheeks, and she looked overher shoulder to inspect theline.Shesteppedtoherotherfoot.

“He didn’t touch me, itwas an adjustment. I wasfocusing on my oceanbreath.”

“Wait, there was a touchand a whisper. What did hesay?C’mon,somethingworthachai.”

Wren bit back a smile,leanedtowardme,andsaidina breathy voice by my ear,“‘Tightenyourcore.’”

“O...em...gee.”She laughed. “And then

when he put his hand onmyback?Therewasnothing,youknow, sexy about it, butdamn, I sort of felt it . . .everywhere.”

I thought of the jolt ofinsta-lustIfeltwhenmyeyes

met Leif’s. I’d probably justmelt into a puddle if he evergavemeanadjustment.

“Everywhere?”“Well, for a split second.

Then it was just weird. Mymind went into overdrive,like, Did I remember to puton deodorant? Would Graybe pissed? I couldn’tconcentrateafterthat.Yoga’ssupposed to leave you calm,right?ImissLena.”

“Are you insane? Lenawas awesome, but really, nocomparison.”

“Ididn’tfeellikeIhadtoputonlipglossforLena.”

“Amen,” said the girlbehind us.Weboth turned. Irecognized her from class;she always practiced in thefront row, near the corner,and could do sick armbalancesforwhatseemedlikehours. She leaned toward us

and whispered, “When hedemonstrated scorpion lastweek—”

“Andhisshirtkindoffellup?”Isaid.

“Stop,” Wren said,smiling as she checked outthetextsonherphone.

“I swear, even the wallssighed,”thegirlfinished.

“We need to drag Jazzherenextweek,”Wrensaid.

“Whatcanigetcha?” asked

Broody Barista, fingerspoisedonthecashregister toring up our order. I wastempted to say, “The usual,”butitwouldhavecrushedmethe tiniest bit if he’d beencluelessastowhatthatwas.

He was a tall, lanky guywhosenametagreadJessE.Icouldn’t tell if his last namebeganwithanEor ifhewastrying to make a statement;either way, he didn’t seem

approachable enough to callhim that, so he was BroodyBarista in my head. EventhoughIwassortofinvolvedwith Zach, flirt was mynatural language. It wasn’tnecessarilyaboutgettingwithsomeone, more like makingfriends. Week after week, Itried my best, but this guy,the rim of his baseball cappulled low over his lightbrown bedhead, never got

into it. He wasn’t snobby oranything; more aloof, ormaybe just perpetuallybummed.

“Twomediumnonfatchailattes, and a chamomile tea,”Ianswered.

He chewed his full lowerlipashe rungusup,eyesonthe register until the total lituponthedisplay.

“Seven twenty-five.” Heknocked on the counter and

threw a glimpse at thegrowing line behind us. Ireached into my backpackandpulledout a ten. I laid itonto his outstretched palm,my fingertipsgrazing the topof the wide leather cuffbracelet he wore. He didn’tstrikemeas the jewelry typebut there it was, along withseveral smaller bands,including one with a brassinfinity symbol, on his left

wrist.Hetookthebillandcalled

the order to the guy behindthe coffee bar who was toobusy staring at Wren to payattention. I followedhisgazeto see exactly what he waslooking at. Her deep-greentie-dye exercise tank fit herlike a glove. In class shelooked like everyone else; inhere,withherwarm-upjacketzippedonlyhalfway,she—or

more precisely, her assets—stood out. Wren was bentover her phone, scrollingthrough her messages,oblivious to what effect thatparticularviewwashavingonthiscreeper.Isteppedinfrontof her and glared at him.Heraisedhiseyebrowsatmeandshrugged.

Broody Barista clearedhisthroattogetmyattention.

“Don’tmindhim,heonly

comes out at night,” he saidashedroppedthechangeintomy hand. One corner of hismouth turned up. A tinyrippleinamysterioussea,butit was something. I ran withit.

“Hmm, a nocturnal perv,thecreepiestkind.”

HelaughedashewroteinSharpie on the to-go cups.“Tanner, you’re scaring thecustomersagain.”

“Then my job is done.”Tanner flashed me amegawatt grin that wasirritatingly charming. Wrenfinally looked up from herphone and smiled at him.Whenfacedwithhisobjectoflust, he got flustered andturned away. All stare, nobite, apparently. Wrenfurrowed her brow. Wemoved to the end of thecountertowaitforourdrinks.

“Whatwasthatabout?”“That was about this,” I

said, tugging up her zipper.“Youdon’t realize thepowerofalittlecleave,doyou?”

She grimaced. “Ick,really? I’m sweaty andgross.”

“No, you’re dewy andflexible,”Isaid,nudgingher.

Thedooropened,sendinga gust of cold air into thecafé. Leif stepped in, my

mother right behind him, aplastic Quick Chek shoppingbag swinging fromherwrist.“Mom!” I waved her over.Sheacknowledgedmewithanod, but then turned back toLeifandanotherwomanfromclass. Iwanted to tellher I’dalready ordered for her, butshe seemed completelyengrossedinconversation.

“My mom is picking meup,” Wren said, finally

shuttingdownherphoneandputtingitintoheryogabag.

“ToosweatyandgrossforGray?”Iasked.

Shechuckled.“No,we’regoingtothemalltopickupaKate Spade diaper bag forBrooke’sbaby shower.Can’tbe shown up by the in-laws.They’re getting some strollercalled a Bugaboo orsomething—it’s, like, abazillion dollars, so we have

to,youknow,upourgame.”“Kate Spade for crappy

diapers? Leave it to yoursister. I thought your momdidn’t believe in the baby-showerthing.”

“She doesn’t, but Pete’smom and sisters do, sothey’re throwing them a his-and-hers baby shower overGeorgetown’s spring break.Tropical theme. Can youimagine? My mother’s

making Josh go too.He saidonly if there are drinks withumbrellas. At least I get todragGraywithme.Feel liketakingaridetothemall?”

“Aslovelyasthatsounds,I should probably get somework done on my portfoliofor the summer programapplication. It’s due in mid-April and there’s nothingimpressiveaboutityet.”

“That’s doubtful. Even

your stick figures areimpressive,”shesaid.

“Two nonfat chais,”Tanner announced, pushingthecupstowardus.

“We need a chamomiletea,too.”

“Oh, right.” He stole aglanceatWrenbeforeturningback. She was too nice toglare at him, but she avertedhereyesandbusiedherselfbyrifling through the pocket of

her yoga bag. More peoplebegan to gather around thetinypickuparea.

IreachedforourcupsandhandedWrenherdrink.TheyhadThursdayGirls scrawledin Sharpie across the front.BroodyBaristahadgivenusanickname. Maybe he hadnoticedmorethanIthought.

As my lips touched therim of the cup, I anticipatedthe spicy sweetness of warm

chai but got a gulpful ofbitter.Mytastebudsrecoiled.

“Don’tdrinkthat,”Isaid,a second too late. Wren’swrinkled nose told me herdrinkwasofftoo.

“Hey, yo, dude. There’scoffeeinthesedrinks.”

“No there’s not,” Tannersaid.Heplacedanotherto-gocup on the counter. The tagread CHAMOMILE; at least hehadn’tscrewedthatup.

“Yes, there is, I can tasteit,” I said, putting it on thecounter. I took off the lid toshowhim—the usual creamytanwas a darkish brown.Hebroughtthecupuptohisnoseandsniffed.

“Ah,sothereis.Mybad.”Heslidthedrinkbacktome.Ihadthesuddenurgetopourit over his head, no matterhow strangely endearing hisawkward and pervy attempt

at macking on Wren hadbeen.

“Dude, we’re backed upon drinks. What’s theholdup?” Broody Baristajoined in. The line that hadbeen near the door nowsurroundedthepickuparea.

“There’s coffee in ourchais,” I said, meeting hisgaze. “Maybe if yourcoworker wasn’t busychecking out my friend’s

rack, hewould have realizedhe was screwing up ourdrinks.”

I’d meant it to be funny,but annoyance seepedthrough. Wren coughed andslunk back. Tanner paled.Some of the people waitingaround us shifted. I wasaware that Leif and mymother were beside me, stillcarrying on what must havebeen the world’s most

interesting conversation. Mynerves sizzled, but I feltvindicated.

“Sorry,”hesaid.“I’lltakecareofthis.”

He grabbed our cups andwhispered something toTanner,whosuddenlylostthecluelessglintinhiseye.Theyboth worked quickly on thedrinks, hammering them outone by one, until Wren, mymother, Leif, and I were the

only ones left from theoriginal line. Leif’s matchainvolved some specialbrewingmethodandawhisk.Iwasn’tsurewhatwastakingso long with our lattes, butstanding near Leif wasenough to make me forgetabout the whole thing. Hesmelled like sandalwoodincense.

Wrencheckedherphone.“Mymom’soutside.”

“Here’s your chai,Thursday Girls—myapologies, next week is onme.” Broody Barista slid thecups toward us. Wrengrabbedherdrinkandhoistedher yoga bag over hershoulder.

“Sure you don’t want tohitthemall?”sheasked.

“Nah, have fun perusingthediaperbags,”Isaid.

“Yeah, right. Thanks for

the chai.” She wiggled herfingers at me as shehightailed it out of the café.Forasplitsecond,Iwantedtochangemymindandgowithher. Wren complained abouther family sometimes, but intheend itwasusuallywith asmile. The Caswells wereawesome—always somethinggoing on, so different frommy own family. Not that Ihad anything to complain

abouteither.MymotherandIwere a tight unit of two.Smallbutfierce.

Broody Barista’s eyeswereonme.Waiting.Itookasip of the much-improvedchai.

“It’s great,” I said.“Thanks.”

“Anytime you have adrink emergency, please,considerithandled.”Heputahand over his heart and

bowed.Icebroken.“I’mMadison,”Isaid.“Jesse,”heanswered.“So now you don’t have

tocallusThursdayGirls.”“I came up with that.”

Tanner poked his head outfrom behind Jesse as he putLeif’steaonthecounter.Leifbrokeawayfrommymomtoget his drink. I turned to seeher take out her phone andtap, tap, tap something into

it. What in the world weretheytalkingabout?

Tanner touched myshoulder. “So your friend . ..”

I swallowed back agrumble. Really? “Is veryinvolved,”Ireplied.

“How involved?” heasked. For a moment I feltbadforhim;hiseyesweresohopeful.Hewas sortofcute,in that messy, guy-who-

doesn’t-know-how-to-take-care-of-himself kind of away.Sortofafixer-upper.

“Like, soul mate–involved.”

At this Jesse let out aderisivepopofalaugh.

“Ah, soul mates. I guessthatmeansshe’llbeavailablein a month,” he said,resuming his post at theregister to help someonewho’d just wandered in. It

might have been funny ifthere hadn’t been an edge tohis voice. Maybe soulmateswasoverstating it,butdidhehave to be so freakingdismissive? Tanner put bothhands on the counter andleaned toward me. His nailswerebittentothequick.

“Okay, well, um, whataboutyou?”

I stepped back. “Dude,youdidnotjustaskmethat.”

His face got twitchy.“Wait,no,Ididn’tmean—”

“Look, I can still tolerateyou at this point, so beforeyou say anything else, let’sforget about this convo,’kay?”Igrabbedmymother’stea and turned my back tohim.

“I hope you wanted thisiced,” I said. My mothersmiled,andtuckedherphoneintoherbag.

“Oh, Mads, I forgot,thanks,” she said, taking itfromme.

“I’llmeetyououtfront.”“No, wait, we’re done

here.”Shewrangledherblackhole of a purse open again,and tookoutherkeys. “Leif,thanks, I’ll be sure to checkthoseout.”

“Letmeknowifyouneedanythingelse,Dana.”

They’re on a first-name

basisnow?Iwalked toward thefront

door, willing myself not toturn around, but in thereflectionoftheglassIcouldsee Tanner makingexaggerated hand motions atJesse, who just shook hisheadandsmiled.Like,a realone, teeth and all. I was tooirkedbywhathadgonedowntosaygood-bye.AsIpushedout through the front door, I

wondered if he’d rememberhisoffertobuyourchailattesnextweek.Mymoneywasonprobablynot.

“So what were you and HotYogi talking about?” I askedmy mother as she cut thewheelyetanothertimebeforefinally pulling out of theparkingspot.Parallelparkinghad never been her strongsuit,andittookheralmostas

longtogetoutofthespaceasithadtonegotiategettingintoit in thefirstplace.Onceshestraightened out the car, shespeddownthesidestreet.

“Madison.Hot Yogi? Hisname is Leif.” There was anamusedliltinhervoice.

“C’mon, he knew yourname. You guys werechatting; justwondering,youknow—ifyou’reintohim.”

She made a sound

somewhere between a gaspand a laugh. “Into him? I’moldenoughtobehismother.”

My mom was goingthrough a major dating dryspell. The better word wasprobably drought. The lastmore-than-one-dateboyfriend/man-friend/suitor Iremember her having waswhen Iwas ten.You andmeagainst the world, Mads,she’d say, whenever I joked

about it.Mom prided herselfon being self-made, and itwas great, but sometimes Iwondered if she was waitingfor me to go off to schoolbeforereallyhookingupwithsomeone.Notthatsheneededanyone, but didn’t everyoneneed a little fun now andthen?

“But you can’t deny hishotness.”

We stopped at the red

lightandsheraisedherhandsin surrender. “Fine, youwin,Ican’tdenyhishotness,butIcan forget about itwhen I’mtalkingtohim.”

“Okay—how? Because Ican’t.”

“Simple,” she said,reaching for her chamomile.“I can compartmentalize.Leif’snotdatingmaterialbuthe’sgotmoreexperiencethanme in yoga, so I’m attracted

tohisbrain.”I snorted. “His brain?

Why?”She sipped her tea as we

satatthelight.“I’m . . . well . . . I’m

thinking of becoming a yogainstructor.”

I couldn’t hide mysurprise. “Wow, instead ofhair?”

“No, mostly as asupplement, but I don’twant

to be in the salon forever.Standingupallday,crouchedover customers, is taking itstoll on me. Once we startedpracticing yoga, I felt better,hadmore energy.My nervesaren’tasfrazzledattheendofthe day—you know, I feeleven.”

“AndLeifisgoingtohelpyou?”

My mother fiddled withher cup until it was back in

the holder. The light turnedgreen. She eased through theintersection, absentmindedlyplaying with her hair as shedrovethefiveblockshome.

“We were talking aboutprograms,turnsoutthestudiois starting up a teachertraining session in a fewweeks. He gave me somebook titles, websites—I’mstill just thinking about it.Withclassesandmaterials . .

.it’snotcheap.”“Oh.” Money. The Grim

Reaperofdreams.“But it’s not undoable,

either. I can take on someclients at home again, ifnecessary. You know, we’llsee.Ihavesometimetothinkabout it,” she said, pullinginto our steep, narrowdriveway and cutting theengine.

It made me think of my

ownplansforsummerdesigncampatNJDI.Iwasworkingtoward the scholarship, butMomhadbeenputtingmoneyasideasabackupplan.Therehad to be a good fivehundred; it might not coverthe yoga training, but it wassomething.

“Ithinkyoushouldgoforit.Youcanusethemoneysetasideformydesigncamp.”

“Absolutely not. That’s

your backup plan.” Shecollected her bags and cup. Igrabbed my latte and slungmyyogabagovermyarmasIsteppedoutofthecar.

“I won’t need a backupplan—I’m getting thatscholarship,orIcouldalwaysgetajob,”Isaid.

“You know how I feelabout that.High school . . .”she said, coming around tomysideofthecar.

“. . . is my job,” Ifinished. “But it doesn’t payverywell.”

She put her arm aroundme.“Ah,somedayitwill.”

Wewalked up the stoop.Mymotherpaused.

“Did you forget to turnoutthelights?”

Ishookmyhead.“Ididn’tleavemusicon,either.”

Aswegottothetopstep,thedooropened.

“Paul,” my mother said,grinning.

He filled the doorway,arms outstretched as he sangalong to “Rosalita,” whichwas blaring in thebackground.Smellsofgingerand something pepperywaftedthroughtheopendoor.Paul stood there, wearing acook’s apron over dark jeansand a forest-green polo. Heensnaredmymotherinabear

hugbeforelettingherpass.“Ah, Mademoiselle

Pryce,”hesaidtome,kissingmeononecheekandthentheotherlikehealwaysdidwhenIfirstsawhim,beforeclosingthe door behind us. “Youlook more like your mothereveryday.”

“Really?”“Hey,wouldthatbeabad

thing?” my mother asked asshe kicked off her clogs and

puthercupdownon thehalltable.Iploppedmyyogastuffnexttothedoor.

“Iguessnot,”Iteased.She unwound the scarf

from her neck and tossed itover the coatrack, thenwalked across the parlor toturn down the music. “YousaidFriday.”

“You should check yourmessages,” Paul called overhis shoulder ashewentback

into the kitchen. “I had theopportunity to grab a flightfromHoustontoday,soItookit.Hungry?”

Paul Saylor was one ofmy mother’s oldest friendsfrom high school and prettymuch the only steady malepresenceinourlives.Hewasa captain for a commercialairlineandwheneverhehadalayover in the New Yorkmetro area,wewerehisown

privatehub.Inexchangeforaplace to rest his head, hecooked and brought bakedgoods from his varioustravels. We occasionally gottoflyplaces.Notabaddeal.

ThereweretimesIcaughtthem looking at each other acertainway,whichmademethink that at one time theymight have been more thanjust pals, but neither of themever divulged more, even

when I prodded them forinformation. They huggedand stuff, but it was strictlyplatonic. After theconversationIhadwithMomabout Leif, it made mewonder what compartmentshe kept Paul in—nice man-friend with occasional travelbenefit; makes a meanomelet?

“Not really,” my motheryelled back. “But it smells

delish.”“Vegetarian stir-fry.” He

returnedwith twoopen long-necked Heinekens danglingbetween his fingers. He heldoutonetomymotherbutsheshookherhead.

“Hey,I’lltakeit,”Ijoked,balancingmycupandfishingthroughmyjacketpocketsformy phone. My mother shotme a look. I checked mymessages. There were three

fromZach.“I think you should

reconsider the beer,” Paulsaid.

I stopped checking mymessages. My mother raisedher eyebrows.Paul looked atme,thenbacktomymother.

“You should reconsiderbecauseinafewhoursitwillbeFriday,”hesaid,holdingitout again. “Hey, Mads, Ibrought the good doughnuts

—they’re on the kitchentable.”

I took that asmy not-so-subtle cue to exit stage left,which suited me fine. I hadmore pressing plans on mymind, which consisted of ahotshower,somesketching,acalltoZach,andnowagooddoughnut. This particulardelectable delight was fromour own lovely hamlet ofBayonne. I found the telltale

white bag on the table, andreached in for a purplesprinkled doughnut. When Iwentback into theparlormymother had the beer in herhand.

“Later,” I said, brushingpast them and climbing thestairs.

“You’re welcome,” Paulsaid.

“Thanks,” I called down,before taking a massive bite

of the doughnut. Thechocolate and sprinklesmelted in sweetperfection inmy mouth. Maybe not ashealthy as yoga, but equallyas blissful. I went into thebathroom, pulled back theshowercurtain,andturnedonthewater.Iscarfedtherestofthe doughnut waiting for thewatertogethot,andcheckedmymessages.

HeySexyWaiting.

And then a selfieheadshot of Zach, lying onhis bed, hair splayed on hispillow, one arm carelesslyflungoverhishead.

Myheartdidadisturbinglittlehiccup.

Yum.Breathe.

TWOJESSE

“VERY SUBTLE BEFORE, T,” ISAID,WIPINGDOWN the coffeebar. “You should haveThursday Girl’s digits in notime.”

“Dude,don’tremindme,”

hesaid,sweepingthefloorinfront of the counter withbroad strokes. “You knowhow long it tookme toworkupthenervetotalktoher?”

It was seven thirty. TheMugshot dead zone. Theafter-yoga crowd hadsubsided and the café wasdotted with the usualsuspects: Hipster MacBookguy gripping his organichouseblendwhilehestaredat

his screen; Homework Girlsand their hot chocolates,althoughitseemedtheyweredoing more laughing at meand Tanner than studyingtonight.AndLeif, feet uponthe chair across from him,bowl of bright green pondwater in one hand, a booktitled Wherever You Go,ThereYouAre proppedopenintheother.

There’dbeonemorerush

afterthelastyogaclassofthenightbutthenmyshiftwouldbe over. Strange as itsounded, I dreaded it. Beingalonewithmythoughtswasadark place these days. Atleast at work, there wasalwayssomedistraction.Newcustomers. A difficult order.The douchey Top 40 stationthat my manager, Grace,insisted we play, whichspewedcornysentiment24-7.

It all kept me fromdescending into my ownprivate pity party. I focusedon the taskathand,whichatthis moment happened to beribbing Tanner about hislatestinfatuation.

“But you didn’t actuallytalk to her; you pulled yourserial-killer stare,” I said,mean-muggin’ todemonstrate.He stopped andrested his chin on the broom

handle.“C’mon, I wasn’t that

bad,wasI?”“No comment,” I said,

scrubbing a nonexistent spotonthecounter.

“Damn, I can’t help it,”he said, sweeping again,althoughallhewasdoingwasmovingdustfromonepartofthefloortotheother.Ididn’thave it in me to lecture himon the proper use of a

dustpan. “I even screwed uptalking to her friend. Whatwashername?”

“Madison.”“See, man, you got her

namewithoutanyeffort.”“We had a normal

conversation. I wasn’tanglingforhername.You’retrying too hard, dude. Just,you know. Smile now andthen. Make their drinksright.”

“She’s with someone,anyway.”

“Right. What didMadison call it . . . soulmate–involved? Bide yourtime, T, cuz oncewords likesoulmate startgetting tossedaround, things turn toshit,” Isaid, taking my best three-pointshotwiththemopclothto the sink andmissing by afoot.Icroucheddowntopickit up. Homework Girls

giggled.“Howdoyoudoit?”“Do what?” I popped up

to face him but Tanner wasstanding in front of Leif.WhenherealizedTannerwastalkingtohim,Leifplacedhisbookdown.

“How do I do what?” heasked. Leif seemed like apretty stand-up guy whocouldtalkaboutBuddhismorthe latest Joss Whedon flick

with equal enthusiasm, butthiswasthefirsttimeTannerhadeverposedwhatsoundedlike a personal question. Itossed themopcloth into thesink for real and leanedacross the pickup counter tolisten.

“You know . . . not getdistractedwhenyouteach?”

Leif looked at me. Ishrugged.

“I’m not sure I’m getting

you,”hesaidtoTanner.Tanner gestured with the

broom handle to punctuatehis words. “All that bendingandstretchingandyogapants. . . I’d be walking aroundwithaconstant—”

“Whoa,” Leif said,laughing and putting up hishand.

I shookmy head. TannerSmithwasagreatbassplayerand a passable barista, but a

puerilecretinwhenitcametothe opposite sex. He had apoint about the yoga pants,though. They’d been bannedatschool.

“Do you have some yogivoodoo shit that gives youspecial powers? C’mon,you’ve never wanted to, youknow,getwithsomeone?”

“Itdoesn’tworkthatway,Tanner.” Leif picked up hisbookagain.

“Never been tempted?” Iasked, fiddling with myinfinity bracelet. The thinleather band had conformedto my wrist. I wasn’t surewhyIstillworeit,areminderof what might have been—even if . . . Jess, just breaktiesalready.

Something alwaysstoppedme.

“Temptation is part oflife,isn’tit?”

“So you have wanted toboneastudent,”Tannersaid,pointing the broomhandle atLeif.

Hipster MacBook’s gazebroke away from his screenforthisanswer.

Leif chuckled and turneda page. “No. When I’m inclass, I’m a teacher, notlooking to score. You dorealize there is more to lifethanboningsomeone.”

Tanner looked at me,shook his head, and resumedsweeping.

“Guess I can strike ‘yogadude’ off my career shortlist.”

The entrance bell chimedto announce customers. Iglanced at the clock. A littleearly for the after-class rush,but I turned to man theregisteranyway.

And walked straight into

abrickwall.Atleast that’swhat it felt

like.Hadn’tweset limitswith

thisplace?Hannah.MyHannah.Arminarm.WithDuncan.My friend.

Mydrummer.Ex-drummer.Ex-friend.Together.Still.

Myfeetmovedinslo-mo,slogging throughmud.Everystepwas calculated, as if themoment I stopped thinkingabout getting to the counter,I’d snap and go ape-shitinstead. I knew odds werethat I’d run into them as acouple at some point. I justneverthoughtthey’dcometome. My hands found theregister.Numbers.

Youcandothis,Jess.

Avoiding Hannah hadbeen impossible, since welivedonthesameblock,butIwas able to get away with anodorawaveand thenduckintomyhouseorcar.Duncanhadbeeneasiertolose,alimbI’dsimplycutoffandignoredinthehallwaysatschool.Allthose nights in my room,imagining what I would dowhen confronted with therealityofHannahDunk,never

includedthescenariowhereIwas mute behind the coffeecounter, ready to take theirorder. If they were waitingfor me to ask them, “Howmay I help you?” we’d bewaiting for a very long time.What could they possiblywant?

“Hi, Jess,” Hannah said,looking up at me with wide,unblinking eyes that stillmademy stomach feel like a

chipmunk was clawing itsway out.Duncan’s handwasplanted on the curve ofHannah’s hip, the corner ofhis mouth upturned. Shenoticedmenoticeandshifted,putting a whopping inchbetweenthem.

“You should know wehave a strict no-douchebagpolicyonThursdays,”Tannersaid.

“Nice to seeyou too,T,”

Duncansaid.“What do you want?” I

asked.“Blueberrymangobubble

tea,” Hannah said, biting herlip.“Nonfatmilk.”

“Blueberrymangobubbletea.” The words hardly feltlike my own. I was playingthe role of dipshit cashiermonkey, and if it would getthemoutofMugshotfaster,Icouldhandleit.

“And . . .” I lookedsquarely at Duncan. His hairwaslongerandthebeardhe’dbeentryingtogrowsincethesummer had finally filled ininstead of looking scraggly,his Dave Grohl– wannabetransformation complete. Hetook a breath as if to saysomething, then clammed upandshookhishead.

“I’mgood.”That’s it? Screw with

Hannah, break up the band,ruin my life, and the firstwordsyousaytomeare“I’mgood”?

“Three fifty-two,” Jesse,the dipshit cashier monkey,said.Duncanpulledafiveoutof his pocket. One dollar,four dimes, a nickel, threepennies. I deposited thechange in his open hand andclapped Tanner on theshoulder.

“Got this?” I asked. Henodded. Iwalked to thebackroom.

“Jess,wait.”I ignored Duncan and

shovedthroughthedoorsintothe back. Grace was in heroffice at the computer, herfingers flying across thekeyboardassheworkedonanExcel spreadsheet. I knockedonthedoorjamb.Shestartled,took off her glasses, and

rubbedhereyes.“Hey, what’s up?” she

asked,smiling.“Would you mind if I

left? The yoga rush is overand I have thiskiller physicstesttomorrowand—”

“AndleaveTannerhere... alone? It’s only aboutanother hour or two, do youreallyneedtoleave?”

Tanner had been atMugshot for three months

andhadcomeup short twiceon the register due to errors.Andhewas still learning thedrinks. I knew he’d be up tospeed soon enough, butleaving him here alonewouldn’t be doing any of usanyfavors.

“Can I at least grab mybook out of my car, catchsome study time during thelull?”Ilied.

“Yep, great, Jess.

Thanks,”shesaid,readjustingherglasses.

I grabbed my jacket andkeysandheadedoutthebackdoor.Coldairsmackedmeintheface,butitdidn’tstingasmuch as . . . I’d seen them.Spoken to them. The earthwas still on its axis. Nosinkhole opened to swallowmeup.Still.ItfeltasshittyasI thought it would. They’dhavetotaketheirordertogo,

right? I’d just sit in my caruntiltheyleft.

Islidintothedriver’sseatofmyBeetle and reclined it,closing my eyes. Flash.Duncan’s hand on Hannah’ship. His smug look. Theimage was burned into myeyelids. I fiddled with thebracelet, rubbing the curvedinfinity symbol between mythumb and forefinger. Whycouldn’t I take this fucking

thing off? Infinity. Forever,Jess.Bullshit.Wasthereevenachanceshewasstillwearinghers?

Tap.Tap.Tap.I jumped. Duncan’s face

filledmywindow.“Weneedtotalk.”Know what’s worse than

seeingyourex-girlfriendwithyour ex–best friend? Gettingcaughttryingtoavoidthem.

Duncan stepped away

fromthedoortoletmeout.Ijackedup the seat, pretendedto look for something,anything, even though wewere both painfully aware ofthe awkward situation. Ifound a stray straw wrapperandshoved it intomypocketbefore finallygettingoutandleaningagainstthedoor.

We stood in silence,glaringinoppositedirections,whichprobably looked likea

killeralbumcover.WecouldcallitBetrayal.

“Get a new drummeryet?”heasked.

“Nah,stilllooking.”Duncan and I had never

officially talked about himleavingtheband.I’dputupasignon themessageboardatschool and in the localrehearsal place to announcethat Yellow #5 was lookingforadrummer,eventhoughI

had no intention of findingsomeonenewat thatpoint.Itwas more of a passive-aggressive fuck you toDuncan, the quickest way tocut him as deep as he’d cutme.Fourguysintwomonthshad expressed interest.Tanner had collected thenames,butweneverhadanyauditions.Maybe I thought itwould all blow over andHannahDunk would come

crawling back to apologize.Maybe that was what wasabout to happen. A long-overdueapology.

“IjoinedPlasma.”Fuckme.“Kenny Ashe’s band?

Cool.”“I guess. He couldn’t

believeIleftYellowNumberFive. I couldn’t either.Thanksfortheheads-up.”

Iglaredathim.

“That’syourdoing.Don’tevenstartwithme.”

“You couldn’t call me?Wecouldn’ttalkaboutthis?”

“What’s to talk about,Duncan? You made yourchoice.”

“We could have workedthisout,bro.”

“That’s where you’rewrong.”

“C’mon, Jesse. It’s beentwomonths.”

“What do you expectfrom me, Duncan? To say,‘Nohardfeelings,comebackto the band. Hell, maybeHannah can play tambourinenow.’ We’ll all be one big,happy family, until maybeTanner tries to hook upwithher.”

He squared his jaw,nodded.“Don’t.”

“Or what?” I asked,standing up straight. I never

thoughtofmyselfasaviolentperson,butallIwantedtodowas punch him in the throat.I’dbeensick.Like,sick-sick,with some apocalyptic fluover Thanksgiving break,when they accidentallyhooked up at a party. Acci-fucking-dentally. That’s howtheyplayedit.

Something happened,Jesse,Hannahhadsaid.

I’d never in a million

years thought that thesomething that had happenedwas Duncan. I still couldn’tbelieveit.

“You had a choice,” Isaid. “At some point, one ofyouhadachoice.”

Duncan growled andwalked away, then turnedsharpandgotinmyface.

“That’sso typicalofyou,Jess,” he said. “That this issomethingwedidtoyou.”

“It’s not? What is it,then?”

“Maybe you should talktoheraboutit.”

“I’mtalkingtoyou.”“Idigher,okay?Shedigs

me.Ithasnothingtodowithyou.Ithappened.”

“Have a nice life diggingeach other,” I said, shoulder-bumping him hard as Iwalked past him to go backintothecafé.

“Jesse,Iwantthesong.”Ispunback.“What?”“You know what I’m

talking about. The song. Theonewewerewritingbefore...”

“You screwed mygirlfriend.”

“Dude,stopalready.”“Duncan,” a soft voice

called.Hannah stoodabout three

feet away from us, clutching

her bubble tea in twoglovedhands. Her shouldershunched, shebouncedonhertoes,bracingagainstthecold.

“I’llbethereinaminute,babe.”

Babe.Knifepoint.Gut.Hannah wouldn’t look at

me. Had she heard the“screw”remark?

She turned and walkedtowardthecornertowait.Shepulled off a glove with her

teethandtookoutherphone;the light from the smallscreen illuminated herfeatures. Shivering, shebrought the straw up to herlips. Who the fuck drinksbubble tea in February,anyway? Hannah. That’swho. I wanted to pull hertoward me, wrap my armsaround her to stop hershivering. Ask her how shecould enjoy a drink that was

likesuckingfisheyesthrougha straw. The way I used toaskher.Usedto.

“So—thesong,Jesse.”Isighed.“Whataboutit.”“Ifyou’renotusingit,I’d

like it.We plan on doing anoriginalforthebattle.”

“What makes you thinkI’d hand over our song toSmegma?”

Duncan couldn’t help butlaugh at the nickname we’d

givenKennyAshe’sband.Herecovered quickly. “Becausewewroteittogether.It’spartmine.”

“It’snotfinished.”“You’renotusingit.”“Not at the moment, but

soon,yeah,Iwillbe.”“Ithoughtyousaid—”“I lied, Duncan. You’re

easy to replace. Drummersareafuckingdimeadozen.Ialready have a guy in mind,

just have to make the call.Maybewe’ll do the originalforthebattle.”

“So you’ve appliedalready?DeadlineisMonday,youknow.”

“That’s why you camehere?Togetthesong?”

Duncan shoved his handsin his pockets and looked upatthesky.

“Prettymuch.”“Nottoapologize?”

He turned to look atHannahandraisedhishandtosignal thatheneededanotherminute.

“If I apologize will I getthesong?”

“Sure,”Ilied.Hesquaredhisjawagain,

narrowed his eyes, and thensmiled, or more correctly,baredhisteeth.

“I’m sorry I’m in lovewith Hannah. Sorry she’s in

love with me. Sorry thishappened right under yournoseandyouweretoofullofyourself to even notice thatyou treated her like shit.Sorry I didn’t give you oryour feelings a secondthoughtwhenIkissedherthefirst time. Sorry I still don’t.Wait, no, I’m not sorry forthat.”

He stepped back, eyeshard.

“Just keep the fuckingsong, Jess. I’ll write a betterone.”

With that, he turned andjoinedHannahatthecorner.

Neither of them lookedbackastheywalkedaway.

I stormed into Mugshotand tore through the backroom, knocking paper cupsoffashelfinmywake.

“Jesse?”IheardGrace’svoicebut

myragewasawave;Ipushedthrough the doors into thecafé with such force theyslammed into the wall.TannerandLeifstaredatme.

Getagrip,Jess.I tooka fewdeepbreaths

andgrabbedthenearestthingIcouldfindtoclean.

“You need to rinse theseafteryouusethem,T,”Isaid,grabbing the stainless steelcontainer we used for

frothing.I turned on the hotwater

and started scrubbing themilkcrustfromthesides.

Tannersidleduptome.“Hey, um, everything

okay,Jesse?”“Fuckingpeachy.”Hegrabbedanotherofthe

containers and startedscrubbingalongsideme.

“You still have thosenames? The oneswho called

fromtheflier?”Iasked.He stopped mid-scrub.

“Doesthismean—”“We need to find a

drummer.”

“JEEEEEEEESSSEEEEEEE,”my sister, Daisy, yelled upthe stairs for the fourth time.From the decibel of herscreech, I knew we were atDefcon Two. Next it wouldbe Dad, threatening to take

awaythekeystotheBeetleor. . . well, there wasn’tmuchelsehecouldpunishmewithat that point. I’d become tooskilledatpunishingmyself.

Stay in my room? If Iwasn’tatwork,myasswasinbedanyway.

TakeawaytheFenderfora week? I hadn’t touched itsinceHannahDunk.

Put half my paycheck intheswearingjar?Fuckthat.

I pawed around my deskformyphoneandblinkedthemorning grit out ofmy eyes.10:00 a.m. My tongue hadbeenreplacedwithabloated,hairycaterpillar.

Lemonadeandvodkahadseemedlikesuchagoodideaafter our Friday-nightMugshotshift.

Saturday was McMannfamily breakfast day. Theonly time we were all under

the same roof at the sametime. Weekdays my momcrunched numbers for longhours.Sundaysmydadwouldgo off into his writing cavewith strict orders not to bebothered. I worked mostnights at Mugshot and spentafternoons practicing—ornow, staring at the ceiling.Saturday-morning breakfastwas my parents’ attempt tocreate a perfect family

moment.For the most part, I was

okay with enforced familytime.Iofferedupjustenoughdetails to satisfymy parents,laughed at Daisy’s lameknock-knockjokes,andmadefunny faces with baby Ty.Half the kids I knew hadparents who were divorced.Mine still groped each otherand “never let the sun godown on an argument.” And

while I didn’t add much tothe conversation since mybreakupwithHannah,atleasttherewasalwaysbacon,welldone,thewayIlikedit.

I tugged on the first pairof jeansIfoundonmyfloor,and ran a hand through myhair. Yee-ouch. My templesthrobbed as I teetereddownstairs.Themorningwasbright. Too bright. The pale-yellow walls of the kitchen

burned my eyes like neon. Iswallowedbackadryheave.

Friday after work, I’dgone over to Tanner’s housewith the plan to talk bandstrategy,whichwedidforallof two minutes. Yep, stillneed a drummer. Will callthose guys. Find auditionspacenextweek.Thatwastheextent of it. Then the vodkaflowedandthepoordudehadto listen, once again, while I

analyzed the fuck out of mybreakup.

“Could you get the juiceglasses, Jess?” my fatherasked. He stood behind thegriddle, flipping pancakes inthe air, performing for Ty,who sat grinning in his highchair.

Itwasadauntingtask,butI gathered the glasses fromthe cabinet and placed themonthecenterofthetablenext

to the juice carton. My asswas an inch above my seatwhenDaisyblurted:

“Jesse’s half-naaaaaaaayked.” She stuckout her tongue for emphasis.Proving,onceagain,thatten-year-olds are minions of thedevil. It had only gottenworse aftermy breakupwithHannah.Daisylovedher.Mymother looked up from thenewspaper.

“Shirt,Jess,”shesaid.I stumbled to the laundry

room and grabbed the firstwhite tee Iputmyhandson.My pocket vibrated. It wasHannah.

Ohhellno.I leaned against the

laundry room wall and sliddown,asamemoryfromlastnight exploded in my brain.The drunk text. Three littlewords. If I didn’t answer the

call,maybethatvodka-fueledmoment of weakness wouldceasetoexist.

“Thecakesaregettingco—hey,youokay?”Myfatherpeered behind the laundryroomdoor.“You’relookingalittlegreenaroundthegills.”

With great effort, Ipushed my back against thewall and rose to standing,ignoring the dizziness I feltfromgettinguptoofast.

“Yeah, fine, I’ll be rightthere,” I said. My phonebuzzed, alerting me to themissedcall andavoicemail.Great. This had to be bad. Ilistenedtothemessage.

Hey, you.Meetmeat theswings. Noonish. Please. Wereallyneedtotalk,Jess.

After breakfast and a long,hot shower that finallymademefeelhumanagain,Ipulled

onagrayhoodie andheadedout to the playground at thecorner. The afternoon waseven brighter than themorning. I squinted to blockthe sun. Normally I wouldhave raced down the street,but I was in no rush. Themessage had put my braininto overdrive. As I walked,my mind reeled withscenarios of what exactlyHannah had meant by We

reallyneedtotalk.Of course, I knew what

she meant. We did need totalk,becausewehadn’ttalkedsince the breakup. Or talkedcivilly,atleast.I’dbecomeanavoidance ninja, alwaysducking and disappearing,knowingthemomentIlockedeyeswithher I’dbeagoner.Hell, I couldn’t even get ridof the stupid fucking infinitything on my wrist because

thatwouldmeanwe actuallywerefinite.

Hannah was on a swing,spinning in a slow circle totwist the chain above herhead.Mymouthbetrayedmyfeelings with a smile. I ranmy fingers across the chain-link fence as I headed to theentrance. She picked up herfeet, leaned back, and spunaround.Agrin thatmademyflatlined heart feel the tiniest

spark of hope spread acrossherface.MaybetheWereallyneedtotalkwouldactuallybea confession that Duncan isanass-weasel,it’syouIlove,Jess brought about by myinnocentImissyoutext.

Hope was snuffed outmoments laterwhen she sawme. She stomped her feetonto the padding below theswing and came toanabruptstop,jerkingforwardwiththe

momentum. The grin faded.She tried to stand up, butquicklysatbackdown.

“Ow,” she said, putting ahandtothebackofherhead.

I trotted over to her. Herhair was wound up in thechain.

“Wait, don’t move,” Isaid, crouching down andtrying to get it loosewithoutscalpingher.

“Jess,begentle.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve donethisbefore,”Isaid,chucklingand tugging gently at thestrands of her hair until theyunwoundfromthechain.Myhandlingered,rakingthroughthe bottom of her hair for amoment past friendly. Shegathered her hair in aponytail,pullingitawayfromme and then letting it dropagain.Ishovedmyhandintomy pocket. Her cheeks and

nosewerepinkfromthecold.Did she have to look so

damnadorable?I sat in the swingnext to

her, facing the oppositedirection, and I straightenedmy legs and pushed back,gripping the chains, butstandingstill.

“I miss you too, Jess. Itdoesn’t have to be this way,youcansayhello tomenowand then, it wouldn’t kill

you.”“Ah,butitwould,”Isaid,

swinging. Big mistake. Myhead whirled. I dug my feetbackintothewornrubbermatundertheswingandstopped.

“Jesse.”“Whyhim?”Iasked.Thequestionstunnedher.

She looked down, rockinggently.

“Idon’tknow, it just . . .happened.”

“Things don’t justhappen,Hannah.”

“You’re not being fair,Jesse.”

“Fair?Why am I the onewhoneedstobefair?”

“Do you want to talk ordo you want to fight?” sheasked.

I thought of all the timeswe’dsat,justlikethis,beforewe were officially together.Hannahwasafriend,acrush,

and then thebestofboth.Attheyearlyblockpartyonourstreet, our parents alwaysjoked about how we weredestined for each other. Hermother had even said once,“They’d make beautifulbabies together,” long beforeeither of us even understoodwhat that meant. When wewereyounger,itwasasourceof embarrassment. In recentyears,notsomuch.Jesseand

Hannah forever. I’d neverreally thought about it, the“Jesse and Hannah forever”thing, but I never thought ofour ending, either. I swungagain,thistimeslowly.

“DidIreallytreatyouthatbad?” I asked. Duncan’swords had stalked me sinceourconversation.

“What?”“Duncansaid—”“You pissed him off the

othernight,Jess.”“Isittrue?”She sniffled, reached into

her jacket pocket, and pulledout a crumpled tissue. Shealways needed tissues whenthe weather got belowseventy degrees. If youlooked in any of her pocketsthere’d be one, rumpled andclose to disintegrating.Feelingmushyoversnotrags.I’dreachedanewlow.

“The timing of it allsucked,youknow?”

“BecauseIwassick?”She looked at me and

pressed her lips together likeshe wanted to say more butdidn’t know how. Oh, fuck.This had happened before Igot sick over Thanksgivingbreak.Iwasn’tsureIwantedtoknow.ButIdid,ofcourse,want to know, being amasochistandall.

“It happened beforethen.”

“Waybefore?”“You’re okay with this?”

sheasked.“Sure,” I lied. “If we’re

goingtodothefriendsbit,wehavetobeabletotalk,right?”

She looked at meskeptically.

“Mybirthday,Jess.”Her birthday. Of course.

I’d been a total jackass

because I knew how muchshe’dbeenlookingforwardtoherparty. I lost trackof timewas a lame excuse, eventhough it had been the truth.It was hard to explain, andprobably even harder foranyone to understand whathappened to me when I gotlost in music. I’d beenworkingonSlash’ssolofrom“SweetChildO’Mine,”andIwas killing it, justwanted to

play it one more time. Timehadnomeaningasmyfingersmoved across the frets,burning the memory of thesong into my muscles. I’donly gone into my garage tofoolaroundwithitforalittlewhile, but a little while hadturnedintothreehours,andIwas late, like late-late, toHannah’ssweetsixteen.

“Andthenthecard.”I droppedmy chin tomy

chest, staring down at myfeet.“Itwaspersonalized.”

“Incrayon,”shelaughed.Hearingitnow,Icouldn’t

deny it had been an idiotmove. Why hadn’t I juststopped at Walgreens on theway?Orwhyhadn’tIboughtone weeks before the party?Hannah loved cards. I knewthat. Big, glittery, sparklyones,onesthatplayedmusic,even the cheap ninety-nine-

centonesfor“justbecause.”Ihad a shoe box filled withthemfromher.

“Daisyhelpedme,cutmea break, huh,” I said,shouldering my swing intohers gently. Our kneesbrushedagainsteachother.

“It was more than thecard,” she whispered,snifflingandswipingagain.

“Hannah,I...”“I love that you love

music, Jesse. You’re good—no, better than good, and Iknowhowyougetwhenyoupractice but . . . I go to allyour band stuff: the fallconcert, the block party, thetime you guys played at thepool. But how many of myvolleyball games have youbeento?HowmanytimesdoI give you a pass for beinglate to something before Ilook like a complete

doormat?”“Igetit,okay,stop.”“Do you, really?

Remember in the fall whenwe took a ride over to thecity, I kept thinking, ‘Wow,this is it, we’re finally doingsomething,’andweendedupat SamAsh for two hours. Istared at guitars while youtalked to that guy with thedreads about the death ofguitar solo and how you

wanted to bring it back and—”

“We went for bubble teaafter that. Walked aroundTimesSquare.”

“It’s all about theband. Iwantsomethingdifferent.”

“But you’re datingDuncan.He’sinaband.”

“Duncanplaysthedrums,Jess, he’s not a drummer.There’sadifference.”

“Andyou’dratherbewith

someonelikethat?”“I’d rather be with

someonewhowantstospendtimewithme.”

“Hannah,Ido.”She sighed, twisting up

theswingagain.“You just think you do,

because you can’t.” She letgoandspunaround.

Igrabbedthechainoftheswingandstoppedher,pulledher close to me. Our

foreheads touched. I tried tolookherintheeyesbutitwasa distorted, too-close cyclopseye.Shedidn’tpullaway;sheleaned into me. A sign. Imoved my face toward hers,her mouth a few sweetsecondsaway.

“Hannah,”Iwhispered.She turned her head, my

lipsstrandedthereinmidair.“Please,don’t.”I leaned away, staring at

myfeetagain.“So is this what we

neededtotalkabout?”“No, Jesse, I wanted to

askyouforafavor.”This was getting better

and better. I gripped thechains on the swing andpulled myself back tostanding. It was fuckingfreezingout,butsuddenlymypits were damp. I put myhood up and turned to her.

Waiting.“Please, give Duncan the

song.He’sreallyput—”“WHAT?” I yelled, arms

outstretched. A lady pushinga jogger stroller along thesidewalk in front of the parkstartled and eyed us throughthe chain-link face. I shovedmy hands into my pockets.“This is what you meant by‘Weneedtotalk.’”

“No. Yes. Not exactly.

Look, what I just said aboutDuncanplayingthedrums...thisBattleoftheBandsthing,it’s important to him. Just,reconsider. You couldprobably write another songinyoursleep.”

“Did he ask you to dothis?”

“No.”Somehow that made me

feelworse.“I have to go do a few

thingsbeforework. I’ll catchyou around,” I said, walkingaway.

“Jesse,thesong?Please.”I turned toward her. She

hoppedofftheswing.“I just—I know this is a

mess and I hurt you and I’msorry,” she said, comingcloser, “but I really hopewecan be friends. That we allcanbe friends.Hemakesmehappy.”

Thiswasit.Theend.Inacrazy, backward movie reel,our relationship swirledthrough my head. I’d neverbetheonetomakeher laughsohard, soda shot out of hernose. Or pry her hands fromher eyes during The BlairWitchProject.We’dnevergoon the Zipper at the St.Mary’s carnival so manytimes in a rowwe’dwant tohurl. Memories. Packed up

tight in a little box, shovedawaylikethecards.Done.

“Iwant you to be happy,Hannah. I just don’t want toseeit,”Isaid,backingaway.Isaw in her eyes this was adirect hit. They sharpened,lostjustabitoftheirlight.

I resisted the urge toapologize,andleft.

THREEMADISON

YEARBOOK WAS MOSTLYPAINLESS, EXCEPT WHEN wehad our bimonthly deadlinemeetings. Piper Murray,editor in chief, liked to callthem “socials” tomake them

sound more fun, but theywere really just deadlinecheck-ins with Chips Ahoy!and Red Bull. The yearbookoffice was a forgotten roomin the basement of SacredHeart.Onanygivenday, theheat either blasted or wasnonexistent, and the awfulfluorescent lighting madeeveryone look like zombieapocalypsesurvivors.Atleastwe didn’t have to share it

withanotherclub.We sat around a long

table,noshingoncookiesandwaiting for Piper, who wasbusy staring at her bulletinboardofmulticoloredPost-itswith the same concentrationyou would expect from awarlord devising a plan ofattack. I entertained myselfby continuing a mehndi-inspired floral design I’dstarted earlier in the day on

the back of my hand with adarkbrownKoh-I-Noorpen.

Iwasofficiallyondesignstaffanddidn’tneed tobeatboth monthly editorialmeetings, but it was coolhanging out with Jazz andWren.Thethreeofuswereinthe running for editorpositions next year when wewere seniors. Aside fromlooking excellent on mycollege app, being in charge

of design was something Icouldn’twaittosinkmyteethinto. I figured an interest inevery facet of productionwouldhelpmycause.

Pipergrabbedaneon-bluePost-it and planted it on thedesknexttome.

It had Sadie HawkinsDancewritteninboldletters.

“What’s this?” I finishedthe vine on my hand with aspiralandlookedup.

“Marissa Teller wasoriginallysupposed tohandlethe Sadie Hawkins Dancesection, but she’s going on aski trip with her family. Ineed you to take photos forthelayout.”

Wren covered her mouthbutfailedtoconcealaquicklygrowinggrin.

“This is your doing,” Isaid,pointingather.Shehadalready tried to rally both

Jazz and me to go to thedance since shewasworkingitforSpiritClub.

“No, swear,” she said,raising her right hand. “I’mwriting the copy for thesection. Although, I thoughtJazz could help too—thereshould be a sidebar with thehistory of the dance, don’tyouthink?”

Jazz glared atWren overher laptop. Once something

was said in front of Piper,therewasnoturningback.

“Whenisthis?”Iasked.“Next Friday.” A chorus

of voices around the tableanswered.

“I don’t get the wholeSadieHawkinsthing;Imean,technically, since we’re anall-girls school, isn’t everydance a Sadie Hawkinsdance?”Jazzasked.

“True, but still—weneed

this. Between winter andmidterms, this dance is theonly social event until prom.It’s way better than someValentine’s BS with balloonhearts,” Piper said. “Maybeyou could somehow workthatangle in thecopy.Wren,how were you thinking ofincorporatingthetheme?”

Wren shuffled through acouple of the pages in hernotebook,stoppedatoneand

put her finger on it. “I wasthinking‘OntheEdgeof . . .Romance’?”

“Too banal,” Piper said,waving her hand. “Digdeeper,whatwereyougoingtowriteabout?Iwantittobemore than just the basic‘There was a band andcupcakes.’”

“Of course. I planned oninterviewing couples to seehowtheyfeltaboutthedance,

if a girl asking a guy to adancewas even that bigof acore-shaker anymore. And Iknow some girls are makingitagirls’night,sothatwouldbeinterestingtoincludetoo.”

Core-shaker? I mouthedto her across the table.Wrenpretendednottonoticesoshewouldn’tlosefacewithPiper,who took the yearbook’stheme, “On the Edge,”seriously. The faculty had

given us some trouble,thinking it sounded neuroticor like some veiled drugreference.Piperassuredthem“On the Edge” was positiveand meant being on theforefront. I didn’t alwaysunderstandPiper’svision,butthe challenge of figuring itoutwaskindoffun.

“Cool.Ilikeit.Haveittome the followingWednesdayafter the dance, right? Jazz,

whereareweon theFathers’Clublayout?”

“Um,well . . .we’re . . .Piper, I have no clue whatI’m doing with it yet. NotsurehowtomaketheFathers’Clubedgy.AllIhavesofaristhe fall bowl-a-thon andsponsoringToysforTots.”

Piper knocked on thetable. “Anyone have anyideas?”

Silence. I went back to

working on my mehndidesign—brainstorming aboutfatherswassomethingIcouldthankfully be excluded from.There was a time when itmight have made me feelawkward, but I’d grown outof it. When I was in thirdgrade, my mother hadexplained it very matter-of-factly—my biological fatherwas far out of the picture bythetimesherealizedshewas

pregnantwithme.He hadn’tbeen the right person, but itwas the right time and therewas never a doubt in hermindthatshewantedme.

It’s not like I neverwonderedifhewasoutthere,somewhere . . . but it’s notlikeIhadagapingholeinmylife either. Mom and I werefine;besides,whenWrenhadsleepovers I lived vicariouslywith Mr. Caswell doling out

Sunday-morning bananapancakes or dousing us withthe hose whenwe sunbathedin the yard. I mean, whowanted to go to some lame-ass fallbowl-a-thonanyhow?Puh-lease.

“Well, we have time tofigure out how to makebowling edgy,” she said,smiling and moving on toanotherPost-it.

“Soyouguysarereallygoingto Sadie Hawkins, right?”Wren asked aswewalked toourlockersafterthemeeting.

“If it involves me askingsomeone,thenno,”Jazzsaid.

“Comeon,Zachcan—”Ibegan.

“You don’t need to findme anyone, okay?” Shedroppedherchembooktothefloor andmuttered under herbreath.WrenandIexchanged

puzzledlooks.“What’swrong?”Iasked,

crouching down to pick upthebook.

Jazz took the book frommy hand and slid it onto thetop shelf of her locker.“Nothing, I just hate beingputonthespotlikethat.This‘OntheEdge’thingishard.”

“Yes, but onemore year,andthenwe’llberunningthebook. And we can come up

with a normal theme butnothing banal,” Wren said,mimicking a Piper hair flipwithasmile.

“Youdon’tusuallygetsoupsetatthisstuff,”Isaid.

“ThemeetingranlateandIwas supposed to . . . I justmissed my run, that’s all,”shesaid,grabbinghercoat.

“Don’t you usually runwith your dad at night?”Wrenasked.

Jazz leaned against herlocker and frowned. Shelookedbetweenus.

“I really didn’t want totalk about it yet. It’s so newand—”

“Omigod, just spit it out,Jazzy,”Isaid.

“There is someone Iwantedtoasktothedance.”

“Great!”Wrensaid.“No, not great—he’s

alreadygoingwithsomeone.”

“Who?”“DarbyGreene.”“No,whowereyougoing

toask?”Iwasnotabouttoletheroffthehook.Thiswastoojuicy a development on anotherwise completely boringWednesdayafternoon.

“This guy I’ve beenrunningwith.”

I motioned for her to goonbut she clammedup. “Doyou want us to play twenty

questions to get it out ofyou?”

She laughed, then took abreath. “His name is Logan,remembertheguyfrom—”

“Andy Foley’s party?”Wrenasked.Jazznodded.

“Whatparty?”“In December, you were

puking your brains out andcouldn’t go.We went to seeGrayinStickyWicket.Loganplayed kings cupwith Jazz,”

Wrenexplained.“Oh, right. This has been

goingonsincethen?”“No—Imean,wemetthat

night,butitturnsoutheruns.I saw him at the park a fewweeks back, we got totalking,and,well,we’vebeentraining together. He says Ikeep him on pace—we’reboth trying to get down to aseven-minutemile.”

“Howromantic,”Isaid.

“So, yeah, I’m kind ofbummedaboutit.”

“No—you need to go tothedance,”Wrensaid.

“Absolutely. So he canseeyouthere,realizethathisamazing running partner isalso scorching, and he willfall head-over-Nikes foryou.”

“Mizunos.”“Huh?”“HetrainsinMizunos.”

“Whatever—he won’t bewearing running shoes whenyoutraintodosomethingelseinsevenminutes.”

Jazz blushed. “Madison,geez.”

“I’m loving this idea.Comeon,Jazz—it’llbefun.”Wren batted her eyelashes. Iput my hands together inprayer.We stared Jazz downuntilshegavein.

“Okay, okay, fine—but

wherewillIfindadate?”“Consider Zach your

hookupsource.”“Who’stheguywhowent

tothemovieswithusthelasttimeweallwentasagroup?Zach’s friend . . . the blond,not theonewhosmelled likepepperoni.”

Wren laughed. “The oneyousatnextto?”

“Um, Kyle, maybe?” Isaid.

“Yeah, we had a greatconversation about historymash-ups and movies. Hewas pretty cool. I couldhandle, um, being fixed upwithhim.”

“I’mseeingZachlater,”Isaid.

“No, wait. Just ask Zachif you think Kyle would beinto it. Then, I don’t know,get me his number, I’ll callhim. That’s how this works,

right? Have to get over mynervessomehow.”

“Consideritdone,”Isaid.

It was hard to focus onhomework across from ZachO’Keefe.Wesatatmydiningroomtable—well,Isat;Zachtook up two chairs, his legsdraped over the seat of one,his body slunk down in theother, the tip of a pencilgrazing his bottom lip as he

read from his historytextbook.Darkcurlsfelloverhis forehead. His hair hadbeenshortwhenwefirstmet,close-cropped to keep out ofhis eyes during fall soccer. Iloved the length now, thewildness of it. The way heowned the space around himwasdistracting.

While he studied history,Istudiedhim—hisanglesandedges, the gentle swirls and

waves of his hair. How hisorange tee fit him just right,not too tight but showed offhis chest, his arms. I couldspendhoursdrawinghisarmsalone,thewayhisbicepsandtricepscurvedintoeachother.As a subject, he wascaptivating.

I was supposed to beworkingonadwellingdesignfor the scholarship portfolio.I’d chosen toput an addition

on my house—well, at leasttodrawthefloorplansfor it.Something functional andbeautiful and congruent withthe original house design.Rightnow,allofthosewordsdescribed Zach. Except, Icouldn’t get his nose right.HehadasmallbumpnearthebridgethatIkeptturningintoa beak. Noses always gavemetrouble.

Without warning he

snatchedthesketchbookfromme.

“Hey,” I said. A long,jaggedlinenowwentthroughthe picture where my pencilhadstillbeen incontactwiththe paper as he pulled itaway. I squirmed inmy seatwhile he looked at thedrawing. Zach’s idea of artwas the Manchester Unitedflaghehadhangingabovehisbed. I knew he would never

say my drawing was totalcrap—itwasofhim,afterall—butshowingittohimmademefidgety.

“Nicefloorplan,”hesaid,smirking and sliding it backtome.

“You’re distracting.” Iopeneduptoafreshpage.

Iknewartwasaprocess;trialanderrorandfailingandgrowing, but anything thatcame out through my pencil

latelylookednothing like thevisioninmyhead.Notbeingable to translatewhatwas inmy brain to paper made mewant to hurl my sketchbookacrosstheroom.

“You need to chill, likethat little shirtless dude overthere,” he said, referring tothe new resident of ourmantelpiece: a LaughingBuddha statue my mompicked up to help her focus

on all the abundance in herlifewhileshemeditated.

“That little shirtless dudeisenlightened,sohappinessishis natural state—he doesn’tneed to earn a scholarshipanywhere.”

“No, I think he’s happybecause he’s half-naked.”Zach pulled his shirt off toprovehispoint.IfIthoughtIcould draw his arms forhours, Zach’s torso could

keepmeoccupiedforweeks.“See, you’re smiling

already,” he said. “Stopworrying,it’llgetdone.”

That was Zach. SATscores? He’d get an athleticscholarship. Backup schools?Without a doubt in his mindhe was going to Rutgers.He’d play soccer for fouryears,andbeinTKElikehisolderbrother.And ifnoneofthat worked out? Something

else would come along.Nothing fazed him. He wasspectacularly uncomplicated,aliving,breathingchillpill.

“Please, you have to putyour shirt back on. Want awaterorsomething?”Iasked,getting up to go to thekitchen. He reached for myhand as I brushed past him,andpulledmeontohislap.

“I thinkwe can do betterthanwater.”

My muscles tensed tospring up, but he was sowarm . . . and half-naked.Maybehewasright.Ineededto loosen up, although themoment his lips grazed myneck every cell in my bodysnapped to attention.Chillin’was the last thing on mymind.

His curls brushed mycheek, then my chin, as hekissed my neck. I traced the

curves of his arms with myfingertips, buried my face inhis hair.God, he smelled sogood. Like mint. Somesulfate-free organic shampoohis mother insisted he use.Thedaydissolved.Whatfloorplans?Whatdance?

“Oh, hey, Zach,” I said,my voice sounding far awaytome.

“Mmmhmm.”Heliftedhisfacetomine,

plantingakissonmymouth.He looked sleepy,unconcerned.

“Yes,” he said, kissingmycheek.

“What’s Kyle doing nextFriday?”

He stopped, stiffened.“What?”

I pulled back from him.“There’s thisdanceat schooland—”

Helaughed.“Youwantto

gowithKyle?”“No,but . . . isheseeing

anyone?”“No.”“Think you could hook

me upwith his number? ForJazz.”

“ForJasmine,yeah,sure,”he said, grabbing his phoneoffthetable.

“Wait, do you think . . .He’llgo,right?”

He scrolled through his

contacts, copied Kyle’snumber,andsentittomeinatext. My phone dinged fromacrosstheroom.

“Dunno, I guess. Am Igoing?”heasked,placinghisphonebackdown.

I walked my fingers uphischest.“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He put hishandsonmywaistandpokedhis fingers intomy ribs—myabsolute worst ticklish spot.

Therewasadare inhiseyes.Iwriggledinanticipation.

“Okay, okay. Sure,” Isaid.

“Sure what? Are youasking me?” His fingerspoisedtodigdeeper.

“Zach O’Keefe, will yougo to this silly dance thingwithmenextFriday?”

He staredme down, thenall-out tickled me until Ihowled.

“Zach...okay...okay.. .” I begged. Just before itgotmorepainfulthanfun,hestopped. I wrapped my armsaroundhim,laughing.It tooka few seconds to catch mybreath. I rested my chin onhis bare shoulder, resistingtheurgetogivehimanibble.

“Why wouldn’t you askmefirst?”

“Huh?”Isatuptolookathim.

“Why would you ask forKyle’s number first? It’s justweird.”

“Your noticing is evenweirder,” I said, running myfingers into his hair, gentlynudging him to look at me.Zach was a warrior on thesoccerfieldandhadthatquietsort of confidence that madepeople take notice when hewalkedintoaroom.Buthere,in this moment, his brown

eyes searching mine, helookedlost.DidnotofficiallybeingaskedreallybotherMr.ChillPill?

“Zach,”Isaid,kissingthecornerofhismouth.

“Would you go . . .” Ikissedtheothercorner.

“To the Sadie HawkinsDancewithmenextFriday?”I ended by running mybottomlipacrosshis.Hetookit between his teeth and

nibbled, eyes still on mine.Hisjawsoftened,ourmouthsdropping open. My tonguefound his. Zach’s handswanderedalongmywaist,myhip,my thigh.Hiskissmademe want to be somewheresoft.Hestoppedamomenttolookatme.

“Youmakeme—”“Shh,” I whispered,

touchingmylipstohisagain.He gathered me in his arms

andstoodup,stumblingforamoment before getting hisfooting.Ilaughedunderneathhiskiss.

“Madison.”Our mouths pulled apart,

and the realization thatneither of us had said mynamemadeusbothgowide-eyed. Zach looked up andgentlytippedmetostanding.

“Mom, I thought it wasyour late night,” I said,

smoothing my skirt. Eventhough I was fully clothed Ifelt completely naked. ButZach . . .ohfudge.Hestoodthere shirtless and stunned.Howhadwemissedthedoorbeingopened?

“Igotoffatsix tonight, Ithought I told you that,” shesaid, her face flushed as shelooked at Zach. He finallygrabbed his shirt and put iton.Was she blushing orwas

it from the cold? Paul wasbehindher, tryinghishardestnot to grin and losing. Theyboth held bags of groceries.Long, leafy sprouts and abaguettepokedoutofthetopofmymother’s brown paperbag.

Zachbrushedpastme.“Here, let me help you,

Ms. Pryce,” he said, takingherbag.

“Thank you, Zach,” she

said.Paulclosedthedoorandfollowed Zach out to thekitchen. IbusiedmyselfwithpushingZach’schair into thetable. Straightening uppapers.Anythingbut lookingatmymother.Thethoughtofwhattheymighthavewalkedin on had they arrived fiveminuteslatermademecringe.

“Why was he shirtless?”sheasked.

“He,um,was inspiredby

the Laughing Buddha.” Ipointed to the mantle andtriednottosuccumbtothefitof giggles that was buildingin my stomach. Wow, thatsounded ridiculous. Mymotherputafingertoherlipstostiflealaughherself.

“You really expectme tobelieve—”

“Mom,youcanaskhim,Iswear, he was doing it tomakemesmile.”

“You weren’t goingupstairs,wereyou?”

Mom was always candidwith me about sex. Not thatshewasokaywithmehavingany,justthatsheletmeknowit was cool to talk to her.We’d had the discussion onhouse limits when I was oldenough to have friends overunattended. She was okaywith boys in the housewhenshewasn’thomebut shehad

a strict no-bedroom policythat, even though I’d thoughtabout it, I’d never dream ofbreaking. We’d done plentyof damage on the couch,though, but it was differentknowingsomeonecouldwalkinonyouatanysecond.

“No.”Sheshruggedoffhergray

coat.“Good.”Zach came back to the

diningroomandcollectedhis

booksfromthetable.“You’re more than

welcome to stay for dinner,Zach,”mymothersaid.

He looked up as hestashed his notepad into hisbackpack. The way his hairframed his face, the light inhis eyes, made my fingersitch to sketchhim.Hepulledhis jacketoff thebackof thechair.

“Thanks, but I have a

scrimmage tonight for myindoor league,” he said,telling what I knew to be abald-faced lie. He slung hisbackpack over his shoulder.My body still ached fromkissinghim.

“Dinner will be ready inthirty, Mads, so clean up.”She disappeared into thekitchen.

IwalkedZachtothedoor.“Scrimmage,” I

whispered,laughing.“Callme later,we’llpick

up where we left off,” hesaid,kissingme.

I nodded, and steppedonto the porch, folding myarmsagainstthechill.

“AndMaddie . . .” Zachsaid,stoppingatthetopstep.

“Yes.”“I’llgotothatdancewith

you,” he said, before trottingdown the steps to the

sidewalk. He walked up theblock, looking back once togrin.Iwavedandwentinside,jogging upstairs to my roomto change out of my schooluniform.

I should have beenthrilled,andIwas,Iguess—adance together would be anewexperienceforus.I’dgetto hangwithWren and Jazz.Buy a new dress. And Isupposeitwassortofcutethe

way he wanted to be asked.What guy does that? Therewas something about it,though—maybethefactthatIknew he wouldn’t say nobecausethat’swhohewasinmylife.Hewasinthehotboywho makes me laugh, turnsgirl-bits nuclearcompartment. Iwasn’t sure Iwanted any more from himthan that or if he could evengiveittome.

I stayed up in my room,starting pre-calc until thesmell of onions fryingbecame toomuch to resist. Iwandered back downstairs tofindthatourdiningroomhadbeentransformedintoaplacewhere people could actuallyhaveameal.

The table, half of whichusually served as a catchallfor junk mail andmiscellaneous random crap,

was completely cleared fromwhen Zach and I were thereearlier. It was set with awrinklygreentableclothfromsome Christmas past and thegood china, the flowery stuffthat my grandparents leftwhen they bequeathed us thehouse and moved to CocoaBeach twelve years ago.There was even a crystalpitcher of ice water on thetable.

My mother breezed inwithabasketofbread inherhand.

“Wow, what’s theoccasion?”Iasked.

“Nothing,justdinner.Wethought it would be nice toeat in the dining room, withrealplatesforachange.”

“We have real plates?” Ijoked. On an average night,mom and I were the takeoutqueens,evenhadourfavorite,

TandooriWest,onspeeddial.I followed her out into thekitchen, where the delicious,onion-y aroma was evenstronger.

“Can I help?” I asked,peering over Paul’s shoulderintotheskillet.

“Hey,” he said, blockingme from seeing anything.“You must wait for zeemasterpiece.”

“Here,” my mother said,

handingme some silverware.I finished setting the table,thentookaseat.

The fabulousmeal turnedout to be tortilla Española—whichhadnothingtodowithflour tortillas and everythingto do with eggs, potatoes,onions, and olive oil. Paulclaimed it was a littlesomething he’d picked upwhen he lived in Spain,basically a fancy omelet, or

from that moment on, mynew favorite food. I ran mylastpieceofcrustybreadovermy dish to sop up the oliveoil that remained, and slunkintomyseat.

“That was amazing,” Isaid,scarfingit.

“Well,Itry,”Paulsaid.My mother’s plate was

still half-full. She traced therimofherwineglasswithherforefinger. Her auburn bob

wasfreshlysleekandangularand drew attention to hereyes. Bangs. She had bangsnow.

“You cut your hair,” Isaid toher,wonderingwhy Ihadn’tnoticedbefore.Gettingcaught with Zach must havenullified my observationalskills.

“Yes, finally, I wasgetting tired of it always inmy eyes,” she said, running

her fingers through her newfringe.

“They make you lookhot,”Isaid.

“Ha,funny.”“No, she’s right, Dana,”

Paul said, lifting a glass toher.

She shook her head andwaved her hand, dismissingtheflattery.

Wait,hadPauljustcalledher hot?Maybe theywanted

tobealone.I inched away from the

table.“I’ll clean this up, you

guys hang out,” I said,stacking Paul’s empty plateontomine.

“I’m still working on it,”mymother said. I carried thepileouttothekitchen.

The sink was almost fullwithwarm,sudsywaterwhenshewalkedupbehindmeand

squeezedmyshoulder.“Mads, could you come

sit with us? There’ssomethingweneed to talk toyouabout,”shesaid.We?Mystomach dropped tomy feet.Was I about to get a lectureon being alone in the housewith Zach? With Paul rightthere?

“What’s up?” I asked,sitting down. I didn’t knowwhattodowithmyhands,so

I folded them in frontofme,thenIunfoldedthembecause,duh, what am I? Five? Iwished I had my pen so Icould distract myself withsomemoremehndidesignonmy hand. This had to beaboutZach.

“So I guess you’venoticed that Paul has beenhere for a few days,” mymothersaid.

“Um,yeah,Iguess.”

“He’s here because . . .Well, do you want to tellher?” My mother took a sipofwine.IlookedatPaul.

“I had a bit of a falling-outwith the airline.And I’mjoblessrightnow.”

“Is that a fancy way ofsaying you were fired?” Iasked.

“Madison.”Paul laughed. “No.

They’re doing a lot of

restructuring and I’m not toohappyaboutsomeofthenewpolicies,soIdecidedtojumpship before things got toougly. I’m through with thepoliticsofthebigguys.”

“But, don’t you love tofly?”

“Oh, I’d never give upflying—just doing it on asmaller scale. I have aconnection at a smaller,private company and thought

I’d give it a shot. It’s basedhere in New Jersey. So if itworks out, you might beseeingmoreofme.”

“Cool,” I said, looking atMom.

“There’ssomethingelse,”shesaid.

“While I get settled, I’mgoingtoneedaplacetohangout—not a permanent thingoranythingbut—”

“Paul wants to stay with

usforawhile.”They both looked at me,

searching for a reaction,which on my end felt likesomething betweenshock/relief and confusion.This wasn’t about Zach. Atall.

“Areyouaskingme?”“Of course,” my mother

said. “This involves you,obviously; some of yourfreedoms won’t quite be the

samewithsomeonehereafterschool.”

So maybe it was a littleaboutZach.

“But Paul will be payingrent, so that will help withsomeexpenses.”

“It’snotlikeI’mgoingtobe here all the time,” Pauladded. “This is just homebase, until I figure out if Iwant the job. Consider me atenant who cooks and brings

the good doughnuts. Doesthatsoundokay?”

It felt nice sitting therewith them. They say youcan’tchooseyour family . . .but what if I could?What ifpart of Paul figuring thingsout included him and Momgetting together? It wouldn’tbe theworst thing that couldhappen.

Ismiled.“Itsoundsfantastic.”

FOURJESSE

“WHATWASWRONGWITHTHATDUDE?”TANNERaskedassoonas the fourth audition victimwasoutofearshot.

Isatwithmyfeetproppedup on a music stand, arms

crossed, doing my bestimpression of taking thisselection seriously. Tannerhad talked Ms. Shultz, themusic teacher, into letting ususe the orchestra rehearsalroomforourauditions.Itwastoo large a space for themeasly sixprospectswehad,but it was convenient andcame with a drum set. Thepossible spurned-psychofactorwaswhatmademebail

on holding them in mygarage. School was the safeoption.Safeandrockandrolldidn’t quite fit together,though. Maybe that was myproblem.

“Dude?Thatkidprobablyhas a killer Pokémoncollection.”

“So what if he’s afreshman,hecouldplay.”

“We need someone with’nads,T.Canyoupicturethat

kidinabar?”He shook his head as he

crossedthekid’snameoffthelist.

Fourdown,twotogo.It had never been this

hard.Yellow #5 pretty much

fell together when Tanner,Duncan,andIwereineighthgrade. At first it had beenmore of a school club—anoffshoot of orchestra. After

the obligatory “Hot CrossBuns” and school Christmaspageant stuff, we’d gettogether and work out someof our favorite songs. BothDuncan and I could play byear. Tanner was clumsy atfirst,buthehadgrownintoaplayer who could hold hisown. By sophomore yearweweretight—aChristmaspartyhere, a block party there,weeven came in second to

Plasma in Bergen Point’sBattle of the Bands lastspring,mostlybecauseKennyAshe’sneighborhadbeenonthe judging panel. We hadplannedonwinning this timearound.

Until HannahDunkcompletelystolethatfuture.

“Why aren’t we playingalongwiththem?Wouldn’titbeeasiertotell?”

“We’reweeding.Besides,

I can just feel it,” I said,poundingmychestforeffect.

“Thefirstguywasfine.”“Sloppy playing. I didn’t

likehisteeth.”Tanner sprang up from

his chair and threw up hishands. “His teeth? Why areyou acting like such a dick?Maybe if you took off thefucking Ray-Bans andpretendedtocare.”

I slid the sunglasses up

into my hair. “It was alsoobvious he had no bandexperience.”

“Wejustneedabody.”ThemoreupsetTgot,the

more calm it made me. Hewasgettingpissedenoughforthebothofus.

“Why? We missed thedeadline for the battle.Whatdoes it matter if we findsomeone todayor twoweeksfromtoday?”Iasked.

“Don’tyoumissit?”Mymouthopenedbutthe

words got stuck inmybrain.Did I miss it? Aren’tmusicians supposed to workthrough their pain in music?Mybreakuphad theoppositeeffect. As if playing myguitar opened a wound. Ididn’t want to feel it. I justwanted to forget it.And that,more than anything, scaredme.

But the other night whenDuncanasked for the song, Ihad felt something. Rage,maybe,but itwasbetter thanthe facedown-in-a-mud-puddlefeelingI’dbeenlivinginpost-breakup.Ihadtokeepreminding myself—I wantedthis.Anewdrummer.Afreshstart. No matter how long ittook.

And I had to stopcomparing everyone to

Duncan.AsmuchasIwantedto hammer the guy into theground,hewasstill...We’dbeen tight. Friends andbandmates. Finding anotherperson felt like auditioning anew familymember, but thatwas making this damn nearimpossible. Maybeapproaching it like Tannerhad said—that allwe neededwas a body—was the rightwaytogo.

The classroom doorcreakedopen.

“Just, give it a chance,okay?”Tannerwhispered.

A tall dudewearing a T-shirtwithAnimaltheMuppetand the word BEAST belowthepicturestrolledovertouswith his drumsticks in hand.Whether he was trying to beironic or just a douchebagwas anyone’s guess.Hemayas well have been wearing a

tee with the word Drummeracrossit.Poser.Ihadtheurgeto yell, “Next!” just for thehellofit.IslidmyRay-Bansovermyeyes.

“Hey, this is the auditionforYellowNumberFive?”

“Yeah, drum kit’s overthere,”Tannersaid.

Animal dude’s browsbunchedtogether.

“I’mjust . . . I thought—It’sjustme?”

“Yes,” I said, resumingdickmode.

“Yourflyersaidtopickasongfromeither—”

Iheldupmyhand.“Don’ttellus.Justplay.”

His face was blank amoment,butthenhestoodupstraight, shoulders back,corner of his mouth curlingup.“Cool.”

After a moment ofadjusting the drum kit to fit

his height, he stretched hiswrists, bending one back,thentheother.Tannerlookedover his shoulder at me andcrossed his eyes. Animaldude dropped one of hissticks,andpickeditupwithalaugh. I braced myself forsomeoverplaying.Closedmyeyes.

He started out hard, thebeat familiar—“Smells LikeTeen Spirit.” Not an

especially intricate drumpiece, but a solid choice. Ikeptwaitingforhimtoscrewup, quicken the pace, miss abeat, but his timing wasinsane. He played soft, thenexplosive at the chorus, evenputting his own spin on thefills.Islidmyshadesintomyhair, sat up straight. Tannerwaspluckingaphantombassline on his leg, noddingwiththe beat. It was the longest

we’d let anyone play duringanaudition.

And the look on thisguy’s face as he poundedaway was, like, Okay,fuckers, now show me whatyougot.

Don’t compare. Don’tcompare.

It was hard not to—heremindedmeofDuncanevenifhedidblowhimaway—atleast in this audition. It was

only one song—he’dprobably practiced the hellout of it. Jamming with uscould be different, I knewthat, but for the first time allafternoon this guy made meregret not bringing myFender. There was just oneweirdthing.

Istoodupashefinished.“Whydon’tIknowyou?”“Huh?”“Thesceneinthistownis

so small. Everyone knowseveryone,andwell,thatwas...Youcanplay.Whyhaven’tI seenyoubefore?Wereyouinaband?”

He laughed. “If you cancallitthat.StickyWicket.”

“Cool name,” Tannersaid,sidlinguptome.Hewaspractically foaming at themouth to get this guy. I stillwasn’t sold, but the Animalshirtwasgrowingonme.

“Doesn’tsoundfamiliar.”“Well, it wouldn’t,” he

said.“Weonlyeverdidhouseparties,andthatwaswhenwefelt like it. Guitarist was amajorstoner.Thebandsplitafew months ago. Cool guy,justnotasseriousasIwantedtobe.Doyouguysplayout?”

“That’s the goal, we’vedone a few parties.Wewerein the battle last year. Wehave some prospects, a few

CDsmaking rounds,” I said,embellishing. We had oneCD.ThatI’dsentbeforeitallwenttoshit.

“That sounds cool,” hesaid, standing up. “If youdon’t mind me asking . . .why are you looking for anewdrummer?”

“Dude’sadou—”“Creativestuff,youknow

how it is,” I said, cutting offMr. Truth. No need to spill

anything until we knew thisguywas in;wedidhaveonemorepersontosee.“Areyouwillingtodooriginals?”

“Hellyeah.”“Great,well,roundtwois

seeinghowwefit.”“Yeah, thought you’d be

playingtoday.”“What’syourname?”“GraysonBarrett.”“I’mJesse,thisisTanner.

I’llsendyouasetlist,butit’s

mostly the bands from theflyer.We have your number.MaybenextFriday?”

“Um, Friday’s no good,but the rest of the week iscool.”

Tanner waited untilGraysonwasoutof theroombeforespeaking.

“Round two?Dude,whatthe hell are you talkingabout?We’dbeinsanenottotakethisguyon.”

“Can’t lethimknowthat.Andwhatifthiswasafluke?At least we have an out.Don’t want to lookdesperate.”

Helaughed.“Nicetohaveyouback.”

“What?”“Now if we can only get

rid of that dorky infinitybracelet,you’llbeyourself.”

“It’s a wristband, not abracelet.”

“Whatever, bring it in,”Tannersaid,raisinghishand.

“The high five is dead,T.”

“But Yellow NumberFiveisn’t.”

Duncansatathisdrumkit inthemiddleofMugshot.Therewas a party going on aroundhim, but he kept poundingaway. I yelled over to him,but my mouth was gummy;

thewordswouldn’tcomeout.Why was he auditioning? Isearched over the sea ofheads to find Tanner, whowasbusywipingdowntables...withHannah.Wherewasmy Mugshot shirt? Whywasn’t I behind the counter?Wedon’tneedyou! IwantedtoyelltoDuncan.ThenIfelta tugonmy jacket.Thatgirlwiththeshorthairwhocameinafteryoga...Madison...

stood there, smiling at me.Youshouldgivehimthesong,she said. Her eyes were soblue; I’d never noticed thatbefore. She kept tugging atmyjacket.

“Wakeup,Jesse.”I could feelmyself being

pulled from the dream, Iwanted to stay there, like Iwas on the cusp ofunderstanding somethingimportant, but there really

wassomeoneshakingme...smallhandsonmyshoulders.

“Jess, someone’s at thedoor!”

Daisy stood next to mybed, dressed in her unicornpajamas,hereyespuffyfromtears.Isatup.

“Whyareyatellinme?” Iyawned, propping myself upon my elbows. “Where’sDad?”

“He and Ty went out to

get bagels. It’s Mom’sSaturday at the office. Thedoorbellisfreakingmeout.Ilet it ring like Dad said towhenI’mbymyself,buttheywon’tgoaway.”

I ran a hand across myface. The bell rang again.Andagain.

Andagain.I grabbed my phone off

thecharger.TwentymessagesfromTanner.Anditwas8:30

a.m.WTF?“It’s gotta be Tanner,” I

said, ignoring the messages.“I’llbedowninaminute.”

“What if it’s those guyswho always talk about theendoftheworld?”

I rubbedmy eyes. “Theywouldn’tbethisrude.Waitinthehall,I’llberightthere.”

Daisy waited outside myroomuntil Iwasdressedandfollowedmedown the stairs,

holdingontothebackofmyhoodie. As if there wasanything I could do in thefaceof amaniacat thedoor.Every sooften itwasnice tobethebigbrother,Iguess.

“There’d better be ameteorheadedstraightfortheplanet,T,”ImumbledasIgotto the landing. Sure enough,when I opened the door,Tanner was there, fingerpoised on the bell. The

momenthesawmeherushedin.

“Smegma’sgotagig.”“Comein,”Isaid,closing

thedoorbehindhim.“Didn’t you see your

messages? Freakin’ Smegma—already.”

“Smegma?” Daisy askedas Tanner nearly steamrolledher.

“You mean Plasma,right?” I asked, motioning

with my eyes toward Daisy,whodidnotneedtolearnanynewwordsfromTanner.

“Oh, yeah, Plasma,” hesaid,turningtowardme.

“Duncan’s new band?”Daisyasked.

T and I did synchronizedhead-whipstowardher.

“What?”Iasked.“Hannah broke up with

you, not me,” she said,smirking.“Wetalk.”

In Tanner’s presence sheturned from lil’ sis back todevil’s minion. I glared ather. She grabbed her tabletfrom the coffee table andslumpedonthecouch.

“What else do you talkabout?”Iasked.

She shrugged as shesearched out yet anotherMinecraftvideotowatch.

“Oh, andDad said if yougot up before he got back,

youshouldstartthecoffee.”Does Hannah say

anything about me? was onthe tip of my tongue butDaisy was already lost inYouTube Land and well,Tanner, my Forget-about-Hannah sponsor, was there,watching. I walked into thekitchen,motioningforTannertofollowme.

“What is this aboutPlasmanow?”Iasked,filling

upthecoffeepotwithwater.Tanner leanedagainst the

counter, pulled off histoboggan hat. “They’replaying a dance at SacredHeartnextFriday.I thinkweshouldgo.”

I put a filter in thecoffeemaker and popped thelid off the ginormous can ofcheap coffeeDad insisted onbuying fromCostco.At leastitwas still fresh, the familiar

robust aroma releasing intotheair.Nothinglikethesmellof ourMugshot brews, but itmade me think of Madison.Madison? She drinks chai.WhywouldIdreamabouthertellingmetogiveDuncanthesong? Why would I dreamaboutheratall?

“Aww, Tanner, I’mtouched. Are you asking metothedance?”

“We’re hoooome,” my

dad announced, followed byquick little steps gallopingintothekitchen.

“Teeeee!”“Tyyyyy!” Tanner said,

openinghis arms tomy littlebrother. He crouched downandhelduphishand.

“Slap me high, littleman.”

Tyler reached up andwhacked Tanner’soutstretchedpalm.

“Slapme low, too slow,”Tsaid,loweringhishandandthen pulling it out beforeTyler could slap it, sendingTy into a fit of hystericallaughter.Inmylittlebrother’seyes, Tanner was the bomb.Same mentality. Tylerwrestled out of his coat andleft it on thekitchen floor asheranouttohauntDaisy.

“Towhatdoweowe thispleasure?”mydadaskedT.

“Tanner asked Jesse to adance,”Daisyyelledfromthecouch.

“Well, good to see youtwogettingalong,”myfathersaid, crouchingdown topickup Tyler’s coat. He put thebag of bagels on the table,andwalkedofftothecloset.

“Forareconmission,Mr.McMann,” Tanner calledafter him. “Duncan is goingto be playing with the new

band.” He pulled out a chairfromthetableandrummagedthrough thebag, takingout asalt bagel. I grabbed somesilverware and the creamcheeseandsliditovertohim.

“Butter?”hesaid.“You did not come here

to mooch a bagel,” I said,taking the butter out of thefridgeandsittingacrossfromhim. “Is Plasma playing adancesomethingyoucouldn’t

tellmeatnoon?“Ah, checking out the

competition, classic move.”Dad walked back into thekitchen, Tyler in tow. HesettledTy intohishigh chairandtooktheseatnexttohim.

“I couldn’t sleep. I thinkwe need to choose adrummer,today.”

“We’ve got time,” I said,cutting into my own saltbagel.

“Howare theprospects?”Dadasked.

“Two guys . . . hard tochoose . . .” Tanner saidbetweenbites.

The guy who’d come inafter Grayson was good toobut he’d been the firstdrummer for Plasma, not theone that Duncan replaced—Kenny Ashe went throughdrummers pretty quickly.There was something that

didn’t feel right about him,though. Technically he wasincredible, and he had moreexperience thanGrayson,butchoosing him . . . I don’tknow,itfeltlikeitwouldjustdragusdownintoweirdbandpolitics,whichIhated.Likeifwe picked him we’d besaying: You have ourdrummer,nowwehaveyours.I wanted to start somethingnew,notrecycle.Ontheother

hand,ifwewentwithhimwemight be able to play outsooner.

“You know who youwant,”my father said, liftinghischintome.

“You do?”Tanner asked,as if I was keeping a secretfromhim.

Ishookmyhead.“Sure you do, it’s in the

gut. Whenever we neededsome fresh blood for

Backtalk, it always ended upbeing a gut decision,” Dadsaid, spreading his sesamebagelwith butter and tearingoffapieceforTy.

“The sooner we picksomeone, the sooner we canplay out.We could be doingdancesandstuff—”

“Screw dances, Iwant toplay for people who want tohearaband,notslowdance,”Isaid.

“Croooo dance,” Tylersaid, raising his fistful ofbagel.

“It’s basically money forpracticing,”Tannersaid.

“He has a point,” Dadsaid.

“I’d rather play theWhiskey.”

“Youwanttobeyourbestfor Declan.” Declan wasDad’s old bandmate and theonly one of them who had

ended up doing anythingremotelyrelatedtomusic.Hisbar, Whiskey Business, hadbeentheplacewhereElectricHookah, a thrash band fromManalapan, had beendiscovered by a small indielabel. Now it was everyband’s wet dream to beplucked from obscurity, anddateswerebookedfarout.I’ddropped our CD off rightbefore HannahDunk. It was

cover songs, but that’s whatthey focused on for theeighteen-and-over nights. Iwas pretty sure Dad couldcall in a favor.Maybe if wetook on the second guy andhad some intense practice,we’dbereadysoon.ButdidIwanta favor?Wouldn’t itbebettertoearnit?

“Idon’tknow,T...”“Procrastination is really

fearof the future,”my father

said,full-oncollege-professormode.

Tanner nodded. “Wow,um, what he said. C’mon,Jess, we can jam with themthis week, make a decision,andstartpracticing.”

What if we chose thewrongguy?Whatifwewerenever as good as we werebefore?Butwhat ifwewerebetter? Wondering about itwassafe...andstupid.

“Okay, let’s do it. Guesswe’re going to a dance nextFriday.”

FIVEMADISON

ON SATURDAY MORNING, MOMDROVEME, JAZZ, andWren tothe mall to hunt forsomething to wear for theSadie Hawkins thing. Wrenhad already purchased the

perfect little black dressweeksagososhewastheretohelpusgetourglamon—andmaybe hit the food court forlunchafterward.

“What do you think?” Iasked,checkingmyselfoutinthe three-way mirror. Thelacy cream-colored dressdraped perfectly over oneshoulder andcame to a flirtybut chaste stop right abovemy knees, perfect for a

SacredHeartevent.And something a granny

mightwear.Ahipgrannywithrockin’

shoulders,butstill.“It’spretty;youjustdon’t

looklikeyou,”shesaid.“You should talk, where

wouldyouwearthat?”Wren was on tiptoe,

pivotingtoseethebackviewofatinyblackminiskirtwithzipper pockets and barely

there halter top she wasmodeling.

“You don’t think it’sappropriateforBrooke’sbabyshower?”

“Have they changed thethemefromtropicaltoS&M?Wait, thatwouldprobablybemorefunforyou,”Ilaughed,doing a twirl of my own.Nope,stillnotme.

“No, Gray might . . .might,”shesaid,knockingon

the wall for luck, “actuallymake it into this band heauditionedforyesterday.Justtrying the rocker-chick lookonforsizeincase,youknow,we get to see them play out.Think he could handle myedgyside?”

“The bigger question is,canyouhandlehimhandlingyour edgy side? Because Ithinkhe’dhandleitfine.”

“Hmm, exactly what I

was going for,” she said,pivoting one last time, a slygrincrossingherface.

“Okay, how about thisone,” Jazz said, slinking outof thedressingroomina redcocktail dresswith anA-lineskirt.

“Jasmine Ka-Day-am—thatis...”

“Stunning,” Wrenfinished.

“No,comeon,betterthan

thewhiteone?”She stood before the

mirror, lifting out the skirt abit and then letting it swishback into place. The colorcomplemented her bronzeskin and dark hair in a waythatmadeherlooklit-up.Notsurehowshepulleditoff,butshe looked sexy and modestatthesametime.

“The other onewas nice,but this is, wow,” I said,

stepping back to take in thedressagain.

“That’s just it, I think itmight be too special,” shesaid, turningtotheside.“It’snotlikeit’spromoranything.Just a dance with someone Ibarelyknow.”

“No, this is thedress thatLogan is going to seeyou inand forget why he’s therewithDarby,”Wrensaid.

“Are you bummed that

you’re going with Kyle?” Iasked.

Shecrossedherarmsandleaned against thewall. “No,I’m happy I’m going withhim, Iguess.He’scute,nice,can carry on a conversation,buthe’s,well,IalreadyknowIdon’twantto,like,hookupwith him, and shouldn’t thatbepartofadance?Shouldn’tyouwant tokissyourdate?Imean,ifithappens,great,but

I’m thinking more aboutLogan.Itdoesn’tfeelright.”

“You’reputtingtoomuchimportance on what thingsshould be like,” I said,popping back into mydressing room to try on mynext choice—a straplessblack-and-white brocadedresswithahigh/lowillusionhemline. I fumbled with thezipper for a moment, thenwentbackouttothemirror.

Wrenclapped. “Now thatisyou.”

“Absolutely.” Jazzgrinned.

“Yep, I think this is it,” Isaid, twirling. The dressshowed off my legs, whichwere seriously toned frommonths of crescent lungesanddownwarddogs. Ipulledboth Wren and Jazz next tome and we struck a vampypose. The saleslady breezed

in to collect the clothes offtherejectrack.

“How are you girls—Ooh, so pretty,” she said.“What’stheoccasion?”

We stepped away fromeachother,giggling.

“Oh,um—SadieHawkinsDance,”Isaid.

“Fun. I have to say thatred dress is lovely. Didn’tseem like much on thehanger,butonyou it’s really

smashing. Let me know ifyougirlsneedanythingelse.”Shedartedoutofthedressingroom with clothes drapedoverherarm.

“See?” I said. “Even thesaleslady thinks you looksmashing.”

“She’s not exactlyimpartial.” Jazz checked outtheprice tagnearherarmpit.“And hey, look, all of mybirthday money and a

month’sworthofworkingformy mom just for what’sprettymuchapracticedate.”

“Okay,you’vegottostopthis—sowhatifyou’renotinlove with this guy? We allcan’tbeWrenandGray.”

They both gave mequizzicallooks.

“Aren’t you in love withZach?”Jazzasked.

I laughed, but whenneither of them joined in, I

stopped.“No, I’m not,” I said. It

felt strange tobedeclaring itout loud in front of a three-way mirror—endless imagesofme saying the same thing.“Imean,Ilikehimalot—wehave fun and all, but do Ithinkthisislove?Hell-to-the-no,butI’mnothunguponit.Neitherishe.”

My little speechwasmetwith an uncomfortable

silence.Wasitreallysoawfulthat I felt that way? Wrenchecked her butt out in themirror again. Jazz looked atthefloor.

“Ijustdon’tknowifIcando that. Be all casual,” shesaid.

“Omigod—lighten up.Consider it an experiment.You didn’t ask the guy tomarry you, it’s a freakin’dance in a high school gym.

You’re not going to wreckyour love life with oneawkward date. There areworsewaystospendaFridaynight.”

“She’s right, Jazz.Kyle’shot and you guys seemed tohit it off that night at themovies. I like theexperimentidea.”

“Buy the dress. Kiss thewrong boy. Flirt your buttoff.”

Jazz face-palmed, butlaughed. “Guys . . . ugh . . .okay.Yes.You’reright.”

“Success,” Wren said,wavingherhandin theairasshe returned to her dressingroom.

After our purchases, wewandered over to the foodcourttomeetMominfrontofJamba Juice. My stomachgrowled. A berry smoothiewouldnotcutit.WhatIreally

wanted was a honking plateof nachos from the Tex-Mexfoodstand.

“Hey, you guys want tosplitnach—”

Thewordsstoppedasmyeyeslandedonmymother.

Sitting in front of JambaJuice.

“Is that Leif? With yourmother?”Wrenasked.

“Yes.”Was it him? He looked

different in jeans, although Iguess it was ridiculous tothink he’d be roaming themall in yoga pants and hismat strapped to his back.Hehad a life outside the yogastudio, of course. Damn, hewore it just as well. I couldnot for the life of meunderstand how my mothercould compartmentalize Leifinto yoga-information guy.There was a stack of books

between them. My motherspoke using gestures thatmade her look like she wasswirlingtheairaroundher.

“That’s Hot Yogi?” Jazzasked.

“Aretheyonadate?”“Nah,” I said. “My

mom’s thinking of becomingayoga teacher—Leif is, like,heryounghotmentor.”

Mom spotted us andwaved us over. She was

glowing—no,really—likethespace around her wascharged.Leifsatwithonelegloosely crossed over theother, as if hangingwithmymom was the way he spenteverySaturdayatthemall.

“Am I allowed to see thedressnow?”sheaskedaswegotcloser.

“Hey,” I said, folding thedressbagoverthebackofthechair. Wren and Jazz

deposited their thingsnext tomine. “Fancy seeing youhere.”

Leif laughed. “Webumpedintoeachotherinthebookstore.”

“Yes, I was desperatelylost in the self-help sectionwhen I realized the books Ineededweresomewhereelse.Hesortofsavedme.”

“Nice.”“Any change from the

dress?”sheasked.“Aboutforty.Oh,um,we

were going to get somenachos, is that okay? We’vegottime,right?”Iasked.

“Sure.”“Want anything?” I

lookedbetweenthem.“No,I’monmywayout,”

Leif said, but he still satthere,sippinghisdrink.

Wren, Jazz, and Iwalkedovertowardthefoodstands.

“That’scoolyourmomisgoing to be an instructor,”Wrensaid.

“Youthink?”“Yes—she’s amazing in

class. Didn’t you see herdoing mermaid last week?She just sits there, in thepose;Ican’tevengetmyfootto stay in the crook of myelbow that long, I’m alwayswobbling, and she’s theretotallychill,likeshecouldsit

thatwayforhours.”“No, I didn’t notice,” I

said, lookingbackat themaswewaitedonline.

Leif finally got up andgavemymother’s shoulderapat before walking away.Nothing sexy about that—except the smile on mymother’sfacewas...well,itwas obvious that seeing himmade her happy. She openedone of the books. He came

toward us, looking morecollege student than guruwith his messy hair and hismessengerbagslungoverhisshoulder.

“See you next week,” hesaidashewalkedbyus.

“Bye,” Wren said as ourheads turned to follow hisexit.Therewasaslightscentthat followed him—somecitrusy, spicy cologne thatenvelopedusashepassed.

“I need to get to one ofthoseclasses,”Jazzsaid.“Heevensmellsgood.”

“I think that’s just thenachos,” Wren said. “I’mseriouslystarved, canwe getthedeluxe?Youcanhavemyshareofthejalapeños.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Isaid,lookingbackatMom.

Shewasstillsmiling.

Once at home,Mom insisted

Imodelmy purchase for herandPaul. I tottereddown thestairs,holdingthebottompartof thedressupso Iwouldn’ttriptomydeath.

“Ready?”Icalled.“Yep,”mymothersaid.“Okay, I’m turning the

corner now.” I reached thelanding and pivoted towardthe dining room, where mymotherandPaulsat.Paulhadhis hands over his eyes. My

mothergasped.“Mads . . . that’s

gorgeous,” she said, gettingup from her seat. Pauluncoveredhiseyes.

“Va-va-voom,” he said,grinning. I shookmyheadatthe corny compliment, but itdidfeelkindofgood.Itwasagreat dress. And I happenedtorockitprettyhard.

My mom grabbed myhands and held them out to

the side to get a better view.“You sure Sister Teresa isgoing to let you get awaywithsomuchskin?”

“It’snotthatbad,isit?”“I’m just teasing. You

look lovely.” She put herhands on each cheek, playedwith the ends of my hair,pulling some strands towardmyface.Iknewmyhairwasin desperate need of seriousshaping. It was starting to

lookshaggyinsteadofpixie.“Weshouldlightenupthe

coloraroundyourfacebeforenext Friday. Were youthinking of going a littlespiky and edgy or kind ofsoft?”

“I can’t decide—maybesofter,butmessy?AndIwasthinking big earrings, butkeeping the rest bare, nonecklaceoranything.Lightermakeup—bright-red lip,

maybe?”“Iloveit,”shesaid.“You two are speaking a

different language,” Paulsaid, standing next to Mom.Hedidaquickonce-overandshook his head. “Our littleMadsallgrownup.”

Mymotherlookedathim,and a faint smile crossed herface,thenshetookmycheeksin her hands again, tilted herheadtotheside.

“My beautiful girl,” shesaid. “Youguys are stoppinghereforpictures,right?”

“I guess,” I said, pullingaway. For some reason themoment was overwhelming—thewaymymomlookedatme.WhatPaulsaid.Ilikedit,the little rush of happiness Ifelt when he said Our littleMads,butIwasn’tsurewhy.It all felt familiar. Andcomforting.

“I’m gonna get changed.Are we ordering from theIndianplacefordinner?”

“Order out? No way,shrimpscampiisonthemenutonight—will you be joiningus?”Paulasked.

“Sounds good,” I said,headingbackuptomyroom.

ItwasnicehavingPaulinthehouse.Mymotherseemedlighter,melloweraroundhim.And I certainly appreciated

thehome-cookedmeals,evenliked hearing him whistleSpringsteen songs as heworked in the kitchen. Butwhy didn’t my mother smileathim theway she smiledatLeifthisafternoon?WasPaultoo boxed up in the friendcompartment for her to everconsiderhecouldbemore?Itwashardtobelievethatinalltheyearsthey’dbeenfriends,they never once looked at

each other that way. Imean,Paulwaskindofdashing,foranolderguy.

Mywheelsturned.If I didn’t join them for

dinner,they’dbealone.Andiftheywerealone..

. shrimp scampi, bottle ofwine...

What if the reason Paulwanted to call New JerseyhomewasMom?Maybe thatwasthebiggerreasonhewas

here—evenifhedidn’tknowityet.Theycoulduseanudgeintherightdirection.

IcalledWren.Shepickeduponthethirdring.

“Hey, can I still comeovertonight?”

“Yes, please, I only havetoputabazillionmint lentilsinto these little starfish-shaped boxes for Brooke’sshower.Wanttohelp?”

Iwasn’tsurewhatamint

lentilwas,butifitgotmeoutofthehouseforawhile...

“Canweorderapizza?”Shelaughed.“Yeah.”“I’m in, see you soon.” I

hung up. I grabbed my coatandwentdowntothekitchen.Mom sat at the café table, aglass of wine in front of herasshehelpedPauldeveintheshrimp. They were laughingabout something as I walkedin.

“Hey, you know what, Iforgot I told Wren I wasgoing to help her withsomething, so I’m going tohavetobailontheshrimp.Isthatokay?”

“Yes—do you need aride?” Mom asked, probablydesperate to stop workingwith shrimp guts. My mom,knives, and the kitchen werenotahappycombination.Thefact that she was even doing

this with Paul, well, spokevolumes. At least I thoughtso.

“No, I should walk offthosenachosfrombefore.”

“You don’t know whatyou’remissing,”Paul saidasIwentoutthefrontdoor.

Funny...Icouldsaythesamething.

SIXJESSE

TANNER AND I LURKED INFRONT OF SACRED Heart,watching as groups ofcouples walked up the stepsinto the building. For such asmallschool, it fitanendless

mass of people. All dressedup. As in, not in jeans, likeus.Everysooftenwe’dgetalook thatmademefeel likeIshould be holding out adonationcuporsomething.

“This doesn’t look likethesortofdanceyoucanjustshowupto,T,”Isaid.

Hecranedhisheadtogeta better look into thevestibule. There was a tablewith two girls sitting behind

it.Twoverydressed-upgirls.“There’s a sign that says

it’s fifteen at the door,” hesaid.

“Percouple,whichwearenot,” I said. “Let’s just getouttahere,hitamovieor thediner.” I started walkingtoward the VW, which I’dparked about a block away,but slowed when I realizedTannerwasn’tfollowingme.

“Dude, we’re here,” he

said,wavinghisarmsaround.“Wemightaswellfigureouta way to get in, or stand bythegymdoor.”

“I’m not standing by thegymdoortohearSmegma,”Isaid,walkingbacktohim.I’dfeltpatheticenoughthenightDuncan caught me sitting intheBeetletryingtoavoidhimand Hannah. No matter howcurious I was to hear theirsound, I wasn’t going to

freeze my ’nads off and riskthe humiliation of gettingcaughtlurking.

What the hell were wedoinghere?

“When the crowd thinsout,I’llgoinandchatuptheladies,” Tanner said. Ilaughed but his face wasdetermined.

“Oh,you’reserious?”“Why not? I’m sick of

waiting for shit to happen,”

hesaid.He’dmadeaneffort—his

usual white-boy ’fro tamedand combed to the side.Andhereekedofsomeshowergelstuff that he claimed wassupposedtosmell“exoticandspicy.”I’msurewhateverthatwas supposed to smell likewasn’tsomethingyouneededto brace yourself against.Tanner was surrounded in aformidablecloud.

“Fine,”Isaid.We waited a good five

minutes until the front doorwas dead. Tanner loped upthestepsandopenedtheglassdoorstogoinside.Heshovedhis hands into his pockets ashestoodthere,andbothgirlslooked up at him.Therewasno way they were letting usin.

Theonegirlwhisperedinthe other’s ear. She gave

Tanner a once-over. Hegestured toward the door—toward me, I realized inhorror—and shrugged, armsout to the side, hands up.They kind of squinted, onegirl shielding her eyes fromthe overhead light like shewas saluting someone, andlooked right at me. I wasn’tsure if they could see me intheshadows,butIslunkbackbehind the fence.One of the

girls shook her head andsmiled.Tannerwalkedout.

“Not an open dance. Weneed a Sacred Heart chick,”he said, trotting down thesteps.

“Well, that settles it,then,” I said, turning. Hegrabbedmysleeve.

“Ithinkyoushouldtalktothem,”hesaid.

“Andsaywhat?”“I dunno, something that

willgetusin.”“Whywouldtheylistento

me?”“I didn’t really try that

hard.Jess,comeon,you’reafront man, start acting likeone. These girls would bepressed against the stage foryou. I’ve seen it. Just, youknow—”

“What? Sing to them?Thisisastupididea.”

“Sure, a stupid idea, like

finding a drummer or takingoffthatfuckingwristband,oranything that means leavingherbehind.”

Every so often, T wouldcut to thechase.You’d thinkhe was clueless and goofyand then, there it was—aspot-on revelation. But thedrummer thing—both guyswere good. It felt likechoosing one over the otherwould be shutting down a

world of possibility.AlthoughinmygutIthoughtI knew which choice wouldbethebestforus.

“That’s not what this isabout.”

“Really? So if Hannahcameuptoyourightnowandtold you itwas all amistakeand she wanted to hook upagain, you wouldn’t crawlrightbacktoher.”

“No.”

“Bullshit.”BeforeIcouldthinkabout

it any more, I tore up thestairs and opened the door.Jesse the front man canhandlethis.Ownit,Ithought,even though I generallybelieved anyone who talkedabout himself in the thirdperson,eveninhishead,wasa complete nimrod.Thegirlslooked ready to bechallenged.Nobackingdown

now.“Hey,” I said, sauntering

up to the table. I hookedmythumbinmybeltloop,takingthe laid-back, I-don’t-really-need-to-get-in,cajapproach.

“Hi,” the girl with thedarkhairsaid.

“This dance—you reallyhavetoknowsomeonetogetin?”

“It’s a Sadie Hawkinsdance,youhavetobeasked,”

the other girl said with asmile. The smile was key.Genuine. Cute. An endlessstreamofgirls indressesandguys following them flowedintothegym.Thedoorswereonlyabout ten feet awayandwide open. I could see thestage.Plasmawasn’tonyet.

“I’m just here for theband, is there any way youcouldlooktheotherwayfor,like, five minutes? I’ll even

pay the fifteen dollars. IswearIwon’tstaylong.”

“Whydoyouwant toseethe band?” the dark-hairedgirl said, putting her chin inherhand.

“I hear they’re reallygood.”

“Liar,”theothergirlsaid.“Okay, maybe I want to

see howgood they are.Kindoffriendlycompetition.”

They looked at each

other.Therewasacheerfromthe gym. The band walkedout onto the stage. KennyAshe pulled his guitar strapoverhishead.Duncansettleddown behind the drums.When the rest of the guyswereinplace,Kennycountedoff the song. The soundexploded into the gym,“Dance, Dance”—really?Duncan was a little fast onthebeat.

“Please,”Isaid.Therewasaslowsecond,

a moment I knew they werewavering.Thenatallgirlinashortblackdresswithlegsformileswalkedovertous.

“Hey, ten more minutesand we can officially closethe door,” she said.Her coolgreen eyes darted overme—my Vans, leather jacket, thefrayed pocket of my jeans.Whatever progress I’d made

had just gone back to squareone.

“Can I help you?” sheasked, looking at me like Iwassomethingshe’dflickoffafriend’ssweater.

Frontman,Jess.“He justwants to see the

band,Ava.”She crossed her arms.

“Youcan’t.”“Look, I’m friends with

them, I’ll just stay for one

song, two tops,” I said. “I’lleven stand at the doors,how’sthat?”

“We’reatcapacity.”“But...”“Do I need to get

someone more persuasive towalkyouout?”

Who?TheSadieHawkinspolice?Iwantedtosay,butIdidn’t need to call moreattention to myself. I shookmy head and went back

outside.Tannerwaited at thefootofthesteps.

“So?”“They opened with Fall

Out Boy, can you believethat? Then some girl kickedmeout.”

“Damn.”“Wait,” I said, checking

out the fence around theproperty. From the top stairthe fence looked easy to getover.“Theremustbeanother

way in—a back door orsomething. If I get in, I canlet you in one of the gymdoors.Givemeaboost.”

“Huh?”“Do we want to see

Plasmaorstandouthere likenumbnuts waiting for shit tohappen?” I asked, checkingout thearea tomakesurewewerealone.

He grinned andinterlocked his fingers, then

hoisted me up. I teetered onthetopofthefenceforasplitsecondbeforegrabbingatreelimbanddroppingdownontothelawn.

“Wait,whatshouldIdo?”Tannerwhisper-yelled.

“I’ll textyouwhen I finda way in,” I said, headingtowardthesideoftheschool,althoughwhatIwasgoingtodo after I got past theshrubbery and statues of

stern-lookingangels,Iwasn’tsure. Tanner’s “waiting forshit to happen” got tome. IsthatwhatIwasdoing?WouldIreallyletHannahwalkbackinto my life if she wanted?And if she did . . . would itmakeeverythingbetter?

Past the shrubs was awide, tree-dotted lawn thatranthelengthofthebuilding.I crouch-walked toward theclassroom windows, hoping

to find even the tiniestbreach. Sacred Heart wasancient.Mymother had toldme once that she and herfriends would climb out thewindowinthespringtocatchsomeraysduringstudyhall.Icouldn’t imagine my motherbeing that ballsy, but if shecould climb out a window, Icould climb in. I only hopedthey hadn’t updated theirsecurity system tomore than

the stoneangels thatguardedoutfront.

Each set of windows Itriedwaslocked.Shit.ThenIspied one toward the end ofthebuildingthatwascrackedopenslightly.Thelengthwisewindow opened outward.There were two panes in it,but it was one solid piece. Islidmyfingersinandpulled.Nothing. I tried again,widening my grip. It gave a

tiny bit. My fingers achedfromthecold.Ishookoutthenumbness, adjusted my grip,and pulled again, working itfor a good minute until itopenedenoughformetoslipthrough. I took a last lookoutside for any telltalesecurity lights or cameras incorners of the building, andwriggledmywayin.

Athickdrapecoveredthewindow.Therewasamoment

when both feet dangled oneither sideof thewindowsill,until my left foot finallyfoundthefloor.Igrippedthesidesoftheframeandbackedin. My fingers slipped and Itoppled down, the drapefanningoutaroundmeasmyass hit the floor. I groanedandproppedmyselfuponmyelbows,lettingmyeyesadjusttothedark.

Theonlylightintheroom

came from the dimly lithallway. I pushed myself upto standing and brushedmyselfoffbeforeshuttingthewindow. Desks werearrangedinasemicircle—andon the chalkboard—they stillhad chalkboards here?—wasthequote“Tobeornottobe,thatisthequestion.”Ha.Wellplayed,universe.

When I opened mymessages to text Tanner, I

alreadyhadtwofromhim.

I’min.Side door to cafopen.

For fucking real? Ilaughed. I felt stupid.Reckless.Alive.

I stepped into the hall.The sound of the band—Kenny Ashe’s muffled voicescreaming out a song I

couldn’t decipher—echoedthrough the empty corridor.Farther down, people milledaround in front of two opendoors. Cafeteria, maybe? Ihugged the wall as I movedtoward the action. As I gotcloser, I noticed a leggysilhouette turn the corner atthe end of the hallway. Thegirl from the front who shutmedown.My heart shot intomy throat. No fucking way

wasIgettingkickedoutafterthis. I ducked into thecafeteria, crouching a bit togetlostinathrongofkids.

Iworkedmywayover toa vending machine andstudied it as if my lifedepended on finding ahealthy snack. In thereflectionoftheglassIcouldsee that I was unnoticed, atleastforthemoment.Ipeeredover my shoulder, scanning

theroomforTanner.Myeyeslanded on a familiar-lookinggirl in ablackdress standingbehindalongtablecoveredinwater bottles and severaltraysofcupcakes.WheredidIknowherfrom?

“Jesse?”Someone tugged my

jacket. I flinched and turnedtowardthevoice.

There was a girl next tome. The short-haired one

fromyoga.“Madison.” I could not

hidemysurpriseasIcheckedherout.Therewasn’tawordto describe how she looked.Only sounds, syllables. Shewas cute after class, butdamn.

“Wow.” Smooth, Jess,whydon’tyoujustgrunt?

Sheloweredhereyesandsmiled.

“Thanks,”shesaid.“Who

areyouherewith?”“I—um...”Istutteredas

she gave me a once-over. Icould see it was dawning onher that I wasn’t exactlydressed for theoccasion.Hergringotwider.Iknewitwasokay to tell her the truth. Iwasn’t sure why, maybe itwas that smile—man, it wasthe kind of smile that gaveyou an adrenaline rush fromjust being on the receiving

end.Ihadtosmileback.“I’m not here with

anyone, just snuck in to seethe band,” I said. Her eyesgot round. Had I made thewrong call? She leanedtowardme.

“Then why are youstaring into the vendingmachine?” she whispered.“Especially this one—seriously,whowouldactivelychoose papaya fruit leather

overpeanutM&Ms?”Ilaughed.“Well,Ikindof

got hassled at the door, soI’m, um, flying under theradar.”

“C’mon.” She motionedformetofollowher.Ilookeddown, careful not to step onthe back of her dress. Wewalked up to the table. ThegirlintheblackdresshandedMadison a camera on a longstrap.Ah, theotherThursday

Girlfromyoga.“Thanks forwatching it,”

Madison said as she put thecameraoverherhead. “Lookwho I found wanderingaroundthecafeteria.”

“Hey, Mugshot,” the girlsaid.

“It’sJesse,”Isaid.“Wren,”shesaid,smiling.

“Your friend just wanderedthrough here a little whileago.”

“Really? No one hassledhim?”

“NotthatIsaw.”“Where’s the ball-and-

chain?He bailed on cupcakedetail already?” Madisonasked her, fiddling with thecamera and pointing it atWren.

Wren put her hand overher face and waved thecamera away. “The bandplayedsomeNirvanasonghe

wanted to check out. Noreason the two of us shouldmissout. Ifyou seehim, tellhimmyshiftisdoneinabouttenminutes.”

“I’m off to be rovingphotographer—don’t forgetweneedtogetapictureofthethree of us later,” Madisonsaid, sneaking in a few fastclicks of Wren, who finallysmiled for the camera. Thethree of us? She tugged my

sleeve again and I followedher through the sidedoorsofthecafeteriaandrightinto...Legs. Who immediatelyrecognizedme.

“IthoughtItoldyou—”Madisongrabbedmyarm.

“Ava,he’swithme.”Legs/Ava blinked fast a

few times and lookedbetween us. Madison movedevenclosertome.

“Wait,Ithoughtyouwere

withZachO’Keefe.”“I am, and I’m also with

Jess.It’sladies’choice,right?I can have two dates, there’sno weird Sadie Hawkinsbylaw I’m not aware of, isthere?”

This stunned herspeechless.

“Ava, come on, stopbeing a dance Nazi. It’s asuccess. Enjoy it,” Madisonsaid, pullingme along. “And

Wrenwantstodancewithherboyfriend,noonecaresaboutcupcakes!”

Avaopenedhermouth tosay something but then justshook her head and almost,almostsmiledbeforewalkinginto the cafeteria. Did thatmean...?Iwasintheclear.Madisonheldontomyhand,leading me down a narrow,darkened hallway toward thepounding thrum of the band.

People were coming andgoing, like an ant tunnel, butshe held on to me, lookingover her shoulder once andsaying something I couldn’thear. It was hot and loud; Igripped her hand a littletighter.Wefinallymadeit toa door that opened to thegym.

The gym floor was thickwith people in front of thestage dancing to a craptastic

version of “What I LikeAbout You.” Kenny wasbreathless as he sang—probably from jumpingaroundthestagelikeanidiot.We wove our way throughthemob,stagelightsflashingredandgreenandpurpleoverthe crowd. Madison stoppedto chat with a few people,then held the camera in onehand over themass of headsand started snapping random

pictures. The flash made myvision spotty.Wemade it tothefarwall,whereshefinallyletgoofmyhand.

“So are they friends ofyours?” she yelled, gesturingto the band and rocking alittletothebeat.

“Not really—that’s ourold drummer. Just checkingoutthecompetition,”Iyelledback. She nodded. The gymwas less crowded than it

appearedfromupfront.Mostofthepeopleweretowardthestage, with a few stragglershangingaround theperimeterof the room.Tannerwas stillMIA. I checked my phone.Nothing.

“Hey, I’m going to findmy date. You okay?”Madisonasked.

I wouldn’t have mindedhanging out with her somemore, but yelling at each

other over the music wasn’texactly the perfect situationto get to know someone. Ohyeah, and the fact that shewasherewithsomeonemadethe whole thing a bitinconvenient.

“Yeah,thanksforhelpingme.”

“You still owe me thatchai.” She waved as shewalked off into the crowd.What guy would be idiot

enough to let her out of hissightatadance?

I leaned against the walland finally spotted Tanner.He was dancing with ToriAsheandherfriends.Iguesshe threw the lying-low planout the window. I laughed.Helookedalittlespastic,butit worked for him. I’dforgotten that Kenny’s sisterwent to Sacred Heart, whichprobably helped with them

getting the gig. One thingKennyhadwasconnections.Itried to be objective—just adude listening to a band.Theyweren’tthatbadandthecrowdseemedtolikethem.

ThenIsawher.Hannah. She was in a

dark dress, hair down, andmovingtothemusic,herfacelit up red. Green. Purple. Ihadn’t thought about seeingherorifthebandcouldbring

dates. Anytime I thought Iwas over it, that she hadn’tcrossed my mind in a fewhours—zap. This awful joltTased me. Maybe it hurt alittleless.

Ornot.I fiddled absentmindedly

withtheinfinityband—okay,bracelet—thatIstillwore...forher.Forus.Hoping.

“Come on, Jess, just getthem. One for me, one for

you,” she’d said. We’d beenwalkingaroundthestreetfairfor a while, browsing thetable of, like, the tenthjewelryvendorwe’dseen.

“Guys don’t wearbracelets,” I’d said, eventhoughIknewIwasgoingtocave.

“What’sthatbig-assuglything you’ve already goton?”

“That’s a wristband.

There’sadifference.”“So call it a wristband—

pretty please, sugar on top,andallthatstuff.”

The look in her eyeswasworth the forty bucks.Worthamillion.

Ihadn’t taken itoffsincethat day. Even at my worstmoments, when I hatedHannahDunk more than IthoughtIcouldhateanything,it was still on my wrist. I

tuggedatitandlookedaway.The band finished the

song with a crash. Kennybreathed into the mic—Backinten!—andtheguyswalkedoff.IsentTanneratextwhereto find me; I didn’t want towalk over there to his dancecircle. I’d seen enough. Wecould pick the shittiestdrummer and still be betterthan Smegma. Boomingdancemusicblaredoutofthe

speakers and the crowdswelled as some rapper sangabout talking dirty.My headpounded with the beat. Myjacketfelttight.Theedgesofthe room blurred. Madisonwassuddenlyinfrontofme.

“Couldn’t find him,” shesaid.“Hey,youokay?”

“Yeah, fine. I just hatethismusic.”

“Iknow,right?”“Mads! I’m free!” Wren

scurried across the dancefloor to us. “Where’s Jazz? Ihaven’tseenhersincewegothere.”

Madisonshrugged.“Duuuuude,didyougeta

load of . . . Hey, ThursdayGirls,” Tanner said, joiningus. His stunt on the dancefloor must have given himsome swagger because I’dnever seen him so laid-backin front of these girls. “So

what’d you think, they suck,right?”

“Prettymuch,”Isaid.“Who, the band?” Wren

asked.“Yeah,”Tsaid.Atallguycreptupbehind

Wren,puttinghisfingertohislips. Madison pretended notto notice him. Wren jumpedas he wrapped his armsaroundher,thenlaughed.The“ball-and-chain”...Wait.He

lookedatme.“Grayson?”“No effing way,” Tanner

said, realizing his number-one drummer choice waswrappedaround thegirlhe’ddrooledoverforamonth.

“Hey, how do you know—”Graysonsaid.

“Jess works at Mugshot,we go there after yoga.”Madison motioned back andforthbetweenus.

Thefiveofusstoodthere,kind of nodding to theoverpowering beat and justlooking at one another,searching for something totalk about. I knewwhat wascoming,couldfeelthesubjectswirlingthereinthecenterofus, building up energy.Graysonspokefirst.

“Sodidyouever,um,youknow,findanyone?”HiseyesdartedfrommetoTanner.

Graysonwasnotmy firstchoice; the other dude,Plasma’s old drummer, wastechnically better and moreexperienced. Tanner, on theotherhand,thoughthe’dwantto come in and take over,whereasGraysonwould be abetterfitforus.Wewereatastalemate, but standing there,havingGraysonaskmepoint-blank, my gut told me adifferent story. It craved

action. Forward motion. IlookedatTanner.

“Um,yeah,you,well . . .yousavedusaphonecall,”Isaid.

“What?”“Canyoupracticewithus

tomorrow?”Iasked.“Yeah,definitely.”“What do you think?” I

askedTanner.“Great.”“So you can vouch for

thisguy,”IsaidtoMadison.“Me?Um,Iguesshe’sall

right. His car is awful,though.”

“Thanks,Mads,”Graysonsaid,grinning.

I looked at Grayson.“Guessyou’rein.”

“Thebandfor thissortofsucks,don’tthey?”hesaid.

“Yeah.” I already likedhim. This was the rightdecision.Hegaveuseachan

enthusiastichandshaketosealthedeal.

The music changed to aslower groove. The crowdsplit apart, some peoplepairing off like magnets, afew leaving the floor orawkwardly standing there.Madison searched the dancefloor, looking for her idiotdate no doubt. She fumbledwiththecamera.

“No more interviews or

cookies, right? We candance?” Grayson asked,holdingouthishandtoWren.She grinned, took his hand,and it was like they werealready dancing. He broughthis forehead down to hers,her hands clasped behind hisneck,up intohishairas theycurled into each other, eyesopen.

“Sickening, isn’t it?”Madisonsaid, tiltingherchin

toward Grayson and Wren.She said itwith a smile, likeshe didn’t really think itwassickening at all but felt likeshe needed to say somethingsince we were just theregawking at them. Theykissed.Shewalkedouttothecenter of the floor and tooksome snapshots of them. Ilookedaway.

Bam.Duncan and Hannah

swayed into my view. Theyweren’t pressed together likeGrayson andWren, but theirarmswere around each otherand Duncan was talking, asmile on his face. Hannahleaned into him andwhispered something in hisear. He laughed and thenbroughtherincloser.Sheputherheadonhis shoulder andclosed her eyes. I could notlookaway.Therewasnojolt

thistime.Morelikeanemptyache, pressure, like someonewas slowly pushing the airout of my lungs. They werehappy. They didn’t evenknow or care if I was there.Their relationship hadnothing—nothing—todowithme.

Madison walked backovertome.

“I think we should go,”Tannersaid.

“You’releavingalready?”Madisonasked.

A chestnut husk stuck inmy throat; the roomwas hotagain.

“Yeah, we’ve seenenough,right,T?”

“Yep.”“Well if you need to

sneak into Sacred Heartanytime, I’m your girl,” shesaid.

I pushed open the side

door,andacoldgustshotin.Madisonshivered.

“I’ll keep that in mind,thanks.”

We walked out into thenight, silentaswewentbackto the car. My ears stillthrummed with the sound ofthegym,mymindstillnumbfrom the reality of what I’dseen.Iyankedofftheinfinitybracelet, stopped short oftossing it to the curb, and

shovedit intomypocket.Nomorepining,forfuck’ssake.

“You’re okay we wentwith Grayson?” I askedTanner.

He nodded. “Why,because he’s with ThursdayGirl? We have a drummer.I’montopoftheworld.”

“Because if you had aproblemwithit,wecould—”

“I like the dude, Jess.He’sagoodfit.Plentyoffish

in the sea. Did you see medancingwithToriAshe?”

I laughed.“Yep,but isn’tthataconflictofinterest?”

“Or sleeping with theenemy. That sounds hotter.What changed your mindaboutGrayson?” he asked aswereachedtheVW.

“Dunno. Game-timedecision,Iguess.”

“So it had nothing to dowithhimbeingsixdegreesof

separation from the littleblonde?”

“Nah.”We got into the car and

satamomentwhileitwarmedup.WasMadisonthereasonIsuddenly thought Graysonwasagoodmatch?Ofcoursenot—hewas good, andwe’dgrow as a band, on commonground. I knew that’swhyTwanted him—the other guywastoogood,asridiculousas

it sounded. There wassomething I had to admit,though.

“Imean, itwouldn’tsuckifshecametoseeus.”

Tannersmiledandlookedout the passenger’s-sidewindow.“Iknewit.”

SEVENMADISON

“I’LL KEEP THAT IN MIND,THANKS,” JESSE SAID beforeexiting.

I crossed my arms forwarmth, watching him leaveafter his friend. I had the

weird urge to follow and seewhat Broody Barista did inhis free time. Running intohim had been such anunexpected surprise in anotherwise meh kind of anight.Thedoorclosedwithaclunk. I walked over to it,running my hand along thecold push bar—one swiftmotion and I’d be out. Notthat I really wanted to leave—the night had barely

started.Andthisdresswasfartoo fabulous to just roam thestreets in, plus I still hadn’tgotten any decent photos orslow-dancedwithZach.

Why was I making a listof reasons to stay at thedance?

School dances alwayssounded better than theyactuallywere.Whynotcallitwhat it really was: Fridaynight all dressedup trying to

be something it wasn’t. Nomatter howmuch balloon artfilled the gym, it still boileddown to a room with bluepadded walls, retractedbasketball hoops, and thefaint smell of rubber andSimpleGreenwherewe’dbeslapping around a hockeypuck in class on Monday.Seeing it as a romanticplacewashard,evenwiththemoodlighting.

Except watching Wrenand Grayson—the buildingcould have come crashingdown around them and Idoubt they’d have noticed.They really were thatsickening couple— annoyingand sweet and in their ownworld. I took a few picturesof them, then wandereddeeper into the crowd,ignoring the disappointmentthatthreatenedtobringdown

my already precarious goodmood.Therewasnothingthatsucked more than searchingfor your date during a JohnLegend song. Where wasZach?

I made my way to thefront of the gym to see ifthere were any interestingshots—I’d been wary of thedance assignment at first butrealized it could be a greatopportunity to build my

portfolio. Photography wasnot my thing but my artteacher had said a diverseportfolio showed that youweren’t afraid to take risks.Thatwhat theseartprogramswanted to seemostwasyourpotential.

Earlier in the year, I’dtaken some artsy shotsbetween the spokes of aFerris wheel at the SacredHeart Founders Festival that

had won a ribbon in the fallart show. Granted, therewasn’t much competition. Ilooked around for somethingoutoftheordinary,anythingIcould see with a differentperspective.As I brought thecamerauptomyface,Zach’sgrinappearedintheframe.

“Where have you been?”he asked, grabbing my handand leading me toward thedancefloor.

“Zach,” I said, takingquick little steps to keep upwithhim.“Slowdown.”

Iadjustedthestrapsothecamerawastomyback,likeapurse—it had really becomethe clunkiest of accessories.We found an empty space inthe center of the gym. Hedrewme close, hands slidingup my arms, his fingerstracing my shoulders andtrailingdownmybareback.I

claspedmy hands behind hisneck,keepingmyeyesonhis.

“Where was I? Wherewereyou?”

Heleaneddown.“Let’s just dance,” he

whispered, lips brushing myear. My breath stopped.Maybe I was too quick todismiss the dance, becausehis mouth on my skin mademe forget we were even onplanet Earth. I snuggled into

him as he caressed my backandweswayedtothemusic.

Foralloftenseconds.Until the beat got fast,

and Pitbull echoed throughthe gym, sending up someloudwhoopsasthecrowdgotcrazy again. A few of theteacher chaperones dartedonto the dance floor as aprecaution.SacredHeartwasa no-grinding zone—but itdidn’t stop people from

trying. Zach lifted his armsup in the air and rocked hiships, with the sort offearlessness thatcanceledoutthe goofy moves. He movedclosertome,soseriousIhadto laugh. I wondered if he’dpracticedinamirror.

“C’mon,”hesaid.He screwed up his face

like he was in pain andcontinued to dance aroundme. I finally relented until

Miss Preston, the driver’s-edteacher, gave us an I’mwatching you glare and weparted. I took themoment tosearch the floor for Jazz orWrenbutitwasimpossibletosee anyone through the thickmassofbodies.

“Ineedsomeair,”Iyelledat Zach, and pointed out tothe hallway. He led the waytowardthedoor.Onceoutsidethe gym I felt cooler. Zach

draped his arm over myshouldersaswewalkeddownthehall.

“Have I told you howsmokin’youlook?”

“Yes, twice, but you cankeeptellingme.”Isnakedmyarm around his and leanedintohim.

“Weshoulddosomethingafterthis,”hesaid.

“Likewhat?”“Yourcouch,maybe?”

“This is not a couchdress.”

“Who said you had to bewearing it?” He nuzzled myhair.

I stopped short. “Zach,really?”

“What?”His brow bunched up in

confusion. Iwasn’t surewhywhat he’d said bothered me.Zach’s pervy side normallymade me swoony, especially

the thought of being skin toskin. Somehow, in thehallway of school, it pissedme off. Maybe it was fromwatching Wren and Grayslow-danceand realizing thatitmightnotbesobadtohavea main squeeze I kind ofadored. Someonewhowouldseek me out during a slowsong instead of grindingagainstmy leg.Not that thatwasn’t fun. Why wasn’t

spendingtimewithme in thedress enough for him?Couldn’thethinkofanythingelse for a moment? Hebrushedsomehairawayfrommyface.

“Madison, what did Ido?”

“Nothing.”“It’s not just tonight, you

know,you’vebeen...weirdlately. I feel like I’m alwaysonestepawayfromannoying

thehelloutofyou.”Hefrowned,hiseyessoft,

uncertain, making me feellike suchahard-ass.Howhecouldgofromhowlingonthedancefloortothisvulnerablemush in a few shortminuteswas part of the reason thatwhenever I thought aboutuntanglingmyselffromhim,Icouldn’t.Icouldn’tstandthislook being directed at me orthinking that Iwas the cause

ofit.“No, you’re not,” I said,

tuggingonhistie.He leaned down and I

brushed my lips across his,getting lost in theheatof thekiss.Thiswaswherewewereperfect, the lovely liquidplace when our eyes wereclosed and our mouthstouched.Was this howWrenfelt with Gray on the dancefloor? My whole body

relaxed as his armssurrounded me. We steppedbackuntil I bumped thewallbehindme;thecoldtilemademetremble.OrmaybeitwasZachand thewayhis tonguewrappedaroundmine.

You couldn’t build arelationship with someonesimply because you got offkissingthem,Iknewthat,butitwasn’texactlyashittywaytostart.

The urgent click of heelsin thehallwaycoming inourdirection made us part. MissPrestonwalkedby,smilingasshe made her way to thecafeteria. I ran my thumbalong the corner of Zach’smouth,towipeoffwheremylipstickhadsmeared.Hetookmy thumb in his mouth andnibbledbeforeIpulledaway,laughing.

“Why don’t you helpme

with these pictures I’msupposed to take—it’ll gofaster,thenwecanjustenjoythis thing. Sound like aplan?”

“Sure,” he said. “WhatshouldIdo?”

“Letme know if you seeanythinginteresting.”

He lifted the strap overmy head, and holding thecamera at arm’s length, puthis cheek to mine and said,

“Saywhiskey.”Hehelddownthe button so the cameraclicked multiple times. Agroup of girls walked by usandgiggled.

“Zach! You left withoutsayinggood-bye,”agirlwithlongblondhairandasparklypurpledresssaid.

“Hey, smile for thecamera,”hesaid.Theypulledtogether,threeofthemhikinguptheirdressestoshowsome

leg,andgrinned.“Gotit!Officialyearbook

business,” he said, whichcaused the girl in purple tolaughalittletooloudathim.She . . . was flirting? Zachlookedbackatme,goofy-assgrinonhisface.

“What?”“You left where without

sayinggood-bye?”“Oh, the caf—Kyle and

me were talking to them.

They’re sophomores—cometo our indoor matchessometimes.Why?Jealous?”

Ishookmyhead.“Nope.”Slight disappointment

flashed across his face, butthenhekissedme.

“Whydon’tyou justpassthe camera around todifferent people, make yourjobeasier,”hesaid.

“Because it’s, like, athree-hundred-dollar camera,

and it’smy job, come on.” Itriedtogetitfromhimbuthehelditoutofmyreach.

“Yousaidyouwantedmeto help you,” he said. “Chill,trustme.”

I swallowed a groan. Ididn’t want to chill or trusthim. I just wanted thefreakin’camera.“Zach.”

He wandered fartherdown the hall, stopping totake a picture of a statue of

the Blessed Mother, which,considering he’d just had histongue down my throat,seemedslightlyinappropriate.

“Zach.”He was a good five feet

ahead of me, when hestopped, looking down theannexhallway that led to thetwo newer classrooms in thebuilding. His mouth openedslightly as he raised thecameratohisface.“Cool.”

“Please give it—” I said,then looked at what he’ddeemed“cool.”

Itwasprettycool.The hallway was

decorated with bunches ofpink and purple glowingballoons. The ribbons traileddown into the hallway andweregatheredwithtiesmadeof tulle; each bunch had alarge rectangular cardattachedtoit.

“Hey,um,babe,”Icooed.“Could I have the camera,please?”

He handed it off to meand I went to work.When Igot closer to the balloons Isaw that each card had adifferentwordonit.IstoppedatonethatreadCHOICEandsnapped a picture—trying toget different angles, lookingup at the balloons, focusingon theword and the glowof

the hallway. Another bunchhad the word BOUNDLESSattachedtoit,anotherhadtheword UNSTOPPABLE. Fordance decorations they wereprettyesoteric.Zachfollowedbehind. The last one had thewordINSPIRE.

“Youknowhowthisdarkhallway inspires me?” hewhisperedinmyear.

“Shh.” I crouched downto get a more interesting

perspective.That’swhenweheardit.Ahigh-pitchedsound,not

exactlyasqueak,morelikeasigh. Zach’s eyes grew wideand he grinned. There wasbreathingandasoftsmackingnoise. I froze, the sinkingrealization in the pit of mystomach that we hadhappened upon someonedoing something in the smallalcove of senior lockers that

were now about two feetaway. Zach shrunk backagainstthewall,slidingalongit, doing his best impressionofanundercoveragentaboutto catch the criminal. Imotionedforhimtostop.

No,Imouthed.He shrugged and kept

moving.Whoeverwas in thealcove, ugh, I cringed at thethought of them beingdiscovered. I coughed.Loud.

Purposeful. Zach put hishands up, like hewas angry,buthesmiled.Foiled.

I grabbed Zach’s handand we backed down thehallway, the balloon ribbonsswaying in our wake. Oncewewereout in themainhallhespoke.

“Why’dyoudothat?”“Would you really have

wanted to surprise someonein themiddleofsomething?”

In the middle of what Iwasn’t sure, but I could usemy imagination, and it wasquitesteamy.

“No. I don’t know—youtoldmetolookforinterestingthings,” he said, raising hiseyebrows.

“Fine.Let’sstandhereforafewminutesandseeiftheycomeout.”

I might not have wantedtocatchsomeoneintheactof

whatever,butIwascurioustoseewhowashornyenoughtohookup in the senioralcove.We waited for a good fiveminutes.Drumsechoeddownthe hallway—the band wasback on. Finally a guy withlongish sandy hair emerged.Alone.

Histiewasloosened,partofhisshirttailhangingout inback. He barely glanced inourdirectionashetuckedhis

shirt back in, then walkedtoward the gym. I looked atZach and stifled a giggle,then we heard the telltaleclick of heels strolling downthe hallway. I lifted thecamerauptoourfaces,takingselfieslikeZachhaddone,sowe’dlookinconspicuous,justthere goofing off. Wemugged a few times as thefootsteps came closer. Inmyperipheral vision I saw a

figure, heard the swish of askirt.Isawthedressfirst,theA-line shape swaying withhermovement.

“Jazz?!”Her eyes went from the

camera to me, Zach’s face,andthenshelookeddownthehallway—herthoughtprocessinmotion.

“Thatwasn’tKyle,”Zachsaid.

The sight of Jazz emergingfrom a clandestine hookupnecessitated an emergencyconfab in the bathroom. I’ddispatchedZachtofindWrenwhileJazzandIwaited.

“Please tell me you didnotgetanypicturesofthat.”

“Nope, no evidence,” Isaid, crouch-walking alongand peering under thebathroom stalls tomake surewe were truly alone so we

couldgetthedirt.Wren arrived, positively

glowing.Ifeltastabofenvythat I wasn’t having a bettertime; that I didn’t feel theway about Zach that she didaboutGrayson.Would I everfeel that way about anyone?DidIevenwantto?Shedidaquick mirror check, runningher hand through her hair,andcameover.

“What happened?” she

asked.“Jazzabelle happened,” I

said.Jazzgrinnedandchuckled

toherself.“Huh?”“Jazz hooked up with

someone,”Isaid.“NotKyle?”“No,”Jazzsaid.“Logan.”Wren and I squealed and

high-fived.“So wait, what happened

withKyle?”Wrenasked.“AndwhataboutDarby?”

Iasked.Jazz motioned for us to

come closer. “The other dayafterthemall,IcalledKyletotalk. I really felt bad about,you know, using him as adateforthedance.”

Igroaned.“No, no, really, it was

cool. Awkward at first, butthenwetalkedandhesaidhe

was fine going as friends.Turns out Darby and Loganjust came as friends too—they’re here with a group ofpeople.Webumpedintoeachother in the cafeteria, andtalkedand—”

“And you got friendlydowntheglowinghallway,”Ifinished.

“Ooh, my glowinghallway?Cool,”Wrensaid.

“Youdidthat?”Iasked.

“Yeah,theyweregoingtospread those out in the gym,and they looked so sad insuchabigspacesoIthought,why not? People would bepassing through the hall allnight.”

“Apparently,”Isaid.TwoofthegirlsZachhad

taken a picture of earlierwalked into the bathroom.One was the girl in purplewhohadflirtedwithhim.She

gaveme a sharp look beforedisappearing into the firststall.

“Didyoujustseethat?”Iwhispered.

Wren nodded. “What’sthatabout?”

“I don’t even know whosheis,”Isaid.

“Shewasoneof thegirlsthat Kyle and Zach weretalking to in the cafeteriabefore. She was prettymuch

hanging on Zach’s everyword. He wasn’t doinganything,though—youknow,justtalking.”

When he should havebeendancingwithme.

“He can talk to whoeverhewants,”Isaid,shruggingitoff.

“So where did you leaveitwithLogan?”

“Not really sure. Wedidn’t domuch talking.”She

smiled,dimplesandall.Jazzywas a fade-to-black girl sothiswasabouttheonlydetailwe were going to get out ofher.Theboymusthavebeengood.

“We exchanged numbers—but for now, I’m justenjoying this experiment likeyou told me to. We’llprobablyrunthisweektoo.”

The sophomore in thepurple dress came out of the

stalltowashherhands.“C’mon, let’s get out of

here,” I said, tossing myshoulders back. “We need togetapictureofourgorgeousselvessowecanputit intheyearbookspread.”

AsthethreeofusleftthebathroomIgavePurpleDressawaveandasmile.Noneedtobebitchy.

The rest of the nightwasa blur. I commissioned

Grayson to take a picture ofme,Jazz,andWrenbecauseItrustedhisabilitytoclickandshoot. Logan asked Jazz todance. I got some moreartisticshotsfortheyearbookand ended the night withthree full slow dances withZachthatmorethanmadeupfor his ditching me earlier.We helped Wren with someof her Spirit Club clean-upduties before heading out.

Kyle dropped off Jazz firstthenswungbymyhouse.

Zachwalkedmeuptothestoop.

“You don’t have to waituntilIgetin,”Isaid.

“Iwantto.”I tugged on his coat to

bring his lips to mine. As Iwas about to pull away, hedeepened the kiss, both armswrappedaroundmesotightlyheliftedmeofftheground.

“Whoa,” I said, laughingasweparted.

“Madison,I...”hesaid.My stomach dropped.He

had this earnest look abouthim, and I suddenly got thefeeling that he was about tosay something I wasn’tpreparedtodealwith.

Isteppedawayfromhim,walking towardmy stairs. “Ihad a great time tonight,Zach.I’mhappywewent.”

“Wait,”hesaid.“I’m freezing,” I said. “I

reallyhavetogetin.”Don’tsayit.Don’tsayit.He nodded. “Okay. I’ll,

um, call you, maybe we cando something tomorrow aftermygame.”

“Sounds great.” I startedupthestairs.

“Madison?”I turned, still holding on

to the railing. He ran up to

me, his lips brushing mycheek as he brought hismouthtomyear.Ishivered.

“I love you,” hewhispered.

He backed away before Icould say anything, which Iwas grateful for, because I’dstoppedbreathing.

“Just, you know, thinkaboutit,”hesaid,gettingintothecar.

Why did he have to go

andruineverything?

Theyellingwokemeup.Irolledoverandlookedat

myclock.Tena.m.I thoughtfor a moment it could havebeensomethingonTV,butitwascomingfromdownstairs,and we didn’t have atelevisionon the first floor. Isatup,rubbedthesleepfrommyeyes.Listened.

“Howcouldyoudothis?”

Paul.Paul?“Pleasestopyelling.”“Dana . . . why? Why

would you keep somethinglikethisfromme?”

Itfeltweirdtoeavesdrop,even though it wasn’t liketheyweredoingmuchtokeepit down. My bedroom wasdirectly above the diningroom, so I hopped tostanding, making sure theyheardmyfootfallincasethey

were there. I tookexaggerated steps toward thedoor, swung it open, andwhistledas Iwalked intomybathroom. Silence. Paul hadsaid somethingaboutmakingNutella crepes for Saturdaybreakfast, but there were nodelicious aromas wafting upfromthekitchen.

I padded downstairs inmyslippersocksandjammiesandroundedthecornertothe

dining room. Itwas empty. Ilooked toward the kitchen.Paul was leaning against thecounter. The expression onhisfacewasodd.Intense.Hisfeatures hardened. When helookedoveratmeIstartled.

“Hey,” I said. A chairscratchedacross the linoleumand my mother appeared inthedoorframe.Shewasinheryogagear,flushedasifshe’djustgottenbackfromaclass.

“Madison,” she said,walking out to me. “Goodmorning.”

She gave me a hug. Isqueezed her back. Not thatmymomdidn’thugme,butitwas a little out of sorts forfirstthinginthemorning.

“What’s up?” I asked asshe pulled away. Somethingabout the way they bothlookedfreakedmeout.

“Sleepwell?”

“Like a baby,” I lied. I’dtossed and turned all nightthinkingaboutZach.I’deventurned offmyphone for fearhe’d want to text or talk,neitherofwhichIwasupforafterwhat he’d said tome. Iwasn’t exactly sure what Iwasgoingtodo.Hehadtoldmetothinkaboutit.IfIlovedhim—would this be how Ireacted?

“Let’s sit down.” She

gestured to the living roomwe rarely sat in, especiallynow that it had become hermeditation spot. Dreadsnakedupmyspine.Shewasacting odd, stiff. They bothwere.Iperchedonthecouch.Paul sat in the wingbackchair;mymotherwasnexttome but on the far end of thecouch.

“What’swrong?”Mymotherplayedwitha

phantom thread on her yogapants, making small circleswithherindexfinger.

“Dana,please,”Paulsaid.“Madison,youknowhow

muchIwanttointegrateyogainmylife,right?”

“Um, yeah,” I said. Paulran a hand across his facethen fixed his eyes on me. Ishiftedinmyseat.

“Well, it changes you,makes you reevaluate your

lifeandyourbeliefs.Andoneof the first things you learnabout is the principles ofyoga.”

“Mom—what are youtalkingabout?”

She took a deep breathandlookedatme.

“Satya. Truth. It’s aboutlivinganauthenticlife.”

“IsthisaboutLeif?”It snapped her out of

whateveryogi-wisdomtrance

shewasheadedinto.Herfacescrunchedup.“No.”

“Who’s Leif?” Paulasked.

“Our instructor. Mom,you’re seriously freaking meout, please just spill it,” Isaid.

“I want you tounderstand, I’vealwaysdonewhat I thought was right forus. And I knew there wouldcomeatimewhen,well,we’d

have to face this at somepoint.”

“Facewhat?”“Oh hell, Dana.” Paul

stood up. “I’m your father,Madison.”

I repeated the words inmy head while lookingbetween them, waiting formore of an explanation. Mymotherwasontheedgeofthecouch, lips pressed together,her brows practically up in

her hairline. Paul had hishands on his hips. I lookedbetweenthem,unsureofwhatto say, letting thewords sinkin,tryinghardtounderstand.

Paulismyfather.My eyes landed on the

LaughingBuddhastatue—hismouth frozen in a perpetualsmile. A reminder ofabundance.OfZachwith hisshirt off. I started laughing,low at first, but then I

couldn’t help it and coveredmy mouth in a fit of silentgiggles. I finally caught mybreath.

“Yeah,right.”“Madison, it’s true,” my

mother said, reaching formyhands. I pulled away andmovedfromthecouch.

“Buthe’sbeenhere.He’sbeeninourlivesforever.You. . . How . . . I don’tunderstand.Didyouknow?”I

looked at Paul, his eyespained.Heshookhishead.

“Mads,youhaveto—”“I don’t have to do

anything,Mom.”I paced back and forth,

myhandsclutchedtogether.“Iknowyou’re—”“Why would you do

somethinglikethis?”Iasked.“Madison,” Paul said.

“It’s a lot to take in, Iknow,butwe’llfigureitout.”

DidIhavetolistentohimnow? Did his words carrymore weight because he wasmyfather?

“I . . .” Words weremeaningless.Mymind couldnot wrap around what hadjusthappened.TheonlythingIknewwasthatIdidn’twantto be with either of them atthat moment. I ran up thestairs to my room andslammedthedoor.

EIGHTJESSE

THE MORNING AFTER THEDANCE, I WOKE UP WITH amission. It was as if seeingHannah and Duncan happytogether had kicked my assinto time-to-get-on-with-my-

life mode. For the first timesince our breakup, I couldn’twait togetout to thegarage.Dad’s Saturday-morningomelet-fest was a blur; Iscarfed enough for fuel, thenwent out to warm up. Thegarage was cold, but thatwouldchangesoonenough.

My Fender had actualcobwebs between the tuningkeys.Iwipedthemoff,pulledthe strap over my head, and

plugged in. Practice was ateleven; I had a full hourbeforeTannerandGrayweresupposedtoshow.Forallmybullshit about picking theperfect drummer—if I’dauditioned for a band at themoment,I’dhaveahardtimemaking the cut. The calluseson my hand had even gonesoft.

Theguitargrowledtolifeas I ran my pick across the

strings. Ihitacoupleofsournotes, tuned and strummedagain,overandoveruntilthesound was perfect. Then Ilaunched into the beginningnotes of “Sweet Child O’Mine.” Fumbled, really.Three months of not playingandmyfingerswererubbery.I ran through it a few moretimes,untilitfinallybegantocomeback.

The songwasHannah. It

wasn’t our song or anything,and I hadn’t been learning itto impress her—she wouldhave been like, Guns andRoseswho?Shealwaysjokedaboutmyloveforclassicrockthat I’d picked up from myfather. This was for me,music to disappear into. Thelyrics reminded me of her.Playingitfeltlikeconnectingto some real, raw part ofus.Thecouplewewerewhenwe

were together and it wasgood.

This was as close aspossible to saying good-byewithout physically saying ittoher.

Eachnotewasamemory,afight,asmile,akiss.Allofthe anger, remorse, sadness,and desire came out throughmy fingers as the guitarscreeched and wailed. I hitthatsweetspotwhereIdidn’t

need to think about what Iwas doing, just closed myeyes and felt it. Musicwashedoverme,throughme.Flowed electric from myanimalbrain.

I wasn’t sure how muchtime had passed but nextthing I knew, my shirt wassoaked and my father wasstanding there, arms crossed,leaningagainstanamp.

“Hey,”Isaid.

“Soundsgood.”“You weren’t listening

closely,” I said. “Was it tooloud?”

My dad and I had turnedthe garage into a practicespace—acoupleofpostersonthewall,andsomeofhisoldamps. It wasn’t soundproof,so we had to keep oursessions to a minimum, oruntil one of the neighborscomplained—but at least it

wasaplacewecoulduseandstoreourstuff.

“It should be loud.” Hepulled the cover off one ofthe amps forme. “How longdoyouthinkitwilltakewiththis new drummer to soundlike you did when you gaveyourCDtoDeclan?”

“Grayson’s good but, Idunno, a month maybe,maybeless.”

“I talked to Deck the

otherday—”“And?”“He liked your sound,

wantstotalktoyou.”“Really?”“Yep,saidifyouhadany

free time this week to stopin.”

“Juststopin?Andwhat?”My father laughed.

“Deck’s always been a face-to-face guy, just wants tomeetyou.Feelyouout,seeif

you speak the samelanguage.”

“But I thought you saidweshouldbeatourbest.”

“I didn’t mention yourdrummer trouble. See howthings go today, it’s not likehe’ll book you in the nextmonth—he said he usuallygoesthreemonthsout.Adatetoplaycangetthingsgoing.”

“Mr. M—you jammin’today too?” Tanner and

Graysonhadcomeinthesidedoor of the garage. Tanner’sface was lit up, huge grinframed by the off-kiltertoboggan hat he insisted onwearing when he played. Heplacedhiscasedown.

“Nottoday,T,”Dadsaid,laughing. He held out hishand. “You must beGrayson.”

Gray shook Dad’s hand.“IsitokaythatI’mparkedin

thedriveway?Ijustwantedtounload—”

“Yep.Needhelp?”“Nah,Dad,we’recool,”I

said. I felt bad for answeringso quickly, but I justwantedto play, to start this fragilethingofformingaband.

“I’llleaveyoutoit,then.”It took us a good ten

minutestosetup.AsGraysonwasassembling thefinalpartof his drum kit, I grabbed a

fresh shirt from the laundryroom and changed from thesweat-soaked one I’d beenwearing.

“Heyguys,wemight—”The news about Declan

and Whiskey Business cameclose to spilling out of mymouth but the words caughtin my throat. Letting Tannerand Gray know before wepracticedseemedlikeasetupfor failure—after, when we

were warmed up, would bebetter.

“Wemightwhat?”Tannerasked, stomping along withthe bass line he warmed upwith.

“We might want to startwith the Arctic Monkeyssong.”

“Sounds cool,” Graysonsaid.

Yellow #5 take two wasofficiallyofficial.

The streets ofHobokenwerecrazy busy for aWednesdayafternoon. I had exactly twohours between school andworkandwaspushing it,butWednesdaywas theonlydayDeclanhadanopeningtoseeme. Tanner had wanted tocomebut Iwasmorerelaxedknowing at least one of uswould be on time for theMugshot evening shift. AndTanner . . . he was

overenthusiastic about thewhole thing, and when hewas that way, he tended tospeak before thinking. Thenthere was the hat, which hewas convinced brought himluck when he played. Notready to fly that freak flagquiteyet.

I finally found a spotabout four blocks away fromWhiskey Business. Weweren’t anywhere near ready

to play out, but the more Ithought about it, the more Irealized my father was right—a date looming would begreat incentive for us to getour shit together. Practicehadn’t sucked. Completely.The first time we wentthrough our set, we’d eachbeen doing our own thing;Graysonwastooloud,Tannerwas rushed, and even Imissedcominginontheright

beat a few times, but by theend of practice, we at leastsounded like a band. Not agreat one, but on our way.Declan didn’t need to knowthat.

Walkingthroughthefrontdoor of Whiskey Businesswas like walking into adifferent realm. I blinked asmy eyes adjusted to thedarkness. The building wasan old firehouse, complete

with a brass pole and highceilings. Along the one wallwere venue posters fromevery band imaginable, withspotlights on some of themoreprominentonesliketheStonesandU2.Thefrontarealooked like someone’s livingroom. There were couchesand chairs, and a few lowtablesbetweenthem.Thebartook up the rest of the front,while in the far back was a

smaller room with a stage.One guy sat hunched over abeer mug at the end. Thebartender had his elbows onthe bar, tip of a pen in histeeth, working on anewspaper crossword. Icleared my throat. Hedropped the pen and lookedup.

“ID.”“I’m here to see Declan.

Jesse from Yellow Number

Five.”He gave me a once-over

ashetextedsomeone.“Who did you say you

were?”“JesseMcMann,Ihavean

—”Istoppedshortofsayingappointment, it sounded tooformal. “I’m here to seeDeclanaboutagig.”

“He’s free now—justhead to the back, staff door,can’tmiss it,” he said, going

backtohiscrossword.I navigated around tables

and across the floor, pushingthrough the door markedSTAFF into an even darkerhallway.Therewasasliveroflight, and as I neared it, adoor whooshed open andDeclan appeared. I resistedtheurge to jumpand ignoredmy hammering heartbeat. Iwanted to play in this placesobadithurt.

“Jesse, come in.” Deckgrabbed my hand andpumpeditasIwalkedintohisinner sanctum. There weremore posters and photos andgraffitiononewall,butatthesame time it looked orderly,everything in place. It washard imagining him knowingmy dad—Deck wore tightblack skinny jeans, combatboots, and a pinstriped vestover an Alice Cooper shirt.

Helookedlikehecouldhavebeen in one of my father’sclasses, not in a band withhimtwentyyearsago.

“LasttimeIsawyou,youwere drooling on yourfather’s shoulder. Man,you’vegrown.”

“Wemet?”“Ohgod,yearsago.How

are the Prof and Mrs.McMann doing?” Hemotioned for me to take a

seat,whileheslidintooneofthose office chairs that lookmore like a throne, behind ahuge black desk. The deskwas spotless except for hislaptopandalargeglassjarofCharms Blow Pops, with asign that read IF YOU’REGONNABLOWIT,BLOWITBIG!!Isank down onto a couchacrossfromhimthatwaslesscomfortablethanitlooked.

“Oh,um,they’regood.”

Declan typed somethinginto his keyboard. Yellow#5’s cover of “Longview”playedoverthesoundsystem.A grin fought its way ontomy face.We hadn’t soundedlikethatinpracticethisweek.Declan leaned back in hischair, hands clasped behindhishead,andgrinned.

“This is good, you guyssound tight. So what haveyoubeendoing?”heasked.

Moping, brooding,making lattes. I did somecreative elaborating—a.k.a.lyingthroughmyteeth.

“We played a Christmasparty, street fair, stuff likethat. We’re gearing up for aBattle of the Bands,” I said,imaginingIwastalkingaboutYellow#5pre-breakup.Thenitwouldhaveallbeentrue.

“They still do thosebattles? Fun stuff.” His tone

wasunimpressed.“Yeah.” My jacket felt

heavy, my cheeks hot. Ifblushing was a lie detector Iwas screwed. I’d hit nuclear-meltdownmode.

“Cool, do you guys havea logo? Merchandise? Fanpage?”

Nope.Nope.Nope.“We’reworkingonit.”“Yoursoundisperfectfor

the eighteen-and-over nights.

They like recognizable stuff.Whenyourdadcalled—”

“My dad called you?”Somehow I didn’t think thiswas the way Green Day gotstarted. How un-freaking-cool.

“Alittlehealthynepotismnever hurt anyone.Youhavetodeliver,though.”

“Absolutely.”“So, here’s the deal—the

eighteen-and-overs are

bookeduntilSeptember.”“September?”“Weonlydothemtwicea

month,andskipthesummer.”“Oh.”WhywasIthere?I

was starting to feel like asupreme douche-nugget.Andsuddenly our cover of“Longview”soundedtoofast.Amateurish.

“There’s a few places intown that do the eighteen-and-over nights. I might be

able to recommend yousomewhere. In themeantime,do you want the Septemberdate?”

I wasn’t sure what I wasdoing tomorrow, let aloneSeptember—Gray was asenior, would he even bearound? Forward motion,Jess.

“Yes.”He typed again, took a

card out of a drawer, and

scribbled something down.Hestoodupandhelditouttome.

September 18th. Yellow#5.

We had a gig. Far away,but we had one. Andmaybehe would recommend us tosomeoneelse.Itwasastart.

“Hey,isyourcontactinfo

thesameasontheCD?”“Let me give you my

cell,” I said.He pulled out apad of neon-orange Post-itsand slid it across the desk. Ijotteddownmycell,andalsothe line at Mugshot. Puttingdownmore than one numberseemed to show I had placesto be—that I wasn’tnecessarily waiting for aphone call. Even if that wasthe case. He peeled off the

topof thepadandstuckit tohislaptopscreen.

“Great. You should startthinkingaboutalogo;weputpromotional flyers out in thelocal colleges andwe like toinclude that. Do you do anyoriginals?”

“Workingonit,”Isaid.“Cool.Youreallydohave

agreatsound.”“Thanks,” I said, heading

out thedoor.Ididn’twant to

make a run for it, but IalreadyknewI’dbelate.

“See you in September,”he called after me. The lastthing I heard was his laughechodownthehallway.

Getting out of Hoboken andback to Bayonne was anightmare. I sweated it out,inching along withconstruction traffic until Ifinally hit the back roads,

going as fast as I possiblycould without wrapping mycar around a utility pole.Miraculously there was aparkingspotonthesidestreetnear Mugshot. I racedthrough the front door,mutteringapologiesasitshutbehind me. Grace stoodbehind the register, scary-manager-face softeningwhenshesawme.

“Jess, I’ve got to pick up

Ellafromdaycare,”shesaid.“I’m sorry, school thing,

traffic,”Ispluttered,grabbingmy apron from the back andtossingitovermyneck.

“You two are okay withclosing?”

“Gracie, baby, we gotthis,”Tannersaid.

She sighed and looked atme.“Areyousure?”

“Gotit,”Isaid.“We’re out of soy milk,

but you should be set withsinglesfortheregister.Ifyouhave any trouble, call me.But,youknow,don’tcallme,ifyoucanhelpit.”

“Yep.”She grabbed her bag and

coat and raced out the frontdoor.

Myphonedinged.“So how did it go?”

Tannerasked.Amom pushing a jogger

stroller came up to thecounter, her cheeks red fromthe cold. I ignored the textandrungupherorder.

“Nonfat mocha latte,”Tanner said, tossing the cupin the air. The toddler in thestroller clapped her hands asTanner caught it. The momhanded me her money and Igave her the change alongwith the biscotti she’dorderedforthekid.Myphone

dinged again. I waited untilTanner gave the woman herdrink before checking mymessages.

“So . . . what’s the deal,areweplayingtherearenot?”

“Holy crap.” I read themessage again, just to makesureIwasreadingitproperly.The bells announced anothercustomer.

“Justreadthisoutloud,”Isaid, handing Tanner my

phone.“‘Must be kismet. Band

droppeddate lastweekend inMarch. Want?’ Who’skismet?” he asked, handingthephonebacktome.

“Kismet is fate,” said avoice behind me. I whirledaround.

“Madison.”She wore one of those

slouchy knit hats, her hairstickingouteverywhichway

from underneath. The tip ofher nose was pink, her blueeyes bright. She was in herschool uniform, with abackpack slung over oneshoulder.

“Hey,” she said, lookingbetweenTannerandme.

“So what does thatmean?” Tanner asked,noddingtowardmyphone.

“It means Declan wantsus to play at theWhiskey at

theendofMarch.”Tannerletoutawhoop.“ThatplaceinHoboken?”

Madisonasked.“Yeah,” I said, reading

the message again just tomake sure. “Wait, don’t tellme—achaitogo?”

“Actually, I’m stayingawhile.I’vegotsomestufftoworkon,andIdon’t...It’salittledistractingatmyhouse.Can I have a Mexican hot

chocolate?”“Ooooh, spi-cee,” Tanner

said, throwing a cup in theair, but missing it this time.Entertaining toddlers wasclearly more in hiswheelhouse.

“She’s having it here,” Isaid.“Regularcup.”

“Oh,right.”Hegrabbedalargeceramiccupthatlookedmore like a bowl with ahandle.Madisonreachedinto

herbackpack.“Hey,Ioweyou,right?”I

said.“I’llbringitovertoyouifyouwanttogetatable.”

She cocked her headsideways, slight smilecrossingherlips.“Thanks.”

I took the cup fromTanner. “Let me do it. Whydon’t you wipe down thetablesandkeepaneyeontheregister.”

“Of course you’ll do it,”

he said, puckering his lipsand kissing the air. “Don’tforgettopurgethewand.”

Iglaredathim.“You know, after

steamingthemilk.”“Just make sure

everything’s clean,” Ianswered, tossing the mopclothtohim.

Months ago Grace hadhired a guy to come in toteach the staff how to pour

steamed milk correctly tomakefancypatterns in lattes.There was a barista whoworked on weekends whocouldmakeDarthVader andYoda.Ididn’tgetmuchdailypracticebutIcouldmanageadecent-looking rosette and aheart.Idebatedonwhichoneto pour as I preppedMadison’sdrink.

Iwatchedthemilksteam,making sure it was the right

consistency—thick andsmooth likepaint.Tilting thecup, I poured until thedrinking chocolate reachedthe top, then shook thepitcher back and forth tomake the swirly lines of therosette.NotperfectenoughtomakeitlooklikeIwastryingtoo hard and not too sloppy,so that maybe she’d beslightly impressed. I grabbedamadeleineand set it on the

saucer next to the hotchocolate,andwalkeditovertoMadison.

Shewassittingononeofthe crushed-velvet chairs,closetothewindow.Onelegcurledunderneathher, laptopon the table. She had asketchpad on her lap, pencilpoised as she stared out thewindow. When she saw mecoming over, she slipped thepencil behind her ear and

smiled.“I’m freezing,” she said,

rubbingherhandstogether.I placed the drink down

next to her laptop. Shereached for it, wrapped bothhands around the cup, andbrought it to her face. Shepaused before taking a sip,noticing the pattern in themilk.

“Pretty. Hey, I didn’torderamadeleine.”

“Oh, that’s on me. Youneed something to go withhotchocolate;it’s,like,alaw,oritshouldbe,”Isaidasherlips touched the rim of thecup. With a gentle tilt shetook a sip, then ran hertongue across her top lip toget the extra foam. She wasjust enjoying her drink, butdamn if it wasn’t sexy.Almostinvoluntarily,mybutthittheseatacrossfromher.A

fewmoments away from theregisterwouldn’thurt.

“This is the best freakin’hot chocolate I’ve ever had,”she said, putting the cupdownonthesaucer.“Didyoumelt a chocolate bar inthere?”

“Pretty much.” I puffedup like an idiot, giddy fromherapproval.Andguesswhat,Madison? I inventedchocolate,andthewheel,and

Icanplay“Eruption”onmyFenderlikeEddieVanHalen,do you know who that is? Imayaswellhavebeensittingat Madison’s feet, panting,waiting for her to pat myhead.

“It’sawesome.”“So you draw?” I asked.

Great,Jess,CaptainObvious,she’s sitting there with apencilbehindherear.

She laughed, kind of a

muffled giggle. “Today itdoesn’t feel like it,butyes, Idraw.”

The phone buzzed in mypocket again. Holy shit, I’dforgottenaboutDeck.

Wantdateornot?

YES!! I typed, and hitsend.Threeweeks togetourshit together. That wasenough,right?

Cool. Getme logo +band photo nextweek

Thephotowouldbeeasy.Alogo?Madison.“Hey,haveyoueverdone

anythinglikealogo?”She shook her head

before taking another sip ofher drink. I looked away,feeling so damn pervy for

staringathermouth.Focus.“Would you consider

doingone?Weneedone, forYellow Number Five, forpromotional stuff. It doesn’thavetobeanything—”

Her eyes caught fire.“Omigod,yes! I’d love todothat. I’m, wow, you haven’tevenseenmywork.”

“You look likeyouknowwhat you’re doing. I trustyou.”

“Sohowdidpracticego?IsGraysonpullinghisweight,’cause ifhe’snot,youknow,we’ll have to do somethingaboutit.”

“Yeah,he’sgreat.”“And you’re really ready

toplayoutsomewhere?”“Ready?Notsure,butthis

willjustgiveusincentive.”“That’sprettybrave.”“Orstupid,”Isaid.She grabbed her pad and

pulledthepencilfrombehindher ear. “So who named thebandYellowNumberFive?”

“Tanner. Itwaskindof arandom thing, but he saidsince it’s on the label of somanythingswe’dgetatonoffreeadvertising.Soitstuck.”

“Ah, so he can do morethan make drinks,” she said,scribbling something down.“Andwhat kind ofmusic doyouplay?Isthereanythingin

particular you want me tofocus on? Color—or is thatobvious?”

“Grunge . . . punk . . .Grunk.” I did not just saythat,butifitmadehersmile...

“Here,” she said,handingme the pad. “Give me yournumber,incaseyou—Imean,I—haveanyquestions.”

I blanked for a momentbefore writing it on the

sketchpad.“Maybe you should take

mine.”I tookoutmyphone.My

fingers were useless as sherattledoffhernumber.

“Canyousayitagain?”“Here.” She took the

phone out of my hand andtyped her number into mycontacts. My heart knockedon my ribs as she handed itbacktome.

The hiss of the steamwand followedby a shout of“Muy caliente!” caused usboth to turn. Tannergrimaced, waving his handbackandforth.

“Iguess I betterget backthere before he gets third-degreeburns.”

She laughed. “Whenwouldyouwantthelogoby?”

“Nextweek,maybe?Youthinkyoucan—”

“Noproblem,I’monit.”“Sodoesthismeanyou’ll

comeseeusatWhiskey?”Shetookanothersipfrom

herdrinkbeforeanswering.“Iguess if Wren is going . . .Butisn’tthat,like,abar?Notsurewe’dbeabletogetin.”

“It’seighteenandover.”“I’m not exactly

eighteen.”Onstage, I forgot myself

—the awkward guitar

geek/baristawho got tongue-tiedandself-conscious.WhenI sang I could growl, spit,look into people’s eyes andmake them listen. Standingthere, in front of Madison, Itried to tap into that onstageconfidence.IcouldhaveletitdropbutIgotthefeelingthatYellow #5, playing a realshow, in Hoboken, hadimpressedherthetiniestbit.

“I bet that wouldn’t be a

problem for you. I think ifyou want to be somewhere,youdefinitely have awayofmakingithappen.”

Her eyes lit up again. Iwalked away before I couldsayanythingelse,ignoringallimpulsestolookbackather.

“Did you melt her withyour barista skills?” Tannerasked.

Istoleaglanceather.Shewasshakingherheadslightly,

smileonherface.She’dbethere.“Something like that,” I

said.

NINEMADISON

BROODY BARISTA HADCHANGED INTO FLIRTY Baristaovernight. It was just thedistraction I’d craved. Afterbeing in the light andchatterofouryearbookmeeting that

afternoon, the idea of beinghome brought me down. It’snot like I wanted to sit andbond with the Mugshotregulars.I justdidn’twant tobe alone with my thoughts,because my thoughts hadbecome barbed wire on mybrain. It physically hurt tothink.

I’myourfather,Madison.What was I supposed to

dowiththat?

Hangingwithpeoplewhowere just going about theirlives, drinking coffee, facesin a book or computer, feltnormal.AndtheMexicanhotchocolatewasalmost enoughtomakemeforgeteverything,itwas that good.TheAztecswere definitely ontosomething. Jessewould havebeenreveredasagod.Acutegod, who looked particularlyscorching in his Levis and

blackteethatafternoon.Whatwasitaboutbroody

bandguys?Ileanedbackinthechair,

my blank sketchpad beggingmetocreatesomething,togetlost in the details of adrawing. A logo for a band?Hmm . . . I’d been thinkingabout somethingdifferent formy portfolio, just one morepiecethatwouldrounditout.This was perfect. Something

pop culture–ish and fun. Iclosed my eyes, thought ofthebandname,tryingtoseeitinsomeunique,fresh—

I’myourfather,Madison.There was no getting

away from it. Themoment Ilet myself get distracted orlost in something else, thephrase came floating acrossmy mind’s eye, like a stormticker on the WeatherChannel. Even though it still

hadn’tquitesunkin.Woulditever? I’d stayed inmy roommost of Saturday—ignoringmymother andPaul.He hadleft fora jobonMondayandwasn’t supposed to returnfromMartha’sVineyarduntillater intheweek.Mymothertoldmehewasusingthetimeto think. I envied him that. Ihadn’t sat down with mymotheryeteither.Oneof thebenefits of her new yoga

philosophywasgivingmemyspace. I wasn’t sure why Iwasn’ttalkingtoher—IthinkI needed to protest somehowuntil IknewhowI really feltabout the situation, but thatcouldtakeforever.

Paul was still Paul—thatexcitingguywhoswoopedinafewtimesayearwithtravelstories, and jokes and smilesand Springsteen songs. Ishouldhavebeenhappy.This

was a good thing. I knew Ifelt strongly about him,enjoyed the times when hewas around. But did I lovehim like a person loves theirfather?Couldheeverthinkofmeasadaughter?

I hadn’t told anyone yet.Thewordswouldnotmakeitto my lips. I’d tried to callWren and Jazz at differenttimes over the weekend, butneither of them had been

around.Wrenhadbeenathersister’s tropicalbaby shower.AndJazzabellehadbeenout,probably clandestinelykissing her running partnerbehindoneof theoaksin thepark. Monday on theBoulevard bus, sandwichedamong the leeringdockworkers, prim weekdaychurch ladies, and SacredHeartgirlshardlyseemedtheappropriate place to spill my

news. Everyone had been allabuzz about the danceanyway.

Ithadbeenthesamewayin yearbook earlier thatafternoon, too. I’d almostblurted it out when Jazzfinally pitched an idea aboutmaking the Father’s Clublayout “On the Edge.” “Youthink that’s edgy? Wait tillyou hear this!” I’d imaginedsaying, but of course, I

swallowed it. Piper had beenannoyedatmebecausewhileWren and Jazz handed intheir Sadie Hawkins copy, Istill hadn’t looked at thepictures from the dance. Irattled off some lame excuseandpromisedtolookatthembefore Friday. The layoutwasn’t due until the end ofthe month. I knew I tooksome decent shots, I justhadn’t had the time to really

lookatthemyet.A knock on the window

startledme.“Zach?”He stood there and

pointed to his phone, thenshrugged. Mom and Paulhadn’t been the only peopleI’d avoided over theweekend.Zach’s“Iloveyou”was also on a ticker throughmy brain. And I still had noidea what to say to him.

Maybe I could take it to thenext step with him, but Iwasn’t sure if Iwas ready tobe with just him and onlyhim; hewas easier to handlein the hot-guy-I-have-fun-with role. I gestured to thedoor, reaching into my bagformy phone. I’d kept it offin protest too. It had beennice being unreachable. Myownversionof time to think.When I turned it on, there

wereatleasttwentytextsandthree missed calls. IgnoringthemmademefeellikeIhadsomecontroloversomething.

“Are you ever going topick up your phone?” ThecoldairhadfollowedZachinand I shivered,wrappingmyhands around the hot-chocolate cup. Out of thecorner of my eye I swore Icould see Jessewatching.Ormaybe I was just imagining

it. I glanced at the counter,but he and Tanner seemedotherwise occupied. Jesseknew I’d had a date at thedance—whydidIevencare?

“Sorry,” Isaid.“Ineededtogetsomeworkdone.”

“So you came here?” heasked.He reached down andtook the madeleine, mouthopened,teethbaredtowolfit.

“No,” I said. It came outmoreforcefullythanplanned.

A girl studying at the nexttable looked over at us.Zach’s eyes sharpened, ajagged line of confusionforming between his brows.He placed the madeleinedownandraisedhishands.

“Okay, I’ll getmy own.”He sauntered up to thecounter without sayinganotherword.

His tone made me feellike a first-class puppy-

stomper. I shrugged off thefeeling and settled back intomy seat, but the desire todrawwasgone.

What the hellwaswrongwithme?Ishouldatleasttrywith him, right? I wasn’treadytosayanythingbacktohim but maybe one day Icould.

Zach came back a fewminutes later with his ownhot cup and a ginormous

chocolatechipcookie.Heputboth on the table andwriggled off his jacket. Mythroat tightened—he wasn’texpecting to have some lovetalkhere,washe?MaybeifIdidn’t bring it up, hewouldn’t either. He thumpedinto the chair and devouredhalfthecookieinonebite.

“How did you knowwheretofindme?”

Therewerecrumbsonhis

lips and lap, a blob of darkchocolateinthecornerofhismouth. He finished chewingbeforeheanswered.

“Ididn’t,”hesaid,tonguedabbing at the chocolate. “Istopped by to see you andyour mom answered thedoor.”

“Really? Today’s usuallyherlateday.”

“Well, she was there. IwasonmywayhomewhenI

spotted you. Your mom toldmetotellyoutocallher.So,callher.”

“Howdidsheseem?”He shrugged. “Okay.

Why?Somethingup?”And there it was—the

perfectentranceformetotellhim about Paul. I imaginedhopping into Zach’s lap, hisstrong arms aroundme.Thatguy Paul? The one with mymotherwhen they walked in

onus?He’smyfather.Couldhebethereforme?Orwouldhejustsay,That’scool.Chill.Everything will work out. Ididn’t want to hear thatbecauserightnow,itfeltliketheequivalentofShutup.

“No,Ijusthaven’tspokentoherallday,”Ianswered.

“Oh.”He picked up my

sketchpadfromthetable.Myfirst instinct always was to

snatch itback,because it feltlike my soul was up forscrutiny.Hiseyesscannedthepaper.

“Who’sJesse?”I grabbed the pad, aware

of itsheaviness inmyhands,Jesse’snumber likeabeaconon the page. I wasn’t surewhy I was so flustered—itwasn’t like I’d planned onkeepingitasecret.Icloseditand shoved it into my

backpack.“He’s right there,” I said,

gesturing toward thecounter.“He asked me to design alogo for his band. Cool,right?”

“A logo? Really? Whyyou?”

“What’s that supposed tomean?”

“It’s not like youadvertise logo design. Howdidheknow—”

“He saw me sketchingandasked.”

Zachgavemeadeliberateandslownod,whileheliftedhis drink to his mouth andlookedoutthewindow.

“What?”He shook his head but

remained silent, a small,annoying smile crossing hisface.

“I think I need to go.” Ishutdownmy laptop,gulped

the rest ofmy hot chocolate,whichwasn’t reallymeant tobe gulped since the cayennepepper made my throat raw,and gathered my stuff. Ashadowcrossedthetable.

“Everythingokay?”Jesse.Zachsizedhimup,

or at least that’s the way itfelt, and then peered at meoverhisto-gocup.

“Great.Hey,Jess—this isZach. Zach, Jess. I’m

designing the logo for hisband.”Neitherof themmademoreofamove thana slightchin-jab in each other’sdirection.Jessepickedupthedirty cup. Zach chugged therestofhisdrink,thenheldouthis empty cup to him. Notawkwardatall.

“They’re playing inHobokenthismonth.”

“Yeah, WhiskeyBusiness,youshouldcome.”

Zach seemed to relax abit. “Soundscool.Whatkindofmusic?”

I busied myself with mycoat and hat as they spoke,telling myself that this wasfine even though I feltslightlysmothered.Jessewasbecomingafriend,somethingseparate from Zach, anotherlife that included yoga andchai and sneaking aroundSacred Heart. But why

shouldn’t they meet? Icarefully wrapped themadeleineinanapkinandputitinmypocket.

“I can’t wait to work onthesketchesforthis,I’llhavesomethingforyousoon.”

“Great, see ya,” Jessesaid,walkingbackbehindthecounterwithourdirtydishes.

Zach’s eyes were onme.Whyareyousouptightaboutgivinghimachance?

“I know you just camefrom there, but do you thinkyoucouldwalkmehome?”

Hesmiled.“Sure.”Hedrapedhisarmaround

me as we walked outside. Inestled in closer to him,shielding myself from thecold.

“So why didn’t you tellBand Guy I was yourboyfriend?”

BandGuy.

I nudged him. “I didn’tknow I needed to, isn’t itobviouswe’retogether?”

Heshrugged.“Did you, um . . .About

theothernight,whatIsaid...”

“Stillthinking.”“Whatdoesthatmean?”“I’mnotsureI’mreadyto

sayit.Isthatcool?”Hesighed.“Oh, Zach, come on.” I

tookthemadeleineoutofmypocket and put it in mymouth,tiltingmyfacetowardhis.

“Nope.”“Mmmm-mm.”Itwasafoodthingwedid

sometimes with Twizzlers atthe movies, or his mom’schocolate chip cookies. Istoppeduntilhelookedatme,one corner of his mouthpullingupinasexysidegrin.

“Fine.”Heleaneddownandtook

the other half, biting downuntil our lipsmet and it wasallabouttonguesandcrumbsandmissingthelighttocrossthestreet.Grossandsexy,allat once. We both laughed,swallowing our respectivepieces.Ihatedpublicdisplaysof affection, but there I was,on the corner of Thirty-Fourth and Broadway,

proving to Zach he hadnothingtoworryabout.

Ormaybe.... . . I was just trying to

provethattomyself.

The house was dark when Igot home, except for thekitchen. The spicy smell ofIndian takeout filled therooms. I took my time,pulling off my hat and coat,hangingthemonthecoatrack,

placing my backpack down.Creaky floorboardsannounced my entrance longbeforeIreachedthekitchen.

Mom was at the cafétable, takeout boxes fromTandoori West surroundingher barely touched plate offood.Shelookedup,herfacepale,eyesdevoidofmakeup.She looked so small andfragile sitting there—soalone. My chest ached with

guilt. I was finally ready tohearhersideofit.

“Hey.” I sat across fromher.

“There’s some bhel puriand tandoori chicken.” Shegesturedattheopenboxes.

“Thanks. I’m nothungry,” I said, almost awhisper.

Shedroppedherforkontoher plate with a rattle. “Youshould have answered my

phonecalls.”“Mom,I’msor—”“No, I get it. You’re

punishing me, but this—this—ishugeandIcan’ttakethatyou’re not talking to meaboutit.”

“Whatdoyouwantmetosay? You dump this on mesome random Saturdaymorningafteryou’vedecidedto ‘live your truth’ orwhatever itwasyousaidand

expect me to sit and chatabout it? Especially aboutPaul, who’s been in my life,like, forever? Did you everthink to tell us before?Whynow,Mom?Whynow?”

Herpalmswentuptoherforehead, as if she suddenlyhad a killer migraine. Iexpected her to rage back atme. Instead she just breathedouthard,putherforearmsonthe table alongside her plate,

forefinger and thumb on therighthand together inayogamudrawe’dlearnedinclassafewweeksago.

“Idon’tknow.IguessI’dthought about it before, butit’s always been you andmeag—”

“Against the world,” Ifinishedhersentence.“That’sgreat, Mom, but I didn’treally have a choice in that,didI?”

“Madison, please. IwantedtotellPaul,Idid,butI wasn’t lying when I toldyou that it was the wrongguy, right time. I knew Iwanted you, could handleraisingyouonmyown,butIalsowantedtokeepPaulasafriend.Iwasn’tsurehewouldhave been able to handle itandIdidn’twant tofacethatsortofrejection.”

“Was he mad when you

toldhimtheotherday?Ishe.. . is he upset that—” Icouldn’tvoicewhat Iwantedtosaybecauseinallofit,thevirtual Pandora’s box ofemotions this announcementhad opened, the last thing,underneath it all was this—didhewantthis?Didhewant...me?

Mymotherreachedacrossand took my hand, and Ididn’tresist.

“He’s angry at me,Madison. Not you. It’s anadjustment for all of us, butthenewswashappy.”

Relief blurred my eyes;tears I hadn’t even known Iwas holding in rolled downmy cheeks. I swiped themaway,sniffled.ThatwaswhyIhadn’ttoldanyone.Iwantedtobesurehewasokaywithittoo.Togofromnotknowingwho your father was to

knowing that he didn’t wantyouweretwodifferentthings.

“Wereyou reallyworriedaboutthat?”

I nodded, swiped mycheek. My stomach growled—maybe I was hungry, ormaybe letting go of such aheavy thing had emptied meout. I grabbed a plate fromthe cabinet and filled it withbhel puri and tandoorichicken. Mom handed me a

forkasIsatdown.“He was surprised. And

hurt.And—”“What I don’t understand

is, if you’re such greatfriends,whydidn’tyou thinkhe could handle you beingpregnant?”

She exhaled slowly,staring out the smallcurtainedwindowtotheyard.“Paul was different then,Mads. I’mnotsurehewould

havetakenthenewsthesameway. He got this dream joband his hub was based inSpain. We went to AtlanticCitytocelebrate.Wesawthisindie band he’d beenfollowing,andplayedrouletteand craps—we won—and itwas . . .”She lookedout thewindowagain, but insteadofbeing wistful or sad, shefought a smile, chuckled toherself. “One of those nights

youneverforget.”I nearly choked on my

food.“Iknowit’sweird to talk

about it like this, Madison,but Iwasn’t sure I’d seehimagainoncehemoved.”

“So you asked him if hecould . . .” I said, suddenlyconsciousofwhatanintimatequestionIwasasking.

“No, it wasn’t formal oranything, it just happened. It

was—”“Please stop, I think this

isaboutallIcanhandlerightnow.”

“Isn’titbettertoknowwewere friendswho loved eachother, instead of someonerandomwhodisappeared?”

“I’mnot sure,” I said.“Itjust— It would have beennice toknow thathewasmyfather.”

“What do you think of

whenyouthinkofPaul?”“I don’t know.

Doughnuts?Airplanes? LoudSpringsteenmusic?”

She laughed. “Exactly.Funstuff. Iwasafraid that ifyou’d known, you’d paymoreattention to the timehewasn’t here than to the timehewas,anditdidn’tseemfairtoeitherofyou.”

Nowmy head hurt. I justwantedtostopthinking.

“I’msorryIdidn’tanswermy phone before; that wastotal douchebaggery on mypart.”

“You don’t have to usethatword—”

“It fits, though. I didn’tanswer on purpose. I wasn’treadytotalkaboutit.Canwejusteatnow,Mom?Please?Ijust want to eat, take a hotshower,domyhomework.Benormal. This is all I can

handle for now. Is thatokay?”

She picked up her fork.“Yes, but you know anytimeyouhaveanyquestions—”

“Iknowwhereyou live,”Isaid.

AfterdinnerIholedupinmyroom with my computer andthe memory card from theSadie Hawkins Dance. Forthefirsttimesincethatnight,

Iwasexcitedtolookthroughthe pictures, to see if therewas anything portfolio- oryearbook-worthy.

The first fewwereawful,blurry, random crowd shotsthat made me worry thewhole night had been likethat. What had I beenthinking?ThenIsawtheoneofWrenandGray,whichwas. . . sweet, sexy. Theirforeheadstouching,Wrenhad

asoftsmileonherface;Gray,too—they were both in thesame blissful, secret worldbehindtheirclosedeyes.

I scanned through somemore.The selfiesZach and Itook made my heart ache—we leaned into each other,cheek to cheek and grinning.Before he’d said that thing.We made a pretty scorchingcouple.Why had I gotten soannoyedthatheshowedupat

Mugshot?Whycouldn’tIjustsay what he wanted me tosay?

The shots of the hallwaywith the glowing balloonswerestriking; IknewIcouldplay them up with someeffects and turn the photosinto something special. Adefinite portfolio piece. Theone of me, Wren, and Jazzwas adorable, one that evenPiper would approve of—

we’d captured a perfectmoment, the three of ussmiling, arm in arm but in acasual way. Maybe I’d havetogiveGraysonphotocredit.Iwent back to the beginningofthepictures,tothefirstoneof Wren and Gray, ready tostartediting.

I pulled up the croppingtool, selecting the space Iwanted to focus in on, whenmy eyes fell upon something

in the background. Notsomething . . . someone.Jesse.Hewas up against thefar wall, staring into thecrowd. A few clicks and Icame incloseronhis face. Itwasn’t crystal clear, but hisfeatureswereplainasday.Hewas looking at something, orsomeone; his gaze seemedtoofixatedtobespaced-out.Istudied the way his jackethung on him, the line of his

jaw, how his hair sweptacross his forehead. I got upfrom the bed to grab mysketchpadandapenciloffmydesk.

You’re supposed to befinding pictures for thelayout.

My pencil scratchedacross thepaperas Iblockedout the dimensions of thesketch.

Jesse McMann was an

intriguingsubject.

TENJESSE

“TAKEITFROMTHETOP,”ISAID.“Again,dude?Comeon,”

Tannersaid.“Can’twebreakfor a minute? I’m spittingdusthere.”

“Two and a half weeks

until we play, we have twosongs down, last I checkedthat’s not a set. We’re outtahere in twenty, T, you canmake it. Maybe if you tookoffthehat.”

“Nope.”Grayson wiped his brow

along the sleeve of hisBatman shirt. “It is kind ofhotinhere.”

Practice had become toointenseformygarage—twice

a week was about all theneighborhood could handlebefore someone called tocomplain.Wedecidedtopoolsome work cash and springfor space at Lot 23, awarehouse turned rehearsalstudiobetweenanoilrefineryandastripmallonthefarendof townbeyond theold rails.They had four rehearsalrooms, and Plasma wastaking up one of them too.

Small town, even smallerrehearsal space, we werebound to run into someonewe knew. The competitionmadeusworkharder.

Tanner lifted his strapover his head. “I’m gonnapassout,Jess,justletmegrabawater.”

“Fine,”Isaid.“Hurry.”I strummed the opening

of the next song, turned toGrayson. He’d come

prepared, at least—chuggingfrom a water bottle hebrought with him. Aftersippinghetrickledsomeoverhis hair, shook it out, andlaughed. I had to give himprops—I’d never seensomeone work so hard ormake that much progress insuchashorttime.Heattackedit.

“Youreallythinkwe’llbeready?”heasked.

“Yeah.” I kept thinkingabout that jar on Declan’sdesk—If you’re gonna blowit, blow it big!!We soundedbetter—wouldwebeourbestby Whiskey? Probably not,butwe’dgodowntrying.Thedoorcreakedopen.

“Now we’re down to fif—”Istopped.“Hannah?”

“Hey, Jess. I saw Tannerin the hallway.” She smiled.Her presence lightened the

room—a butterfly coming inthroughanopenwindow.Myknee-jerk reaction to seeingherpissedmeoff—mynervesturned to live wires. Wouldthateverstop?

“What areyoudoing . . .oh, I guess . . . Plasma,” Isaid, answering my ownquestion.

“Yep, getting ready forthe battle,” she said, peeringbehindme.

I turned. “Oh, Hannah,that’s Grayson, our newdrummer.Grayson,Hannah.”

Grayson nodded at herandstoodup.“I’mgonnaseewhat’stakingTannersolong.Berightback.”

Shewassilent, toeing thefloorwiththetipofherboot,untilhelefttheroom.

“Younevercamehereforourpractice,”Isaid.

“Youneveraskedme.”

“IneverthoughtIneededto.”

“Don’t start, Jess. I justwantedtosayhi.”

“And ask why I haven’tcontacted Duncan about thesong.”

“Maybe.Iguess.ButnowI know why you haven’tgivenittohim.You’redoingthebattletoo.”

“No,we’renot.Wedidn’tget the entry form in on

time.”“But Tanner,” she said.

Just then someone shouted,“Douchebag!” through thehallway.Webothturnedasacacophony of voices stormedcloserandclosertotheroom.Tanner barreled in, followedbyDuncan,KennyAshe,thenGrayson,who lingered in thedoorway,observing.

“So you are doing thebattle,” Duncan said. “Guess

that’s why you’re stillholding on to what’s partmine.”

Hannah stepped back,closer to Duncan. It was asmallmovement,butonethatfelt like she was letting meknow where she stood. Thelivewiresinmychestsizzledmomentarily. I wanted toroar, to make them allspontaneously combust andsplatter against thewalls,but

I had no idea what he wastalkingabout.

“No, we’re not. We’replayingWhiskeyBusiness ina couple of weeks,” I said.Duncan flinched. He’d beensopumpedtoplaytherewhenwesentDeckourCD.

That’s what you get forboffingmygirlfriend.

“Then you’re not doingthebattle?”Kennyasked.Inaparallel universe, I’m sure

Kenny and I were greatfriends.Iadmiredhisplaying,and he had this rasp in hisvoice when he sang that Ienvied, but he was alltechnique, methodical. Icould play by ear and itpissed him off so much thatthe one time we tried to betogether in a band, it didn’tlastafteronepractice.

“No.” “Yes.” Tanner andIsaidittogether.

“Tanner?”Isaid.Henibbledthesideofhis

lipbefore speaking. “I put intheentryform.”

The battle meant nothingtomeanymore.Wehadarealgig,we didn’t need this highschool pissing contest whereitalwaysfeltlikeitwasmoreabout who you knew thanhowyouplayed. Iwas aboutto say as much, that we justwouldn’t show up and I’d

give Tanner the fifty bucksfortheentryfeeback,whenIsaw Hannah lean intoDuncan.Theystoodthere...waiting.

“Then I guess we’redoing it,” I said.“What’s thebigdeal?”Icouldseeplainlywhat the big deal was—theydidn’t want the competition.AndDuncanwantedthesong,butparthis?Fuckthat.

Tanner grinned and let

outa“Whoop!”“Stupid hat,” Duncan

said, pulling it off Tanner’shead as he left. Kenny andHannah followed him out.Hannah gave me one lastlingering look, which Ireturned with a stony glare.Tanner was still grinning astheyleft.

“Why didn’t you tellme?”Iaskedwhentheyweregone.

Grayson bent down andpickedupTanner’shat.

“Geez, dude, this hat isrank,” he said, tossing it tohim and wiping his hand onhis jeans. Tanner caught itand slipped it back onto hishead.

“Because you were alldepressed and shit, and Iknew you would pull thattortured-artist crap. And Iwantedtobesurethisworked

out.”“Am I this?” Grayson

asked.Tanner punched his

shoulderandsmiled.“Yup.”“Tortured-artist crap?” I

said.T’sfacecontortedintoan

exaggerated grimace and heclutched his hands to hischest. “I can’t play, it’s notfun anymore,Hannah rippedmyballsoffwhensheleftme

and the world has nomeaning. You know, all thatstuffthatspillsoutafterafewvodkalemonades.”

“Okay,okay,”Isaid.“When is it?” Grayson

asked.“AftertheWhiskey—first

weekinApril.”“We don’t have to do it.

It’s a stupid contest,” I said.“I just couldn’t back downwhen they were standing

here.”“No, I’m in. That was

hard-core,” Grayson said.“I’ve only played inbasements.”

“Then we’ve got fifteenminutes,let’sdoit,”Isaid.

“Why don’t we staylonger? I don’t think there’sanyone coming in after us,”Tanner said, pulling his bassstrapoverhishead.

“Can’tdoittonight.”

“But dude, the battle?Whiskey Business?We needto practice,” Tanner said.“You’re not on tonight,whatgives?”

“Have to go see a girlaboutalogo.”

I stopped home to take aquick shower and wash therehearsal-space funk away.Lot 23 may have beensoundproof, but it stunk.

Madisonwasexpectingmeatsix and I had about fifteenminutes to get there. Ishruggedona teeand towel-driedmyhair. Ihadn’thadacut inmonths and themost Icould say for it was that itcoveredmyhead.Iranahandthrough it,pushingstrands tothe side so they wouldn’thang in my eyes.Maybe I’dswing by Vito’s for a trimbefore I came home. My

stomach growled. Mom hadchilionthestove,butIdidn’tthink itwas thebest thing tochow on before meeting agirl.

“Be back in an hour orso,” I called as I boundeddown the stairs and out thefront door, ignoring thequestions that were holleredatmydeparture.

I arrived at Madison’swith five minutes to spare,

takingmy time, climbing thetwosetsofstairstoreachherporch.My fingerwas poisedto touch the bell, when thedooropened.

“Hey,”Isaid.“Come in, come in,” she

said, grinning. She held outherarmsformyjacket.

“Oh.” I shrugged off myjacket and she took it. Ifollowed her into the diningroom. The house was dim,

her computer the only lightsource in the room. Shesnappedaswitchonthewall,and the chandelier above thetableslowlycametolife.

“Sorry.Youeverdothat?Lose track of time and thenextthingyourealize,you’resittinginthedark?Seriously,if I hadn’t heard you stomponto the porch I’d still bestaring at the computer,oblivious,” she said, tossing

my jacket over a highbackchair.

“Yeah, totally,” I said,looking around. “Sowhatchagotforme?”

She slid into the chair infront of her laptop. Hercomputer was pulled up to apage with a modern-lookinghouse on it; it was all linesand angles and lookedsuspended in the midst oftrees and a cascading

waterfall, but made sensesomehow. I knew I’d seen itbefore. She jiggled themouse, trying to close downthepage.

“What’sthat?”Iasked.“Oh, just the most

amazing house design, like,ever. Frank Lloyd Wrightdesigned it when he was inhis late sixties. His sixties.There’shopeformeyet.”

“Wait, that’s . . .What is

it...water...something...”

“Fallingwater. You’veheardofit?”

“My aunt lives inPennsylvania, not too farfrom there. It’s in themiddleof Bumfuck and Where-the-Hell-Am-I.”

Her eyes lit up. “Yeah,that’s it. That’s the mostamazing part of it, isn’t it?That something so beautiful

is in the middle of nowhere.Couldyouimaginedrivingupto it and staying there? Likethatwasyourhouse?”

“Are you doing a projectonitorsomething?”

“Kindof—I’mwritinganessayonFrankLloydWrightand organic architecture forart,but...Ithinkthat’swhatI’d like to study.Architecture. It’s like mathand design all rolled up into

one. I’d love to— Sorry,you’rehere for this logo,nottobeboredoffyourass.”Sheshut down the window andopenedupanotherfile.

“No, it’s cool. It’s just,wow, I feel like a jerk forasking you to do this,obviously you’re into biggerandbetterthings.”

“Please, ‘bigger andbetter’—thiswasfun.Well,itwill be, if you like it,” she

said, clicking through a fewpictures before coming up toit. “I worked up three—allpretty simple,straightforward. I mean, youwant kids to doodle this ontheir notebooks when youbecomeahouseholdname.”

“Ha.”“Here,” she said, getting

up.“Just click through these,seewhichonespeakstoyou.Wantsomethingtodrink?”

“Uh...”“Water? Soda? No fancy

leafpatterns,though.”I grinned. “Okay,water’s

good.”She disappeared into the

kitchen. The first logo wassimple, justYellow #5 in oldtypewriter lettering. Thesecond one was a littlefunkier-looking, like theletters were dripping.Definitely something that

could be doodled on anotebook. The third onepopped.TheY inYellow hadalongtailandbecamepartofthehashtag,and the fivewasstylized. They all spoke tome, maybe this one a littlemore. All of them made mewonder how much workshe’dputintothis.Theywereamazing.

She came back in, twobottlesofwaterinherhand.

Iflippedmybangsoutofmy eyes, but they floppedbackintoplace.“IthinkIlikethisonethebest.”

“That’smyfavoritetoo—I got inspired by looking atthe back of labels. Tanner’sright;you’llget loadsof freeadvertising.AlthoughIguessthewholeunnatural food-dyethingisalittlescary.”

“What do I owe you forthis?”

“You don’t owe meanything. I can use this formyapplication.”Shetookherindex finger and moved myhair across my brow, moreserious than flirty. She tiltedherheadtotheside,studyingmy face, then ranher fingersthrough my bangs, pullingthem straight before lettingthe hair flop across myforeheadagain.

“Application?” I said,

trying to ignore what havingher touch me, even in themost innocent way, wasdoing to my insides. Just becool.

“Whodoesyourhair?”I laughed. “Does it? I

don’tgetmyhairdone. Igetitcut.Vito.Iknow,I’mdue.”

“Would you . . . I coulddoit,”shesaid.

“Yeah,right.”“No, I can—it’s sort of

mything.”Shewasn’tjoking.“When,like,rightnow?”“Unless you have

somewhere you have to be.Sorry,Ijustthinkyou’dlookreally good with it a bitchoppier, maybe even adarker shade. It would standout onstage more. I didWren’shairawhileago,bluehighlights, but . . . Oh god,I’mbeingpushy.I just think,

itmightbefun.”If lettingherdyemyhair

meant having her touch meagain, she could give me apurplemohawkwithhot-pinktips.“No,let’sdoit.”

“Excellent,” she said,tapping her fingers togetherlike a mad scientist. “To thekitchen.”

WhathadIjustsignedupfor?

“Is that a good tee you’rewearing? ’Cause these aresome heavy-duty chemicals.We’regoingblue-black.”Shedragged a chair across thefloorsoitwassituatednexttoa small café table where itlooked like she’d set up amakeshifthairsalon.

“We are?” Dark was onething; blue-black was reallydark. She waved her handdismissively.

“My mother can fix anyhair disaster, so if it looksawful, you can change itbefore you play inHoboken.Sit,”shesaid,gentlypushingonmyshouldersuntilmybutthit the seat. She shook out ablack plastic cape and itbillowed around me, fallinginto place as she snapped itclosed at the back of myneck.Thenshetuckedasmallblacktowelaroundthecollar.

“This probably isn’t thebest time toask,butwhere’dyoulearntodothis?”

“Mymom’sastylist.Shehas a few clients who onlycometothehouse,soIsortoflearnedby assistingher. I domyown,otherwiseI’dbethishorrible shade of dishwaterblond that would make mejustdisappearinthecrowd.”

“You? Disappear in thecrowd? Right.” It had come

out without thinking—afriendly thing,but it soundedflirty.WasIflirting?Madisonwasanythingbutadisappear-in-the-crowd kind of girl.Evennow,withoutmakeuporanything fancy, she waspretty. But that night at thedance...damn.MaybeIwasflirting.

Shechuckledasshelinedup three bottles in varioussizesonthetable.Sheplaced

a black bowl, a flat blackbrushwithalongthinhandle,and a little thing that lookedlike a whisk on thenewspaper. Then she beganhooking up the portable sinktotheoneinherkitchen.

“Do you need help oranything?” I felt lazy justwatching.

“Nope, just let me havemy way with your hair andwe’regood.”

Wassheflirtingwithme?Oncethesinkwashooked

up properly, Madisongrabbed a small jar ofVaselineandstoodastridemylegs.Her fingerswere inmyhair again, the tips grazingmy scalp, smoothing thehairaway frommy face.Shewasso close—I could smell herlip gloss, something sweetand sugary like bubblegum.The way she was standing I

couldeasilypullherdowntomy lap, run my hands alongthe smooth, soft curvesoutlined by her jeans, tastehermouth.Mytonguefeltonfire.

“What’s, um, what’s upwith the Vaseline?” I asked,thewords thickandhot, lavaspillingfrommymouth.

“It’ll keep the dye offyour face,”shesaid,poppingopenthelid,oblivioustohow

this was affecting me. I wasgladtobecoveredinacape.

She dabbed the Vaselinealong my hairline with herthumb, her hand anchored tothetopofmyhead.Myheartswelled, aware of the spacebetween us, her fingertipsgliding along my skin. I satstock-still, afraid if I moved,I’d actually do the things Iwas imagining doing withher.

Coolit,Jess.I tried to think of

something to say tokeepmymindfromgettingtootwistedup in dirty thoughts. Whatabout that guy she was withlast week at Mugshot? Hadthat been her dance date?Was he her boyfriend?Bringing that up would besuch an obvious fish forinformation but . . . I’d beenthatguy.Theonewho’dbeen

oblivious to something goingon right under his nose. Notthattherewasanythinggoingon.Oh,hell. I justwanted toknow.

“Who was that guy youwere with last week atMugshot?”

She put the lid back onthe jar and wiped her handsonapapertowel.

“Zach? I introduced you,right?”

“Yeah, is he your, um,boyfriend?”

She bit her lip as shepouredwhiteliquidfromoneof the bottles and beganwhisking the mixture in thebowl. “He’s a boy, and he’smy friend, so . . . I dunno,that sounds so serious.Boyfriend. We hang out,how’sthatforadefinition?”

“I guess it’s good.” Wasit? I’d seen them together.

They looked like a couple tome,butIwasherenow.Werewehangingout?DyeinghairwasprobablynumberoneontheBestWays toStay in theFriend-zonetoptenlist.Hardtohavesexytimeswhenyourhairline has a strip ofpetroleum jelly on it. Irelaxed into the chair.Perviness subsiding. Talk ofthe other guy the equivalentofacoldshower.

Just then the front doorgroaned open. Madison’seyebrows rose in surprise.Heavy footsteps and thesound of paper rustlingfolloweduntila tallguywithsandy hair walked throughthe doorway, arms full ofbrown grocery bags. Hestopped, looked at me, thenMadison.

“What’sup?”

ELEVENMADISON

“WHAT’SUP?”Paul smiledashewalked

intothekitchen.He’ddecidedtostaywithusuntilhefounda place of his own, but hisschedule with the corporate-

jet gig had been pretty full.Wehadn’t had the chance totalk except to say, “Weshould really talk,” sincemymother hadbroken thenews.Part of me was really okaywith that. I wasn’t sure howto act around him, whichmade me even more self-conscious because I’d neverhad to think about acting acertainwayaroundhim.

“Hey,I,um,didn’texpect

to see you,” I said as heplaced the bags on thecounter.

“The flight I wasscheduledforgotcanceled.”

Paul looked over myshoulder at Jesse. “Hair? Inthekitchen?”

“Mom doesn’t really usethe kitchen to cook whenyou’re not here,” I said,chuckling.“ThisismyfriendJesse. He’s in a band, I’m

givinghimanewlook.”Ipickedupthewhiskand

resumedmixingthedye.Paul put out his hand in

greeting. Jesse wrestled hisfrom underneath the plasticcape and gave him a heartyshake.

“This is Paul,” I said,“he’sa . . .” Istumbled—theword father would not comeout.

“A friend of the family,”

Paulfinished.“Iwasgoingtomake my vegetarian stir-fry,butIseeyou’rebusy.”

“Weshouldbedoneherein about half an hour. I candry him upstairs, if that’sokaywithyou.”

Paul nodded. He didn’tknow the no-boys-on-the-second-floorrule,butsinceitwas a special situation, Ididn’t feel like I was takingadvantage.Andit’snotlikeI

was going to be doinganything else but dryingJesse’shair.

“Uh, yeah, sure, that’sgreat.” He unpacked thegroceries—mostly veggies—andputthemonthetopshelfofthefridge,thengrabbedanapple.“I’llbeoutofyourhairinaminute—ha,hair.”

Ishookmyhead.“It’s Dana’s late night,

right?”

“Yep,” I said, pulling onpurple latex gloves with asnap. I wiggled my fingersmaniacallyatJesse.Hehadawide, curvy mouth thatstretched into an adorablesmile. It transformed himfrom broody to hot in twosecondsflat.

“I’m not going to regretthis,amI?”heasked.

“Nope, especially notwhen the Hoboken girls

swoon.”“Hey,youguysmind if I

turn on some music?” Paulasked, flipping through themail on the counter. Hegrabbed today’s newspaperandputitunderhisarm.“I’lljust hang in the dining roomuntilyou’redone.”

“Goahead.”Moments later Paul’s

favorite was playing in thedining room, singing a song

about Atlantic City. Paulhummed along in betweenloud, crunchy bites of hisGranny Smith. It wasn’t aparticularlyromanticsongbutittookonnewmeaningtomeeverytimeIheardthechorus.Did itmeananything toPaulwhen he heard it? Did hethinkaboutwinningat craps,anightwithmymother? Ick.Mycheeksgrewwarm.WithJesse intogrungeorpunk,or

“grunk,” Iwas sure listeningto this must have been likenails across a chalkboard tohim.

“Sorry for the, um,oldies,” I said, working thedyeintohishair.

“It’s fine, he’s cool. Mydad listens to Springsteen allthetime.”

Hesmiledagain.ItwasasmileIcouldtrust.

“Minetoo,”Iwhispered.

“Jess, my god, you have thepatience of a two-year-old—sitstill,”Isaid.

We’d moved up to mybathroomtoletPaulbeginhisculinary geniuswhile I driedJesse’shair.I’dmadehimsitonmyfuzzypinktoiletcover,facingthetanksohecouldn’tlook in the mirror. He keptsquirming, trying to sneak apeek.Iwantedthelooktobecomplete before the final

reveal.Itcameoutprettyhot,if I did say so myself. Hisblue eyes stood out incontrast to his dark hair. I’dshaped his long bangs withjagged edges, so he looked alittle like a manga character.He would be irresistibleonstage.

“YouknowIprettymuchrun a towel across my head,nomuss,nofuss.”

“Evenwhenyouplay?”

“Yep.”“Nomousse,gel?”“Noandno.Justfallsflat

inmy face after twominutesofplaying,anyway.”

“Well,youmightwant tochangethat;Icanrecommendsomething,” I said, turningoffthehairdryer.

“I’m playing a bar inHoboken,nottheGarden.”

“You gotta startsomewhere.Okay, get up,” I

said, covering his eyes withmyhands.

“Is this reallynecessary,”hesaid,risingup.Hewastalland lean and deceptivelymuscular,not inaZachway,butstill,inaway.

My head reached a goodtwo inches below hisshoulders, and I had to standon tiptoe to keep my handsover his eyes, my bodybrushing his back. We

shuffled so we both facedforward.Forasplit second, IregrettedthatIhadn’tcleanedmyvanityand felt awaveofembarrassment at the sheeramount of product thatlittered it—the blob of driedtoothpasteon theedgeof thesink, an open tube of liquidbasemakeup,anoversizecanof hairspray, the Hello Kittygel cling that had been stucktomymirrorsinceIwaseight

yearsold.ThenIrememberedhis smile.Even if he thoughtit was messy, I didn’t thinkhe’dcare.

“Okay,one,two,three.”Islidmyhandsoffhiseyes.

He clamped his handsoverhismouthashestaredathisreflection.

“Holyshit,”hesaid.“Isthatgood?”He whistled and moved

his head from side to side to

checkouteachangle.“Holeeeey shit,” he said

again, louder. “Tanner isgoingtoberelentless.”

“Youdon’tlikeit?”“No,” he laughed, “I

mean,yeah,Ilikeit,justhavetogetusedtoit.”

“Ithinkitlooksgreat.”We stood side by side,

looking at each other in themirror.Istillcouldn’tbelieveheletmetalkhimintodoing

his hair. I’m not sure whathad possessed me to ask,either. I only knew I’dwantedhim tohangoutwithmelongerthansaying,“Ilikethis logo, see ya.” He bentdown bit, putting his headnexttomine.

“We’re like oppositesnow.”

“Now?”Westayedcheektocheek

for a long moment, like we

were sitting in aphotoboothabouttogetourpicturetaken.That’s when it came intofocus—welookedreallygoodtogether.Myheartsurgedhotwith the realization. Had heput two and two together atall—that I could have easilysent him the logo files in anemail?Thattherewasnorealneed for us to get togetherotherthanIsimplywantedtoseehimoutsideoforderinga

hotdrink?Ever since I’d cropped

that photo, I’d built up someimagined personal history ofJesse. I kept working on thesketch, refining his features.WhatwouldhedoifheknewI was drawing a picture ofhim? It made me wonderabout him, how he spent histimeotherthanmakingcoffeeand band practice. Did hehave any siblings? Did he

haveagirlfriend?“Anyone hungry?” Paul

calledupthestairs.“Ah, be right down.” I

stepped away from Jesse,occupied myself withunpluggingthehairdryerandrolling up the cord. He slidhis hands into his backpockets.

“Um, let me put thoselogofilesonaflashdriveforyou, that way you can do

whatyouwant.”Istowedthedryer away, stood up to facehim. There was another beatwherehedidn’tmove,lookedlike he wanted to saysomething, but then heshifted,andIwalkedpasthimtothedoor.

“Yeah, cool, I’ll showthem to the guys,” he said,thumping down the stairsbehindme.“I’llletyouknowwhichonewegowith.”

Paul was at the diningroomtable,plateofsteamingveggies and the newspaperspread out in front of him.Mylaptopwasopened to thelogos. I grabbed my extraflashdriveandpluggeditintothecomputer.

Paul looked up. “Wow,interesting.”

Jesse ran a handover hishair and grinned. “Yeah, Ilikeit.”

“He’s a rock star, Paul,hastolookthepart.”

“Really?”“No,justaguitarplayer.”“Whatsortofmusic?”They spoke about their

musical likes and dislikes asthe files downloaded,strangely enough findingsome common ground withthe Stones and Pink Floyd.Jesse looked so animatedwhen he told Paul about

playingatWhiskeyBusiness.I knew I’d said I’d thinkabout going to see him, buthearing him talk about itagain made me want to bethere even more. Theeighteen-and-overthingcouldbe a problem, but I figuredsince Gray was in the band,Wren would definitely begoing too, underage or not.We’d put our heads togetherandfiguresomethingout.

“Yousureyoudon’twantany stir-fry?There’s plenty,”Paulsaid.

“No thanks, I have togetgoing,” Jesse said, grabbinghisjacket.

I handed him the flashdrive.“I’llwalkyouout.”

Paul raised his eyebrowsinapprovalatme.Ishookmyhead and threw my jacketover my shoulders, usheringJesse out the door and onto

theporch.“You don’t have to walk

meout,it’scold,”hesaid.“I’m fine. You sure you

likeyourhair?Becauseifforany—”

“It’sgreat.Only I think Imiss getting a root beerlollipopfromVito.”

“Well, no lollipops here,onlystir-fry.”

He laughed and juggledtheflashdriveinhispalm.

“Madison, are you sure Idon’t owe you anything forthis?Thisisalot,thehair,thelogo.Ijust—”

“No, really, I was happyto do it, and the hair was abonus. It’s what friends do,right?”

“Yeah, but maybe I’llhavetothrowacoupleoffreechaisyourway.”

“Now you have mefiguredout.”

We laughed, our breathdisappearing in cold, whitewisps. Jesse’s eyes were onmine, intent. He chuckled,shruggedhis shoulders tohisears, and all at oncesomething shifted—I had thefeeling he was thinking ofkissing me because I wasthinking of kissing him, howeasyitwouldbejusttoreachup and brush my mouthacross his. The moment

passed, and he took a stepback.

“Thank you,” he said. “Iguess I’ll see you atMugshot.”

“See ya,” I said, waitinguntilhegottothefootofthestairstogoinside.

I was about to headupstairs, but stopped short.Something in the way Paulwas just sitting alone in thedining room nagged at me.

This was the first time wewere together without Mominthehouse.Iwentouttothekitchen and grabbed a smallbowl of stir-fry, then took aseatat thediningroomtable.A happier, more upbeatSpringsteen song played inthebackground.

“Seems like a nice kid,”hesaid, turningapageofhisnewspaper. “I likehimbetterthan the shirtless guy, that

oneseemedlike,whatdoyousay,aplayer?”

I nearly choked on mybrownrice.“Zach?He’snotaplayer. He plays soccer, butthat’saboutit.”

“IsZachyourboyfriend?”“Um,maybewe can talk

about something other thanmylovelife?”

“Awkward?”hefinished.“Yeah,”Isaid.“What should we talk

about?”“Maybehowweirditisto

think about thingswe shouldtalkabout?”

“Maddie, I’mtryinghere.I mean, I’m still me andyou’re still you,we’ve neverhadtroubletalkingbefore.”

Hewasright.“Okay, tellmesomething

afatherwouldtellhiskid,”Isaid.

“That seems deep. Like

what?”“Favoritecolor?”“Blue.”“Robin’s egg or

periwinkle? There’s lots ofdifferentshades.”

“Skyblue.”“Okay,there’sastart.”“What is it that you like

aboutart?”heaskedme.“That’sacomplexone,”I

said.“Notreally.”

“I love creatingsomething where there wasnothing before. A sketch, adesign on my hand. Whoknows, someday a building,maybe?”

“Is thatwhy youwant togotodesigncamp?”

“Youknowaboutthat?”“Your mother told me

about your summer plans.Where are you applyingagain?”

They’dtalkedaboutme?Iwondered if it had beenbeforeorafter.

“New Jersey DesignInstitute—it’s a two-weekthing.Youstudyalldifferentareas but the focus is onarchitecture and building upyour portfolio. They havedorms, and field trips. I’mapplyingforascholarship.”

“I’dliketohelp.”At first I didn’t

understand what he meant.Help how? Drive me there?ThenIrealizedhewastalkingabout money. The funnythingwas,ifPaulhadtoldmetwoweeksagothathewantedto help, I would have beenthrilled. Now I wondered iftherewasmore to it. Did hefeel like hehad to helpme?Ordidhewanttohelpme?

“You don’t have to dothat.”

He took his time foldingthepaper, thentuckeditnextto his empty plate and satbackinhischair,armsfolded.

“Iwanttodoit,Madison.You’re talented. Yoursketches—”

“You’ve seen mysketchpad?”

“It was on the diningroom table. I may havepeeked. I’m sorry if Iwasn’tsupposedto.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Isaid.

“Look,Ihavethemoney,and even if you weren’t mydaughter, I’dwant todo this.If you have a hard timethinkingofmeasyourfather,think of me as, let’s say, abenefactor. Someone whowantstoseeyousucceed.”

Benefactor soundedstrangerthanfather.

“Why didn’t you saysomethingsooner?”

JazzhadconvincedWrenandme to go on a slow runwithher.I’dthoughtitwouldbe a great time to tell themabout my father news and itmostly was, except for thesmall problem of not beingable to form words. Jazzsounded like she could havebelted out a power anthemwhile Wren and I were

chugging air. We were alsoon recon to casually run (orpass out) by St. Gabriel’slacrosse practice to stalkLogan. Sweaty, gross, andlooking like someone hadslappedmyfaceseveraltimeswas not the way I usuallywanted to look in thepresence of St. Gabe’s boys,but for Jazz I made anexception.

“Wow...that’s...a...

to...tal...mind...fuck,”Wren said between gasps forair.

I wanted to say, YES!Mindfuckistheperfectword!ButonewordwasallIcouldmanage.

“Yup.”“How are you handling

it?”Ishrugged.“I just can’t believe you

didn’t tell us this before.”

Jazz didn’t miss a beat, herbright purple sneakers barelymakingasoundasshejoggedgracefullyalongthetree-linedtrail. I stopped short, putmyhands on my knees and myhead down, trying to getmybreathingbacktonormal.

“Ifyouwantthestory...,”Isaid,“then...howabout...aslowwalk?”

“YES,” Wren said,stoppingtoo.

Jazz kept going until sherealizedweweren’twithher,thenjoggedbackwithagrin.

“Geez,guys,promseasonis, like, two months away, Ithought we were going tokeepeachothermotivated.”

“I’ll eat fewer peanutbuttercups,”Wrensaid.

“Ditto,”Isaid.Jazzstoodthere,handson

herhips,andwaitedforustocatch our breath, then we

continued to walk as I toldthem about Paul. How Ifound out the morning afterthedance.ThatI’dwantedtotell them about him butcouldn’t find the right time.What my mother said aboutAtlantic City. How Paulwantedtobemybenefactor.

“Wow, Mads. I look atmy sister, and how muchsupportshehasaroundher—Juniorisn’tevenhereandI’m

lined up for babysitting thissummer. I can’t imagineBrooke doing it all on herown. That must have beentough.”

“I know, but still—whykeepitfrommeallthistime?I don’t know if that’ssomethingIcangetpast.Oneminuteeverything’sokayandI think Ihaveahandleon it,then I get pissed about itagain. She kept saying that

Paul was different, that hemight not have wanted tosupport her. I can’t imaginethat—he seems prettygenerousnow.”

“Youneed to thinkaboutit differently. I mean, he’syour father, he should giveyousomefinancialsupport—especially if he wants to,”Jazzsaid.

“The benefactor thingseemsweird—butitmightbe

nicetojustsitbackandenjoythefreeride.It’dbecrazynotto,right?”

Even as the words cameoutofmymouthit felt likeIwas trying too hard to talkmyself into it. My momalways stressed theimportance of beingindependent. She lived it.Even if it seemed like itwastoafaultatthemoment.

Whenwegotclosertothe

lacrossefields,Jazzmotionedforustostop.

“Okay,here’swhatwe’regoingtodo,”shesaid.“Oncewehit thebottomof thehill,we’ll start jogging—there’ssome bleachers next to thepracticefieldandwecanstopand stretch there. And thenmaybe I’ll justkindofwave.How’sthat?”

“Not obvious at all,” Isaid.Wrenlaughed.

We started joggingaccordingtoplan.Thankfullythebleacherswerelessthanaquarter mile away; anythingmore than that and my facemight have exploded. As itwas, Wren and I werepanting.

“Isitjustme,ordoesthisfeel reallyscripted?”Iasked,reachingmyarmupovermyhead and doing a side-bend.“Kindoflikeasoft-coreporn

filmaboutsweatylaxboys.”“Mads,please,”Jazzsaid.Wrenswitched legs.“Oh,

sweatylaxboy,canyouhelpme? I just need a little assistfrombehind.”

“I’ll hold your stick foryou.”Istretchedmyquad.

“What the hell? Wouldyoutwostop?”

“All the oxygen we’rehuffing must be getting tous.”

“Heads up!” someoneyelled from the field. Jazzduckedassomethingwhizzedby her head and ricochetedoff the top step of thebleachers.Theballfelltothegroundbelow.

“Andthisishowitstarts.Cuethesexymusic.”

“Bow-chicka-wow-wow,”Wrensangassheputonelegup on the bleachers andgrabbedholdofthetipofher

sneaker.I deepened my voice,

giving it a southern lilt.“Wouldyoube sokindas topickupmyball,Jazzabelle?”

“Oh my god, just growup,” Jazz said, but therewaslaughterinhervoice.

Oneoftheplayerswalkedover, lifted his helmet, andsmiled.

“Thought that was you,”hesaid.Logan.“Didyousee

wheretheballwent?”WrenandIburstintoafit

of giggles. Logan looked atus,confused.

“Yeah, I’ll get it,” Jazzsaid, crouching to get underthebleachers.Shewas tryingto keep a straight face andwouldn’t lookateitherofus.Wren’s facewaspurple fromsilentlaughter.JazzwalkedtoLogan and tossed the balloverthefencetohim.

“Feel likegoingforarunafterthis?”heaskedher.

“Lookslikeyou’regettingaworkoutnow.”

“Yep, but I could use arun to unwind after this,” hesaid.

“Yes, please, these twocan’tkeepupwithme.”

“Cool,” Logan said,backingaway from the fenceandthenturningtotrotouttotherestoftheboyswhowere

still playing. Jazz couldhaveheated up a whole galaxywiththesmileonherface.

“Aguywhotakesaruntorelax?Guessyou’vemetyourPrinceCharming,Jazzy.”

“So can we stoppretendingtostretch?”

“Ooh, but you’re quiteflexible,Wren,”Isaid.

“Thanks to Leif and hisassists,”shesaid.

“Hey,soIwasthinking—

youknowhowGray’sbandisgoingtoplayoutatthatplaceinHoboken?”Jazzasked.

“I’d hardly call itGray’sband—I mean, he is thenewest member. It’s reallyJesse’s band,” I said. BothWrenandJazzpuzzledatmyquick defense. “What? It’sthetruth.”

“Anyhow,” Jazzcontinued,“Iwas thinkingofaskingLogan to go.That’s a

good idea, right? And thiswayifhesaysno,it’snotlikeI’ll be that crushed becauseI’llstillgowithyouguys,butif he saysyes, then it canbeourfirstofficialsort-ofdate.”

“That sounds perfect. IsZachcoming,Mads?”

I hadn’t told them aboutthe L word yet, mostlybecauseIwastryingtoforgetabout it myself. Avoidancehadbecomemynewpastime.

“Maybe.Livemusic isn’treallyhisthing.Hey,buthoware we going to get in,anyway? Are you forgettingthewholewe’re-not-eighteenissue?”Iasked.

Wren smiled. “Noworries. Grayson’s got thatcovered.Heknowsaguy.”

TWELVEJESSE

“JESSE’SNOTEVENAGIRL,ANDHE GETS TO DYE his hair, notfair.”

The debate had beengoing on since I came homeon Wednesday night from

Madison’s. Daisy pouted,looking from my mother tome. Tax season was never atime to negotiate with mymother,herlastnervealwayson thevergeofbeingfried. Itried to communicate thiswith narrowed Cut the crapeyestoDaisy,butsheignoredme. Ty had finally gottenusedtomynewlook,butstilleyedmewhilenibblingonhispancake, as if he were

waitingforsomethingelse tochange. “Bothboys andgirlscandyetheirhair.Ifyouwanta streak, that’s fine, but I’mdonewiththisargument.Youcan’t dye your hair purplelikethegirlonYouTube.”

TKO,Mom.Daisy grumbled. My dad

changedthesubject.“Youguyssoundedpretty

tight the other day. Are youreadyfornextweek?”

Were we ready? We’dbeen practicing together sixtimes a week, dividing ourtimebetweenLot 23 and thegarage.Weweresore,fingersbleeding, throats raspy, butthe fifteen songs we hadsounded good, all except theoriginal—we were stillfumbling through the sound,andtheguyswantedtocutit.I swallowed a mouthful ofmaple-syrup-soaked pancake

beforeanswering.“Ithinkso,butyouknow,

ifyou’regonnablowit,blowitbig.”

Dad laughed and lookedat Mom. “I have not heardthatinyears.”

“Youknowit?”Iasked.“Declan’s motto? Yes,”

my mother said, cutting upanother piece of pancake forTyler.“Hejustifiedmorethanplaying music with that

saying.”“Whatdoesitmean?”“He had this voice

instructor, real dramatic, old-school guy, and he used tosay that. Cracked us up.Westartedusingitforeverything.Butyouknow,hehadapoint.If you crash, own it. Peoplewill respect you more,” myfathersaid.

“Idon’tplanoncrashing.We’re cool.” At least I

soundedconfident.“Remind me to call the

sitter,Sam.”The pancake hung from

my fork as I stopped mid-bite,staringatmymother.

“Youguys are coming toseeus?”

“Ofcourse,why?”“I’m not a baby, I don’t

need a sitter,” Daisy said.“Whycan’tIgo?”

“Hellno,”Isaid.

My mother frowned.“What did I tell you aboutthatwordatmytable?”

“Jess, we’ll leave thefoam fingers and pom-pomsat home, but as chieffinanciersofYellowNumberFive,ofcoursewe’recoming.We want to support you. Sowe can say we knew youwhen,”Dadsaid.

Ihadcertain expectationsof Whiskey Business and

what the crowd would belike,anditdidn’t includemyparents.Butwhatiftheyweretheonlypeoplethere?

“Sorry, I’m just nervous.Whatifnooneshowsup?”

“What if a ton of peopleshow up and hate you?”Daisy said, sticking hertongue out so quick that mymotherdidn’tnotice.Ihadn’tthoughtofthat.

“Jitters are part of it. If

you weren’t nervous, youwouldn’tbenormal.Andthatstuff you’re talking about?It’ll all happen if you’re in aband long enough. Those’llbe your road stories. Seethis?” My dad pointed to ascarthatcutthroughhisrighteyebrow.“That’sfromabeercap flung at me when weplayed this dump inManville.”

“That awful place with

thesawdustonthefloor?”mymothersaid.

“Yeah, the regulars werenotintotheSexPistols.”

“Pissstul,”Tyrepeated.“What a lovely word for

himtolearn.”Thedoorbellsounded.“OPEN!”Tyyelled.Daisypoppedup.“Sit,” my mother said as

she got up. All of ourattention followed her as we

waitedtoseewhoitwas.Shepushedawaythecurtainsandpeered through the sidewindow.

“It’s Duncan,” she said,reaching for the doorknob.My dad and I shared apuzzled look. My familyknewmyversionofwhathadhappened, that Hannah andDuncan were together, andthey had lived through myphase as the soulless hermit

fromhell,butasfarasIknewthey’d never come face-to-facewithDuncan since then.I wondered what my motherwouldsaytohim,andbracedmyself.

“Duncan, hey, come inout of the cold,” my mothersaid,openingthedoorwide.

Somuchforsolidarity.He stepped inside,

running his boots across thedoormat and pulling his hat

offhishead.Hesawusatthetableandhesitatedamomentbeforecomingover.

“Hey, Mr. McMann,” hesaid,holdingouthishand.

My father stood up andshook his hand. “Duncan,longtime,nosee—how’sthenewband?”

Thunk. My father alwaysknew how to throw theawkward right into theconversation. He sat down,

smiling up at Duncan,appearing to be trulyinterested in what he had tosay.

“Can-can,” Ty said,slapping the little tray on hishighchair.DuncanlaughedatTy. He and Duncan had hadthis drumming thing whenhe’d stay after rehearsalsometimes. I hadn’t realizeditmadeanimpressiononTy.Only Daisy ignored Duncan.

Shegavemeaquicklookandrolled her eyes. At least oneof my family members sawhimasajerk.

“New band’s a’right,”Duncan said, twistinghis hatinhishands.

“Do you want somethinghot to drink, cocoa orsomething?” my motherasked,poisedtositdown.

“No, no thank you, juststoppedbytoseeJess.”

“We can talk in thegarage,”Isaid,pushingawayfrom the table. DuncanfollowedasIwalkedintothekitchen and put my plate inthe sink. He had to be herefor the song. Again. He saidnothingaswewalkedthroughthe laundry room into thegarage.

I flipped the switch on,rubbed my hands together.Ourequipmentwassetupfor

rehearsal later that afternoon.IcrossedmyarmsandlookedatDuncan.HewalkedovertoGrayson’s drum set, ran hisfingeracrossthecymbal.

“How’sheworkingout?”he asked, shoving his handsintohispockets.

“Good.”“Betterthanme?”“Different.”He nodded, sniffled.

“Kenny’s such an asshat. He

lost his nut when he foundout you guyswere doing thebattle.”

I smiled in spite ofmyself. “Good. What aboutyou?Loseanut?”

“Nah.Bringit,”hesaid.“Butyouwantthesong.”“Didyoufinishit?”I nodded.He didn’t need

to know it sucked at themoment.

“I was thinking, maybe

wecouldbothdoit.”“Atthebattle?”“No.Like,splitit.”I wondered if I was in

Duncan’s shoes if I’d be soeager to grovel at my feet.The truth was it could haveeasily been the other wayaround. I just happened tohavethenotebookweusedtowrite it down. The songwasokay.Nothinggreat.IknewIcould easily write a better

one, but not in a week. Notbefore the Whiskey. But Iwasn’t about tomake it easyforhim.

“What, like, in half?” Iasked,smirking.

“I thinkyouknowwhat Imean.”

“Why would I agree tothat?”

“Because you’re a decentperson, Jess. And you’regonna blow us away

anyway.”“Unless Kenny has a

neighboronthejudges’panelagain.”

He laughed. “That’s theonlyway.Comeon.”

“So you’re asking me togiveyouanadvantage?”

“No. I’m asking you togive us a friggin’ fightingchance.We startedwriting itwith the Whiskey in mind,remember? Just, you know,

youguyscanuseitthereandwe’ll play it for the battle.Seems fair, don’t you think,sincewecowroteit?”

Since it was more like a60/40 partnership in myfavor, I didn’t think it wasfair, but I was sick of goingon about it. And when Ilookeditover thelast time,Irealized something. We bothwereprobably thinkingaboutHannah when we wrote it.

That song had a ton ofbaggagewithit.IfIthoughtIcould come up withsomething new before nextweekend, something wecould practice that wouldsound as good as the rest ofour songs, I’dattempt it.Butbetweenworkandschoolandlife, it wasn’t going tohappen.

“Fine.Soundsgood.”Hestartled.“Really?”

“Yeah,whynot?AreyoucomingtotheWhiskey?”

“Oh, um, hadn’t thoughtaboutit.”

“Bullshit.”“All right, I don’t know.

Kenny said something aboutgoing but . . . it would behard, Jess. For me. Youknow?”

I hadn’t thought aboutwhat it would mean forDuncan.He’dwantedtoplay

outasmuchasIhad.Ishouldhave felt bad for him, but Ididn’t. Too much hadhappened, but maybe wecould be friends again.Maybe.

“Itwould be good to seeyouthere,Duncan.”

“Maybe.”“Cool.”“You might want to

rethinkthehair.”

“Dude, I think we need todrop the pipe dream of theoriginal for now,” Tannersaid, wiping the sweat fromhis forehead with his sleeve.We’dbeenpracticingfortwohoursandstill couldn’tget itright. I looked at Grayson,who in the past week hadbecome so lightning-fast andtight on the drums, he’d farsurpassed Duncan. We’dfoundourgroove.Except for

theoriginal.“Tanner’s right, Jess.

Definite weak spot in theset.”

Tanner stood up a littlestraighter with Grayson’sagreement.

I knew they were right,the song wasn’t comingtogether, but Iwanted to killit atWhiskey Business. Andplaying an original woulddefinitelykillit.Ididn’twant

to let Declan down, either.Notonourfirsttimeout.Westill had a week before theshow.Plentyoftimetomakeithappen.

“Ithinkweneedtotry,”Isaid.

“Why not just save it fornow, Elvis,” Tanner said.He’d been as merciless as Ithoughtaboutmyhair,karmaforallthehatguffIgavehim.“We’vegotuntilthebattleto

perfectit.”“Actually we don’t,” I

admitted, looking betweenthem.Justripoff thefuckingBand-Aid. “I gave it toDuncan.”

“What?”“Weagreed,wecoulduse

itforourshowandtheycoulduseitforthebattle.”

“And who’s we? Did hetalk to you?” Tanner lookedat Grayson, who shook his

head.“Sojustkeepatit.Wegot

this,” I said, playing the firstchord in the song.Neitherofthemjoinedin.

“No, we don’t,” Tannersaid.

“Whatdidyouwantmetodo? I’m sick of him askingforit.”

“How ’bout grow a pairand tellhimhecan’thave it.Didn’t he write, like, three

linesinit?”“More than you did,” I

said.Tanner flinched, his face

turning red. I regretted itinstantly. Thewords cut himwhereithurt.Iwassosickofbeinghassledaboutthesong,though.I’dmadethedecisionandwasstickingtoit.

“That’s it, then.” Tannerunpluggedhisbass.

“C’mon, Tanner, I didn’t

mean—”“Sure you did, man. It’s

always been about you andDuncan. I’m just the idiotwith the bass and the stupidhat.”Heopenedhiscaseandpulledthestrapoverhishead.

“You’reoverreacting.”“No I’m not, Jess,” he

said. “I thought we werefinally coming together andthenyougoanddosomethinglike this, without even

running it by me or Gray.This is your band, isn’t it?Whowastheonewhogottheword out that we werelooking for a new drummerwhen you were too busycrying over Hannah? Whosigned us up for the battle?Who found a deal on T-shirts?ButwhyshouldIhavea say in something so big?”He closed his case, lockingthe clasps on the side

violently, then grabbed hiscoat.

“Tanner, c’mon, dude,stay,”Graysonsaid.

He stopped a moment,looked at me, then back toGrayson.

“Ihave togetoutofherebefore I say somethingstupid.”

He swung open the doorandleft,notevenbotheringtocloseitbehindhim.

Gray got up from thedrums and shut the door,folding his arms across hischest before walking towardme.

“Guess that’s it fortoday,”hesaid.

In all our years offriendship, Tanner and I hadnever as much as raised ourvoices to each other.Hewastheeasyone,thego-with-the-flow guy.Not thatwe didn’t

have disagreements now andthen, and he certainly knewwhen to kick my ass aboutsomething,butI’dneverseenhimreactthisway.

“Whatdoyouthink?”“I’m the new guy—what

doIknow?”“You must have

somethingtosay.”He sighed. “He has a

point.”I unplugged my guitar.

“Really.”“Youcouldhaverunitby

us first. Or at least Tanner.Honest,Jess,Ican’tstandthesong.Itdoesn’tfitinwiththerestof theset, andyoudon’tsingitwith...Itsoundslikeyou’re justgoing through themotions.”

I was about to defend it,but then I realized Graysonwasright.I’dbeenholdingontothesongoutofsomesense

of...what?Pride?Revenge?Hannah andDuncan togetherstillhurtme,butitwasreallyless about them and moreaboutwhatachumpIfeltlikethat it had happened rightundermynose.Thesonghadbeen theonly leverage Ihad,the final fuck you both fordoing this tome. But really?It was a card in a game Ididn’t even want to playanymore.

“So you don’t think weneedit?”

“No,butweneedTanner.Maybeweshouldgogethim.We could grab a pizza orsomething. Chill. All workandnoplay...”

“Soundsgood.”

“Hey, sexy, get in the car!”Grayson yelled. Tanner keptwalking, oblivious or out ofspite, I wasn’t sure. Then I

realized he had headphonesin. I beeped the horn.Grayson hung out the smallVW window and waved hisarms. T finally stopped andscowled as he pulled out hisearbuds.

“Dude, get in, we’reblockingtraffic.”

Ahornbeepedbehindus.Tanner stood still on thesidewalk.Ifinallyhadtopullup into a bus stop at the

corner.Graysongotoutofthecar and walked over to him.HegrabbedT’scasefromhishand and they both walkedback. Grayson slid into thebackseat with the bass, andTannerfloppedupfront.Stillnotlookingatme,butatleasthewasinthecar.Afewcarswent by until I was able topulloutintotraffic.

“Feel like getting somegrub?”

“No,”hesaid.“C’mon, you’re always

upforsomething.”He shook his head. We

droveafewblocksinsilence.“Maybe pizza,” T finally

said.“LeaningTower?”“Anywhere but there,”

Grayson chimed in from theback.

“Palermo’s,then?”We finally agreed on

something. Palermo’s wasopen 24/7 and it looked it.The place had a layer ofgrease over everything andthe jukebox only had songsfrom the eighties, but it hadthebest damnpizza this sideoftheHudson.Weorderedatthecounter and sat at a tablenear the back. Tanner rippedoff thepaperfromtheendofhis straw, then blew the restofitdirectlyintomyfacefor

abull’s-eyehit.“Okay, I deserve that.

You’re right, the song’s notready for the Whiskey. AndI’msorryIgaveittoDuncanwithout asking—I shouldhaverunitbyyou.”

“Why? I didn’t doanything for it.” Tannerpulled the hat off his headand shoved it in his coatpocket.

“T—”

“No,look,I’mnotsayingIdidn’twanttopunchyouforsaying that, but you’re right.SometimesIwonderwhyI’meven playing anymore—it’snot like it’s gonna get meanywhere.”

“Whosaysyouneedtogoanywhere with it?” Graysonasked.

“Whydoitatall?”Theorder-upbellrang.“I’llgetit.”Graywentup

tothecounterandcamebackwith the pizza. Tanner’squestion still unanswered onthetable.

“What if we suck nextSaturday?” Tanner pulledapart the paper plates andhandedmeone.

“Is that what this isabout?”Iasked.

“We’re not gonna suck,”Graysaid.

“Howdoyouknow?”

“Becausewe justworkedourassesoffforthepastthreeweeks and I think we soundprettydamngood.Arewethenext Nirvana? No, but whois?Andwhat’sthebigdealifwe suck anyway? At leastwe’re playing somewhere.You know why you’d neverheard of me before? StickyWicketcouldn’t evengetoutofthebasement.Sothis?Forme?Imayaswellbeplaying

the Beacon. It’s gonna befine.” Gray wolfed half hisslice, and looked fromme toTanner, waiting for areaction.

“If we’re gonna blow it,blowitbig,”Isaid.

Tannerlaughed.“What?”“Something I saw in

Deck’s office—you know,just go for it and if it sucks,sobeit.”

“Exactly—you know,

when I auditioned for youguys I hadno clue if I couldhandle this. Sometimes youjust have to throw yourselfintosomething.Ididn’tworryabout why you would orwouldn’tpickme.”

“That goofy-ass Muppetshirtdidnothelp,”Isaid.

“My Animal shirt? Dude—it’s old-school, what’s nottolike?”

“Just don’t wear it

Saturday.”Ibitintomypizza.“If we’re really

confessing—he picked youbecauseyouknowMadison.”

“T.”Grayson cocked an

eyebrow.“Really?”“No,” I said, taking a sip

of soda. “Okay, maybe. Didyou see the logo shedesigned?”

“You were my firstchoice,”Tannersaid.

“Who was mycompetition?”

“No one, we’re justmessingwithyou,”Isaid.

“Some dude who played‘TomSawyer.’”

“Damn, Neil Peart? Iwouldn’t have picked me,”Graysonsaid.

“He was a show-off,” Isaid.

“And he didn’t knowMadison,”Tanneradded.

“Tanner,quitit.”“Any girl you let make

you look like that you musthaveabonerfor.”

Grayson had to cover hismouthwhenhelaughed.

“Ilikeit,”Isaid.“I’ve seen more stylin’

merkins,Jess,comeon.”“Says the dude with the

ancienttobogganhat.”“What’s with that,

anyway?”Graysonasked.

Tanner shrugged. “Myluckyhat.That’sall.”

“So, Madison? She’scool. You should go for it,”Graysaid.

“We’re just friends. I’mfocusing on the Whiskey.Afterthatwe’llsee.”

THIRTEENMADISON

MOMHAD LEFTME AMESSAGETO MEET HER AT the yogastudio. Wren bailed becauseshe needed to study for amonster chem test. I plannedon getting to class before

everyoneelsesoIcouldgrabsome prime space up front.Theeight-blockwalktoyogahelpedclearmyhead,gotmyblood pumping. I stole aquick peek through theMugshot window to see ifJesse was working. He wasbehind the counter withTanner. A smile stretchedacross my face. Chai orMexican hot chocolatetonight?

I fully expected tobe thefirst one in the studio forclassbutwassurprisedtoseemymother in scorpion pose,being assisted by Leif. Hishand supported the small ofher back, lips moving withwords that sounded likehummingfromwhereIstood.Iwaited in thedoorwayuntilshe finally came out of thepose, one foot and then theother.Theyturnedtoseeme,

and my first instinct was tobolt—itfeltlikeI’dwalkedinon something private, butbothofthemsmiled.

“Mads, you’re hereearly.” Mom’s face wasflushed pink, her hair heldback with a tribal-printheadband.Shelookedradiant.Ten years younger. Leifsmiledatme.

“Ready for some heartopeners?”

“I,um,guessso.”Leif padded out to the

frontdesk.Mymotherwipeddownherfacewithatowel.Iunfoldedmy stickymat nextto her. “When you said tomeet you I just assumedyouwerestuckatwork.”

“Oh, no—there’s anadvanced class before thisone;IwantedtoseeifIcouldhandleit.”

“Oh.” For some reason,

hertakingaclasswithoutmebothered me. When she firststarted, she’d practicallybribedme to comewith her.It was cool she’d foundsomething to throw herselfinto, but at the same time itfelt like she was moving onfrom me. Why hadn’t sheaskedmetocome?

“You’re taking our usualclasstoo?”

“Leiftoldmethisisgoing

to bemore of a slow stretchtonight.Willyoucatchme ifItoppleover?”

I rememberedwhatWrensaid—howmymotherrockedmermaidpose.Ihadn’treallynoticed, until now. Yogawasn’t a competition; youweren’t supposed to compareyourself to anyone else, butMomexcelledatit.

“Youmadescorpionlookeasy.”

“Did I? My arms wereshaking, I thought I wasgoingtofloponmyhead.”

“Couldn’t see that fromwhereIwasstanding.”

Shetossedthetowelontoher mat, grabbed her waterbottle.“So if Iwas leadingaclass, I wouldn’t look out ofplace?”

Ishookmyhead.Friendlychatter filled the studio aspeople arrived for class. I

walked over to the propstation and grabbed a strapand a block, then sat downcross-leggedonmymat.

“Teacher training startsnextweek.”

“Wow,already?Ithoughtyouwere just thinking aboutit.”

“Why don’t we go nextdoor after class, hang outinstead of getting our drinksto go. Catch up, sound

good?”“Sure.”

Seeing Jesse, his dark hairsticking out of his baseballcap,made a grin that startedsomewhere inmy toes breakout across my face. It couldhave been wishful thinking,butIswearhissmilewidenedever so slightly too when hesawme.

“Hey, I have something

for you.” Tanner pointed atme and disappeared into theback room. I furrowed mybrow at Jesse while he rangus up. Tanner came backholdingalightyellowT-shirt.He fanned it out over thecounter.

“The logo, wow.” Icouldn’t say anything else—my work right there on theshirt. It was such an oddfeeling to have something

that had existed in my brainonaT-shirtfortherestoftheworldtosee.IknewJesshadsaidtheyweregoingtouseitfor promotional stuff, but Ididn’t think hemeant this. Itwasprettycool.

“That looks great.” Mymother ran ahandacross thelogo.“Areyousellingthese?”

“Not sure yet, we mightjust give them out—get ourname out there,” Jesse said.

“You can take a few if youwant.”

“Really?”“Consider it an early

birthday present,” Tannersaid.

“Not too far off.” Mymother picked up the shirtandhummedwithapproval.

“It’s your birthday?”Jesseasked.

I flinchedat thequestion.“No—”

“Maddie’s, in twoweeks,”mymothersaid.“Doyouhave an extra small? I’llbuyone.”

“No, really, you don’tneed to pay. T, give them afewbeforetheygo.We’llgetthose drinks to you in aminute.” Jesse peered behindusatthegrowingline.

I grabbed my motherbeforesheshoutedoutmybrasize and Social Security

number too. I had a thingabout birthdays—I mean,theywerefineandall,butforsome reason they left mefeeling a little down—like Iwas always anticipatingsomething bigger to happen.Wefoundatablefortwooverto the side, right under theneonMugshotsign.

Five minutes later, Jesseplaced two wide-mouthedcups in front of us.

Chamomile formymomandMexican hot chocolate forme.Therewasaflowershapein the foam. I smiled as hewentbackbehindthecounter.

Mom took a cautious sipofherhottea.

“So,”shesaid,placingthecup back on the saucer andleaningtowardme.

“You start training nextweek.”

“Yes, it’s a six-month

program—the most intenseparts are on theweekend, sothere’llbeat leastaweekendamonth that I’llbeoutmorethan I’m home. You’re okaywiththat,right?”

“Yes.Didyouhavetohitup my summer programfund?”

She played with herbangs, running her fingersthrough and swiping them tothe side. “No, I told you I’d

nevertouchthat.Paulsharinghalf the expenses has reallyhelped. That’s part ofwhat Iwanted to talk to you about.Areyoustill interestedinthesummerprogramatPratt?”

“I’m,well . . .”PrattwasaboutthreetimesthepriceofNJDI; I was interested, butPaul living with us couldn’thavefreedupthatmuchcash.“I’m fine with the DesignInstitute. I think I have a

really good shot at ascholarship.”

“But you don’t need itnow,IspoketoPaul—”

“Mom, I wish youhadn’t.”

“Hewantstohelp.”“I don’t want his help,

okay, not for this, it feelsweird. Like—” I didn’twanttosaywhatIwasthinking.

“Likewhat?”“Liketheonlyreasonyou

decidedtosaysomethingwasbecause we were a littlestrappedforcash.”

Shecringedatthewords.“Is that really what you

think?”“No.It’sjustalottotake

in, like I’m magicallysupposedtothinkofPaulinadifferent way, and I’mforcing it. I keep expectingsomethingtochange,tomakemethinkofhimas...”Iwas

suddenly aware of the crowdat Mugshot, the noise—thisseemed like too heavy aconversationtohavewithhotchocolate.

Mymothertookmyhand.“Mads, he feels the sameway. Helping you pay forschool feels like somethingconcretethathecando.”

“Iguess.”“Just think about it, I

won’tpushit.”

Pratt. Damn. I rememberdrooling over the programdescription. The challengingclasses.Living inNewYork.Atasteofwhatlifewouldbelikeincollege.ThenIsawtheprice tag. Yee-ouch. Toosteep. But the experience.Woulditreallybesoawfultoaccept some personalfunding?

“How is everything?”Jessecameovertothetable,a

smallMugshot shopping baginhishand.

“Excellentasever.”“Here’s the shirts,” he

said.He stood there between

us, smiling—waiting, itseemed, for something to doso he could linger. I liked it.Hefinallyspoke.

“Hey, are you coming toseeusSaturdaynight?”

I took a sip of hot

chocolate, my mother’s eyesonmetoo.I feltaslightstabof guilt for not thinking ofZachinthisequation.It’snotlike I’d never done thingswithout him before but thatword, those three freakingwords, suddenly made mefeeltieddown.AndIhatedit.Of course I was going toWhiskey Business, alreadythought aboutwhat I’dwear,but with each second that

passed I felt a little rush ofpower.Jessewantedmetobethere.Iputmycupdown.

“Can’twait.”

“Jazzy,hold still.”Onemoreswipe of liquid liner, somemascara, and she was done.I’d picked an eye-shadowcombo of golds and greensthatmadeherdarkeyesstandout. The effect wasmysteriousstranger.Rawr.

“Let’ssee,”Wrensaid.Jazzbattedherlashes.“Wow.”She walked over to my

vanitymirror to takeacloserlook.

“You don’t think this istoomuch? It’s itchy.What ifI forget I’m wearing it andrub my eye? I’ll look likesomeonepunchedme.”

“For a run? Yes, toomuch. For a dark club on a

first date with a runningpartneryouthinkishot?No.”I dabbed some sparkly glossontomylips.Done.

“It’s not really a date—it’sa let’s-meet-therekindofthing. When he heard Graywas playing, he said he’dbringa fewfriends too.So, Idon’tknow.”

“What friends? Lax teamguys?”Wrenasked.

Jazz shrugged. “Hey,

what about Zach, is hemeetingusthere?”

“Nope.” Zach had textedme throughout the day. Hisindoorleaguegamehadbeencanceledandhewasprowlingforsomethingtodo.Iwastoopumped for a night out withmy friends. It soundedmeanand I knew it, but ignoringwas not the same as lying,right? I couldn’t handle thelovequestiontonight.

“Gray texted. They’returning the corner now.”Wren shoved her phone intothefrontpocketof theteeny-tiny skirt she’d purchasedduring our Sadie Hawkinsspree. She wore over-the-kneeboots,soonlyasliverofskin showed. It was not herusual look, but all thosemonthsofyogahadgivenherthe sort of curves guysdrooledover, and she rocked

it. Ihadcut thecollaroff theYellow#5T-shirt,soithungopenoverablackcami,andIpaired it with denim cutoffsand black studded boots. Noone would question us aboutbeingovereighteen.

Wegrabbedourcoatsandthundered down the stairs.Mom and Paul were in thelivingroom.

“Wow,” Paul said as wemet him at the landing. He

pulledouthisphone.“Letmegetapicture.”

“Paul, it’s not prom.” Ilaughed. My mom walkedover and stood next to him,armscrossed.IfIdidn’tknowbetter, if I was just somestranger looking in on thescene, I would think theymade a nice-looking couple.They looked like parents,abouttoseetheirkidsoffforthenight.WhichIguessthey

were,butnotreally.“C’mon,” Wren said,

pulling us together. Wemugged for the camera untilwe heard footsteps on theporch. Jesse peered throughthewindow.

“Allright,gottarun.”“Time,Mads.”“Beforemidnight?”“Soundsfair.Havefun.”“Not so much fun that I

have to bail you out,” Paul

said.MymotherelbowedhimasIclosedthedoor.

Jessesmiledwhenhesawme.

“Hey, look, I’mrepresenting.” I gave him aquickpeekoftheshirtbeforeclosingmyjacket.

“Cool.”“Nervous?”“It’sthatobvious?”There

were twocars in frontofmyhouse;well, onecar—Gray’s

POS-mobile, and a monsterSurburban.IknewwhichoneI’dbetravelingin.

Grayson stood near theSuburban, one arm casuallyslung around Wren’sshoulder. Jazzwaitednext tothem, peeking in the SUVand probably doing themathonwhichcarshe’dendupinherself. The side door wasopen, and Tanner sat on theedge, elbows on knees, chin

propped up by both hands.Gray reached into his jacketpocketandpulledawayfromWrenforamoment.

“Here, lovelies,” he said,holdingout threecardstous.Hetookthefirstoneandhelditunderthestreetlight.

“YouareKenzieRenegartonight, Mads,” he said,handingme the ID. It lookedlike an authentic driver’slicense with my picture.

There was a hologram andeverything. I didn’t want toknowwherehegotit.

“Jazzy, you are DiaraJones.And last butnot least,WrenisOliviaGreen.”

“So what CW cast werethese names stolen from?” Iasked.

Gray laughed. “I didn’trequest names. They shouldbe fine—lie low with them,youknow,don’tcallattention

to yourself. You probablywon’t be carded—just thinkofthemasinsurance.”

“Walk in with us, carrysomething, no one will stopyou,”Jesseadded.

“Are we going or not?”Tannerstoodupandclimbedintothemiddleseat.

“Shotgun.” I grabbedJesse’sarm.“Ifthat’sokay.”

“Yeah,it’sgreat.”Jazz looked at Wren and

Gray.“Doyouhaveroom?”“Half the backseat is

yours if you want it,”Graysonsaid.

“All right, so we’ll meetthere—you know where itis?” Jesse opened the frontdoorandheldouthishandtome.

“Yep, see ya in twenty.”Grayson, Wren, and Jazzwalkedbacktothecar.

I took Jesse’s hand for

support and climbed into thefrontseat.

“I’mstokedyou’rehere,”he said, before closing thedoor.

“Metoo.”

We pulled into thecobblestonebackalleybehindWhiskey Business and theguys began to unload theequipment. Wren grabbed acymbal. Jazz and I grabbed

micstandsandwewalked infollowing Jesse’s lead. Theguyholdingthedooropenforus didn’t say anything butcopped an eyeful aswe eachwalkedby.Wewerein.

“Graba table,wegot therest of this,” Jess said afterwe deposited the equipmentonthestage,endingourshortstint as Yellow #5 roadies.Theguywho’dbeenholdingthedoorcameovertous.On

closerinspection,hewasabitof a fox.Midtwenties, blondhair,yellowshirtwithaYoo-hoo logo on the front. Itstretched taut across a subtlybuff chest. Strong arms. Uh-oh.Momentof truth,Kenzie.Thinkeighteen.

“Holdoutyourwrist,”hesaid.Wrenwasthefirsttoputher arm out, and the guywrapped a purple bandaroundherwrist.Followedby

Jazz,thenme.“Eighteen, right?” He

smiledashesecuredthetab.“Yep.” I had the feeling

he knew the truth and didn’tcare.

“WhatcanIgetya?Onceit starts filling up, tableservicestops,butanythingfornow?”

We ordered a round ofCokes. Whiskey Businesswas the sort of club I’d

dreamed about hanging outin.It’slikeyoucouldfeeltheghosts of nights-out past stillechoing through thespace.Acrackleofanticipationwasinthe air—the emptiness justwaitingforanotherincrediblenighttohappen.

“This is going to beawesome,”Ideclared.

“What ifwe are the onlythreehere?”Wrenasked.Welooked around at the empty

space. I thought about whatFoxyYoo-hooDudesaid.

“Nah, it’s early, it’ll fillup,”Isaid.AtleastIhopeditwould,forJesse’ssake.

An hour later, WhiskeyBusinesswaspackedsothickwecouldn’t see thebar fromour table anymore. Jesse,Grayson, and Tanner werestill inback,buta tallguyina leather kilt came out every

so often to announce whenthey’d be on. We still hadfifteenminutes. Jazz’s phonewentoff.

She swiped for hermessages.“He’shere.”

Jazz waved her phoneover the sea of heads.Loganbroke through the crowd,followed by Luke Dobsonand another guywith shaggyhair.Theyeachhadabeerintheir hand. Guess they knew

thesameguyGraysondid.Okay? Jazz mouthed to

Wren. Gray’s old friendsweren’texactly friends.Theywere more like frenemiesfrom a past life. Wrenshrugged.

Grayson came out fromthe back and edged his waythrough the crowd on thedance floor. The moment helaideyesonLogan,Luke,andthe shaggy blond dude, he

crackedasmile.“Andy, what are you

doinghere?”Heclappedhimontheshoulder.

“Heardyouwereplaying.Thoughtwe’dcheckitout.”

“Cool.” Gray looked atme.“MindifIstealWren?”

“Haven’tyoualready?”He laughed.Wrengot up

and took his hand, ignoringtheguys.“Berightback.”

Andy and Luke drifted

into the crowd. Logangrabbed Wren’s chair andmoved it toward Jazz. Theyleanedintoeachother.Itookout my phone just so I hadsomething to occupy myselfwhile they chatted. Threetexts fromZach.Gah. I shutdown the screen withoutreading them. When it wasobvious thatWren’sBerightback was more likeBe backnever, Iexcusedmyself from

Jazz and Logan’s first date.No fuckingwaywas I goingtobethirdwheel.

“I’mgoingtofindWren,”I said. Jazz nodded. I inchedinto the crowd, shoulderingandshufflingandpushingmyway through, until I spottedWren, up front, stage left,arms crossed andwaiting forthe show to start. I bumpedher.

“Berightback?”

“Sorry—Gray’s nervousabout tonight. Him, nervous.Heneededapeptalk.”

“Is that code word forsomethingelse?”

She smiled. “I knewyou’d find your way overhere.IsJazzokay?”

“Yep.So far, first date islookingfine.”

The guy with the leatherkilt and black motorcycleboots strode onto the stage

followed by Gray, Tanner,and Jesse—who lookedmoreliketheywereontheirwaytodetention than leading thecrowdinagoodtime.Tannerappearedparticularlyfreaked,hiseyesblank,thenGraysaidsomething to him and helaughed. The room waselectric, ready to party, but Ihad the feeling it was noteasily impressed, or maybenotdrunkenough.

Wren squeezed my arm.“Oh, god, they have to begood,right?”

“Ofcourse,they’regonnakillit,”Isaid.

Jess lost his queasy lookoncehepulledhisguitarstrapover his head. His featuressharpened under the bluestagelightingashestrummedalittleandsteppedonapedalby themic stand.He stoodalittle taller, sussing out the

crowd until he saw me. Hesmiled, but it wasn’t thatsweet, trustworthy smile. Itwas somewhere between asneer and a smile that saidI’m about to throw it down,wanna come? That smiletorchedmyinsides.

“Hey, hey, what’s up,Whiskey Business?! Give itupforabandyou’llbeseeingmoreof if Ihaveanything todowithit...YellowNumber

Five.” Leather kilt guy liftedhis arms up and the crowdwentinsane.

Jesse turned around andstalkeduptothemic.

“S’up,Ho...bo...ken.. .” he said, before launchingthe band into an ArcticMonkeyssong.Ikeptbracingmyself for some screw-up, asour note, some weirdmisstep, but they wereawesome.

Jesse commanded thestage, legs straight andslightly apart. He held theguitar with a kind of lazycontrol that made him looklikehemighthavehadbetterplacestobebutwaschoosingto hang out with us for awhile. Broody Barista wasnowhere to be seen as hewrithed to the music, eyesrollingupintohisheadwhenhe sang, mouth barely

caressing the mic with eachword.His presence filled theroom.

“Omigod, they’re good!”Wrenshriekedintomyear.

Grayson was sick behindthe drums, precise and fast,his hair flipping aroundwithhiseffort.EvenTannermadethatstupidhatlookcool.

Jesse picked me outagain.Hiseyesonmine,Ifeltlikehewassharingsomepart

of himself that could onlycomeout in thedark.That itwas just the two of us. Imoved with the music, hismusic. Anytime he lookedaway,Ihadtheurgetothrowmyself intohis lineofvisionagain.

The crowd grew thicker,swelling,pushingusclosertothestage.Peoplethrashedandpogoedandknockedintooneanother around us. I looked

behind me, and between thebobbingsilhouettesIcaughtaflash of Jazz and Logan,standing near the back andmovingalongwiththecrowd.AndIcaughtaglimpseof...Zach? Shit. He stood by thewall, stock-still, a statue inthemidst of pandemonium. Iwasn’tsureifhesawme.

Someone knocked intoWren and me, sending asprayofcoldliquidacrossus.

We both screamed from thechill and turned around. Theburlyguyheldhishandsup.

“Sorry, sorry.” He gaveus each a once-over andleered.“Hey.”

A hand clamped on hisshoulder and spun himaround.

The guy in the leatherkilt.

“Watch it,” he said inLeering Guy’s face. For

someone in a skirt, he wasprettythreatening.Heshovedthe guy back into the crowd.“Areyouokay?”

Wren nodded. Zachworked his way through thecrowd toward us.All I knewwas that I couldn’t stand upfrontwithhim.Howlonghadhebeenhere?God,didheseeJesse looking atme, becauseif he did, if he saw me . . .snagged.

“Zach’s here,” Iwhisper-yelled into Wren’s ear. Sheraised her eyebrows. Iwriggledoverandmethiminthecrowdhalfway.

“Didyougethurt?”“No, I’m fine.” I

motioned toward the back ofthe room, covering my noseas I walked through a cloudof rank sweat and cologne.He grabbed my hand andsnaked us through. Once we

werepastthemassofbodies,the air was cooler. I swear IcouldfeelJesse’seyesonme.The crowd went wild as heplayed the first chords of“Aneurysm.” I had to forcemyself to look disinterested.We found an empty spaceneartheedgeofthebar.

“Niceshirt,”Zachsaid.I squirmed.Whyhadn’t I

justansweredhistexts?“Zach.”

“That’s the guy from thecoffeeplace,isn’tit?”

“We’refriends,Zach,youknowthat.”

“Friends like we’refriends?”

“No.”Icrossedmyarms.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”

He tilted his chin towardthe stage. “He toldme aboutit,remember?Myscrimmagewascanceled andKyle and Iwere looking for something

to do, but you would haveknown that if you answeredyour phone. I don’t get it,Madison,whydidn’tyoujustcallme?”

Mythroatconstricted,theairthickandhotaroundme.

“Whydon’twegetoutofhere?”heasked.

“No, they just went on.Let’sstay.”

“I don’t want to. Kyle’shaving trouble finding a

parking spot anyway; I thinkwe’re going to head backhome,hitthediner.”

“Okay,youdothat.”Heflinched.“Fine.”Hebrushedbyme

and wove through the barcrowd toward the front door.I squeezed my eyes shut.Counted to ten. He wantedme to follow him. Maybe itwould all just go away, andwewouldn’thavetohavethat

conversation. The one I’dbeen putting off since SadieHawkins. I wanted to be infront of the stage again.When I opened my eyes,Zachhadreturned.

“Can we talk, out front?Please.”

I relented and followedhim through the bar. FoxyYoo-hoo Guy was sitting atthe entrance and nodded aswewalkedout.Wecontinued

outontothestreet,movingtothesideofWhiskeyBusinessso people could get in. Theecho of the band stillhummedinmyears.Icrossedmy arms against the cold.Zachpacedinfrontofme.

“Does it make you feelgood to ignore me orsomething?”

“No.”“Thenwhydoyoudoit?”“Idon’t—”

“Yes you fucking do,Madison.When we’re alone,everything’s perfect, but theminute we go out, or talkabout doing something—otherthaneachother,Iguess—you get all weird about it.HaveyoueventhoughtaboutwhatIsaidtoyou?”

Somepassinggirlswho’dheard what he said burst outlaughing. My mouth wentdry. “Please don’t talk about

thishere.Now.”“Why? Am I

embarrassing you? Is that it?Am I such a fuckingembarrassment that you candraw me in your littlesketchbook but you can’treallybewithme?”

“Enough.”Icouldfeelthepressure building. Thosewordsagain,waitingtocomeout.WasIreadytosaythem?WhywasIholdingontothis?

Whatever it was? Becausesometimesitwasbetter tobewithhimthantobealone?I’dnever be able to say to himwhathe’dsaidtome.

“Why didn’t you answermytextstoday?”

“Because I don’t wantyouhere!”Thewordssprangout of my mouth and rightinto his face.The anger he’dbeen directing at medissolved. His face softened.

His eyes.Hell, I had to lookaway.“I’msorry.”

He stood next to me andleanedagainst thewindowoftheclub.Shouldersdroopedabit, hands in pockets. “Don’tbe,atleastIknowthetruth.”

“Zach—”“Maddie, just shut up,

okay?Shutup.”We stood like that for a

fewminutes, the streetsalivewith Saturday-night bar

crawlers. A bacheloretteparty, the bride with a sashand a tiara, stumbled intoWhiskeyBusinessasacoupleof guys wandered out. Notjustanyguys.

“Logan?”Isaid.Hespunaroundwhilehis

friends kept walking,oblivious.“Yeah?”

ItwasthefirsttimeIgotareally good look at him. Hewas cute—longish hair and

an almost imperceptible chincleft that made his faceinteresting.

“Where’sJazz?”“She’sinside.”“Areyouleaving?”He looked toward Luke

and Andy, who finallyrealized hewasn’twith themandstopped.“Wegot invitedtothispartyinabrownstone.Shedidn’tfeellikecoming.”

I wanted to tell him how

nervous she’d been to askhim out for tonight. Howfuckinglitupshe’dbeenafterfooling around with him inthe hallway at the dance.Why would he leave, if heknewhowimportantitwastoher? But who was I to giveanyoneadvice?Hewaitedfora moment, then turned andcaughtupwithhisfriends.

“Hey,Zach.”Kyletrottedtoward us from the curb

where his car was double-parked. “I can’t find afucking spot and I’m notpayingtwenty-fivedollarsfora parking garage so we canhang out for an hour. Hey,Madison.” He acknowledgedme with a nod—a nod thatsaid he knew exactly whatwasgoingon.

“I’llbe right there,”Zachsaid.Kylejoggedbacktohiscar.Zachturnedtome.

“So,thisisit,Iguess.”“Zach, I’m sorry, I just

wanted to hang with Wrenand Jazz. I shouldn’t haveignoredyou.”

“It’s more than that,Madison,andyouknowit.”

“You don’t have to go,really.”

“Yeah, I do.” He startedwalking away, then turnedback. “I meant what I saidthat night. It’s really sort of

fuckedupthatyoucan’teven...”

“You can’t force me tosaysomethingIdon’tfeel.”

“Therushfromthisguyisgoingtowearofftoo.”

“Thisisnotaboutaguy.”“Sure it is. I see theway

youlookateachother.”“Zach.”HowdidIlookat

Jesse?“Just, good luck. Maybe

you’ll let him in, Madison.”

Heturnedaway thenandgotinto the car without lookingback. Maybe you’ll let himin?What did he evenmean?It was the most interestingthing he’d said to me in ourfive months together. Iwatched the car head downWashington Street until Icouldn’t see it anymore. Hereallywasn’tcomingback.

Ifelt likeIshouldcry,oryell, or something. Why

would he just say that andleave?

“Kenzie.”I kicked the sidewalk,

tookafewdeepbreaths.HowmuchofthesethadImissed?

“Kenzie,” a voice saidagain.

I turned around. FoxyYoo-hooGuysmiledatme.

“Yourfriendsare lookingforyou,”hesaid.

“Oh, um, right.” Kenzie.

I’mKenzie.Wait,howdidheknow?

Iwalkedbackintothebarand was surrounded by criesof,Kenzie!

Everyone. Was. Saying.My.Name.

Or my faux name.Clapping.Chanting.

“Ken-Zie,Ken-Zie.”“Givemeahandwishing

my friend Kenzie a happybirthday.”

It was Jesse. Leading thecrowd in “Happy Birthday,”tome.

FOURTEENJESSE

EVEN AS THE LAST CHORDS OFTHESONGECHOED through thebar, I knew I’dmade a hugemistake. IcouldseeMadisonclearly, out near the front,looking like she’d rather be

anywhere else. I thoughtshe’dlikeit,kindofathank-you for all she’d done in thepast two weeks, but halfwaythrough “Happy Birthday,”when she wasn’t evensmiling,myguttoldme,Jess,youjustblewitbig.

WeleftthestageasDeckwentbackonandannouncedthe band for the nexteighteen-and-over date. Thedancefloorhadclearedouta

bit,butwasstillthickenoughthat I had to push my waythrough. Gray and Tannerdisappeared into the crowd.Someonetuggedonthecollarofmyjacket;agirlwavedmeovertoherandherfriends.

“You guys were soooooawesome!”

“Thanks.”Inoddedatthefour of them, hoping theydidn’texpectmetosaymuchmore than that, because I

could barely hear my ownthoughtsover the techno thatwas now blaring through thespeakers.

“You guys want to hangout?”sheasked.

“We’re, um, kind ofhanging out anyway, herewithsomefriends.”

“Will you guys be backhere to play again?” anothergirlasked.

I shrugged. “Not sure,

hopeso.”They let out an

enthusiastic “Woo-hoo!” andhigh-fived. I didn’t knowwhat to do. We’d never hadfans who were strangersbefore.

“Is the guy in the hatseeinganyone?”

“Ha,Tanner?”Ishookmyhead.

Thegirlwho’dwavedmeover tugged on my collar

again and brought hermouthtomyear.

“I think you’re hot. Textmewhenyouplayherenext,”she said, shoving somethinginto my hand. It was anapkin.Withhernumber.

“Cool.” I tucked it intomypocket.“Seeya.”

“Seeya”?You’vegotthisguitar-god thing down great,Jess.

I found Madison, Wren,

andGraysonbythebar.Madison had her arms

crossed, a different personfrom the beginning of thenight. She looked bummed,alltheexcitementdrainedoutofher.Zachwasn’taround.Ishouldn’t have felt happyaboutthat,butIdid.

“Sodidyouhateit?”“Oh,what, you?No, you

guys were great. ‘HappyBirthday’? I just hate being

the center of attention forsomethingsocorny.IknowIprobably don’t give off thatvibe,but,yeahthat’sme.”

“Ah,I’llfilethatawayforfuturereference.”

A hatless Tanner poppedupbehindGraysonandWren.

“Have any of you seenDiara?”

“You mean Jazz?”Madisonsaid.

“Oh, I kind of like the

fakenamething.”“Isn’t she with Logan?”

Wrenasked.“No, I saw him leave

about half an hour ago. Ihaven’t seen her since then.”Madison’s brow pinched andshe looked at Wren. “Ithoughtshewaswithyou.”

“She was with me untilfive minutes ago and . . .”Tanner leaned in likehewasgoing to say something but

putouthispinkie and thumband tipped themback towardhismouthtomimedrinking.

“No,” we all saidtogether.

“Yeah,hadtostepoutsidefor some air; we came backin, I told her I’d grab her awater and now I can’t findher.”

“Maybe she’s in thebathroom.” Wren grabbedMadison’shandandbeganto

walk away. Then a sirensounded,aredlightpulsedonthe far wall, and peopleclimbed up onto the bar todance. Everyone wasclapping and laughing, eventhebartender,soitmusthavebeen a regular thing atWhiskeyBusiness.

“Ho-leeey shit. Foundher.” We followed Tanner’sgaze across the room to theend of the bar. There was

Diara/Jazz, standing on topand wearing Tanner’sridonkulous hat. She heldhandswithagirlwhoworeasparkly crown and a veil.They waved their arms upover their heads as theyswung their hips side to sidealongtothemusic.

“Omigod, she’s reallyintoit,”Wrensaid,laughing.

Tanner cupped his handaroundhismouthandyelled,

“Di-ar-a!Woo!”We watched until the

song was over and the redlight dimmed. Everyoneclimbed down from the bar.Jazz bounded over to us, thepom-pom on the top of thehatwigglingasshemadeherway through thecrowd.“Didyouseeme?”

“Jazzabelle is out toplay,”Madison said, tuggingonthehatstrings.Jazz’seyes

widened.“Hey, this girl wants to

meet you.” She grabbedTanner’shandandpulledhimalong. His face twisted withconfusion but he laughed astheysliced theirway throughthechaos.

“Guess that is his luckyhat,”Isaid.

“Jess,” someone said,putting a hand on myshoulder. My parents. I’d

almost forgotten they werehere.

“We’reheadingout.Needany help loading up?” Dadasked.

“Nah,we’recool.”Mom clung to his arm, a

big grin on her face as shetook in the atmosphere. Hereyes landed on Madison’sshirt, then she lookedbetween the two of us andsmiled.

“Are you the Madisonwhodesignedthelogo?”

Madisonloweredhereyesandlaughed.“Guilty.”

“Loveit,andJesse’shair,too.”

Did she have to mentionthehair?

“Thanks.”“Make sure you settle

things with Deck. He waslooking for you. See you athome.” They waved as they

made their way to the frontandoutofthebar.

“Dude,maybewe shouldgo break down, beforeDiarastarts dancing on the baragain.Idon’tfeellikehavinganyonequestionheraboutherID. Know what I mean?”Graysonsaid.

Once the Suburban wasloaded, we went back insidetoDeclan’soffice.

“There you are,” Deck

said, takingoutbrightorangeearplugs as he pushed awayfrom the desk on his rollingchair. “Once that techno shitstarts playing I have to putthesein.Gottadowhatbrings’emin,though.”

It was the first time he’dsaid anything that remindedme that he was my parents’age.“Yeah.”

“Yellow Number Five.”He stood up and handed me

thecash.Iflippedthroughthebills—tensandtwenties—andcountedtwohundred.

“There’s toomuch here,”Isaid,handinghimbacktwotwenties.Hehelduphishand.

“We did great tonight,consider it a bonus. Are youguysupforadateinMay?”

“Hellyeah,”Isaid.“Cool, I’ll put you down

—secondweek.Hey,didyoueverseethis?”

He waved us over to thewall of pictures. Gray and Istood before it, scanning thephotos.

“Recognizeanyone?”“That’s Dad,” I said,

pointingtotheirbandpicture.The five of them stood invariousposes,leaningagainsta brick wall. My father wasshirtlessunderadenimjacketandtightblackpants.I’dseenpics from his band days, but

not this one.Hewas so thin,and looked bored, but in adetermined way—if I didn’tknow him I would haveassumed he was prettybadass.

“Is that, wait—” GraypointedatapictureofDeclanwith his arm around a girl.She had long hair and wasleaningback,laughing.

“Whoa.” I laughed andinspected the picture again. I

knew my mother had hungout with Backtalk, she andmy dad talked about it fromtime to time, but I’d neverseen pics of her. EspeciallywithDeclan.

“You know she used tosing backup when she wasbored.”

“Mymother.Sing?”“Yeah, she had a sweet

voice, too. Never wanted todo more than that. She was

too practical.” Declan staredat the picture in a way thatmade me wonder how closethey actually had been. No.Fucking.Way.

“Well,um,we’reheadingout.”

“SeeyouinMay.”In the hallway, I handed

Grayhisshareofthetake.Hepaused a moment andcountedit.

“It’sallthere,”Isaid.

“Oh, yeah dude, I know.Never been paid to play.Feelskindofsweet.”

In all the excitement, thenerves, the desire to get itright, I’d forgottenabout thatfeeling. He was right. It didfeel pretty sweet to get paidfor something that I loved todo.

“Itdoes.Doesn’tit?”

We unloaded at my house

first, then hit the Starlitediner,whichwas socrowdedthey didn’t have a spot forsix. We had to split up intotwo booths across from eachother.MeandTononeside,Jazz and Madison on theother in a booth for four,while Wren and Gray sat inthe booth for two near thewindow. Even though theysat across from each other,they were one unit, legs

entwined, hands claspedacross the table, as they readthrough themenu.Therewasfamiliarity there. Closeness.Comfort. I felt my wrist, aphantom buzz from themissinginfinityband.

Madison already had hermenu closed.When our eyesmet,shelookedaway.God,IwouldhavegivenanythingtorelivethatmomentonstageatWhiskey Business. The way

it felt tohaveher lookatmelike that, like she couldn’tlook away.Here in the dinerwith thebright lightsand theclanking of dishes andlaughter,Ifelttooexposedtojuststareather.Howcouldithave felt like we shared asecretinacrowdedroom,buthere we couldn’t hold eyecontact for longer thana fewseconds?Shefiddledwiththepaper ring around her

silverware.Afterweplacedourorder,

Jazzputherarmsonthetableand her head down. Shelooked content in Tanner’shat.

“So how much did youhave to drink, Diara?”Madisonasked.

Jazz sat up. “Only twoitty-bittybeaker...no,wait,test-tube thingies of somereally sweet-tasting blue

stuff.I’mstilla littlebuzzed,butI’llbefineafterIeat.Thegirl in the tiara—the onegetting married—just handedthemoutfromthislittlerack.I was talking to her aboutLogan, and she told me tolightenupandlivealittle.”

“Wait, what aboutLogan?”Wrenasked.

Jazz waved her hand. “I.Don’t. Want. To. Talk.About.It.”

“Diara has spoken,”Tanner said. Jazz convulsedwithlaughter.

“Ugh, don’t make melaugh.”

The waitress came backwithourorder.Twoplatesofdiscofriesand rye toastwithjam. Madison had a hotchocolatewithamountainofwhippedcream.

“Check out this shoddybaristawork.Amateurs.”She

took a spoonful of whippedcream from the top. Ilaughed.

Tanner grabbed his plateofdiscofriesanddugin.Jazzwrinkledhernose.

“Those look like astomachache waiting tohappen.”

“Nah, these are the best.What’swiththeryetoastandtea?Arewedroppingyouoffat the nursing home after

this?”Jazz laughed. “Training,

Tanner. That plate of greasewould probably take meabout twenty laps around theparktoburnoff.”

“Food of the gods,Jasmine. Live a little.” Heheld out a forkful of friesdripping with gravy andcheesetoher.

“You know my realname.”

“Yep,liketherice.”Jazz snorted, putting her

handuptohermouth.Tannerwavedtheforkatheragain.

“Suits you better thanDiara.Goingonce...”

She took the fork out ofhishandandnibbledatthetipof a fry before scarfing therestofit.

“Mmmm . . . this is . . .Noway.”

“See,toldyou.”

Madison arched aneyebrow at their exchange,thenlookedatme.

“Stranger things,” shesaid.

Itouchedmyfingertipstohers, across the table. Shedidn’tsnatchthemaway.Hereyesmetmineagain.Shehadsmudged dark eyeliner onthat made her eyes look sodamn blue it was like theywere lit from within. I kept

waiting for her to glanceaway,butshedidn’t.

“What happened withZach?”Iasked.

“Yousawthat?”“Well, no. He was there

andnowhe’snot.”“We broke up,” she said,

sliding her fingertips overmine. We weren’t exactlyholding hands, but it wassomething. Her touch madeevery cell in my body buzz.

Don’tsmile.Don’tsmile.Mymouth betrayed me. Shepursed her lips to the side,fighting a smile, and lookedaway.

“I’mgoing tomake it uptoyou—thebirthdaything,”Isaid.

“You don’t have to,” shesaid.

“Yes.YesIdo.”Shetappedherfingerson

mine.“I’dlikethat.”

FIFTEENMADISON

“MADISON, THESE PHOTOS AREPERFECT.”PIPERstoodoverourproposed Sadie Hawkinslayout, a rare grin across herface. “I love this one, it’ssuchastandout.”

She pointed at the photoof the balloons, the onewiththewordchoice. I’d edited itsothewordstoodout,andtheway the shotwas angled, theballoons looked otherworldlyin the background. I’d put inamixofphotosinthelayout,some student candid shots,the band, and some moreesotericshots.Ialsosnuckinthe one of me, Wren, andJazz, hoping Piper would be

okaywith it. Shewasn’t oneof those “Let’s make theyearbook photos about theyearbookstaff”people.

“Thanks,Ithinksotoo.”“I thought these pages

would be a throwaway, butit’soneofmyfavoritelayoutsin the book so far. Thispicturemightbeabitmuch,”she said, pointing at the oneI’d beenworried about. “ButmaybeI’llletitslide.”

She moved on down tothe next group of staffers.Wrenwasbusyonherlaptop,workingonsomecopyforthepage on the fall fund-raisingwalk.

“Hey,Iforgottosendyousomething.” I attached thepicture of her and Graysonfrom the dance to an emailand hit send. I’d croppedJesse out of her photo butkepttheoriginalintact.Every

so often I pulled it up andstudied it, imagining whathe’d been witnessing whenthe photo was taken. I wasdyingtoaskhimaboutit,butthe other night at the dinerdidn’t really seem like theproper place. I’d noticed hewasn’t wearing that infinitybracelet he used to wear—maybe that had something todo with it?My stomach stillturned to jelly whenever I

thought of our fingertipstouching.

Wren gasped. “Mads, Ilovethispicture.Ididn’tevenrealize you took it! I’mmaking it the wallpaper onmyphone.”JazzpeekedoveratWren’slaptopandsmiled.

“Yes, too bad I didn’thaveacameratheothernight.You can see a lot through acamera, like things peopledon’t want to tell you.” Jazz

glanced away when I saidthis, busying herself withmoretyping.

Wren and I had dishedour versions of Saturdaynightviatextallweekendandeverydaysince,butJazzhadremained quiet throughout.Andreally,outofthethreeofus, she hands-down had tohave the most differentversionofthenight.Themostshe’dsaidwasthatshedidn’t

wanttotalkaboutit.Wewereclose to wearing her down,though.

“It can’t be that bad,”Wrenwhispered,leaningin.

Jazz chewed her bottomlip and moved closer to us,sliding her laptop along tocreate a barrier, under theguise of doing work. Sheduckedbehinditandspoke.

“Nothing happened,okay? That’s the

embarrassingthing.”“Why did Logan just

leave?”Wrenasked.“And were you really

cool with it? That’s what hetoldmeoutside,”Isaid.

She pressed her lipstogether, maybe trying tokeep the story in still, butfinally relaxed. “Yes, I wascool with it. Everything wasfine when he first got there.Weheldhands,talked—well,

asmuchasyoucantalkoverthe music. He wasn’t reallyinto the band and then hisfriendswantedtoleave.Theywere going to a party at abrownstonethat thesegirlsatthebarinvitedthemto.”

“He saidhe askedyou togo.Didhe?”IwishedIcouldgo back to that moment I’dwatched Logan leaving andstickoutmyfoottotriphim.

“Yes,hesaidIcouldgeta

ride home with them, but Iwantedtostaywithyouguys.When he left it was like awhole different night. I triedto make it up front, but thecrowd was too much, andthose girls from thebachelorette party kind oftookmein.”

“You should have textedme,Iwouldhavefoundyou,”Wrensaid.

“Idon’tknow, itwasfun

beingsomeonedifferent,like,maybeIcouldbeDiaraJonesfor a night. Diara did blueshots and danced on the barand completely forgot aboutLogan.Youknow,he’s cute,wetalk,andIreally likehimas a running bud, but there’sno...magic.”Whenshesaidmagic she brought her handstogether and then slowlyapart, wiggling her fingers abit, in what I imagined was

supposed to representsparkly,magicalloveglitter.

“You watched SleeplessinSeattleagain,didn’tyou?”

She laughed. “No.Haven’t been romcom-ing itlately. I’m sick of pining forsomemeet-cutethatprobablywon’t happen but I don’tknow,isn’tthathowitshouldbe, at least a little bit? Thatsomethingyoucan’tquiteputyour finger on? I feel like

we’re both just kind offorcingit,becausehe’saboyandI’magirlandthat’swhatwe’resupposedtodo.Noonehas written the script aboutgoodfriends,havethey?”

Wren and I bothshrugged.

“Anyhow, after I didthose blue shots, I startedfeeling dizzy, and ran intoTanner and he walked withme outside for some air. It

was cold, so I took his hat.Do you know that’s hisgrandfather’shat?Hewastheone who got him into thebass.”

Wren grinned. “Holycrap,youare totallycrushingonTanner.”

Jazzbitbacka smile,hereyesdartingbetweenus.“No,notreally.”

“Jazzabelle, you’reblushing.”

“He makes me laugh. Itwas like, one question abouthishatandhekindofcrackedopen into this whole otherperson.I’mnotsayingitwasmagic or anything, but Iwasn’t analyzingeverymovewondering if it meantsomething. It felt nice.C’mon, you both knowwhatI’m talking about. I saw youand Jesse holding hands,Mads, not sure why I’m

underamicroscopehere.”“We weren’t holding

hands,” I said. “Just . . .touchingfingertips.”

“Whatever it was, youguys looked into it,” Wrensaid. “How cool would thatbe ifwedatedguys from thesameband?”

“Decidedly not cool.Whatwouldhappenifoneofus broke up, then what?Wecouldn’thangout?”Jazzsaid.

“Ha! So you are thinkingaboutit,”Isaid.

“No, not really. I’m notsaying I want to startanything with Tanner, but itwasabitofajolt,toseehiminadifferentway.

“And now I’m meetingmy platonic but foxy runbuddy to try to shave fiveseconds off my five-K,” shesaid.“Wishmeluck.”

Shepackedupher laptop

and gave us a smallwave asshewent out to her locker. IstaredatWren.

“Tanner and Jazzy? Youthink?”

“That would be . . .interesting, but I’m morecurious about what Jessewantstodoonyourbirthday.Didyoufindoutyet?”

“No,hesaidnottoworry,he’s doing all the planning.What could that even be?

Freechaiforayear?”Wrensmiled.“Do you know

something?”Iasked.“Only that you really

want to do more than touchfingertipswithhim.”

SincePaulwasflyingaclientto Chicago for the weekendand my mother was startingher RYT 200 intensiveteacher training, we skipped

ourThursdayyogainordertocelebratemybirthdayearly.Ipicked Arturo’s, our go-tospecial-occasion-casual-but-elegantplace.Weorderedourusualcheese-smotheredgarlicbreadandfriedcalamariwithpepperoncini, which we duginto.

“Omigod,thisissogood,but I bet I’ll still be tastingthis on Saturday. Hope Idon’treekforJesse.”

“Are you sure that’sreally the way you want tospendagoodportionofyourbirthday—inacar?”

“Mom,forthetenthtime,yes. I’m so ridiculouslystokedforthis.”

When Jesse toldme he’dmakeituptomeforsinglingme out at Whiskey Businesswith “Happy Birthday,” Iexpected at most a movie,cake,a freechaiatMugshot.

Instead he’d asked me if IwantedtogotoFallingwater,the house designed by FrankLloydWright.

Mind=blown.The downsidewas that it

wasfivehoursaway.The upside was that we

werespendingthenightathisaunt’shouse.

The downside was thenumberofphonecallsittooktoplan itall.Mymotherand

his mother, my mother andhisaunt, the threeof thematone point talking so long Ithought for sure we’d be inon a vacation share in LBIwiththemduringthesummerorspendingnationalholidaystogether.

Ofcourse,mymotherhadwantedtomakesurethatsaidaunt really existed and thatJesse and I wouldn’t bespendingthenightinamotel.

Then there were my calls toWren and Jazz. What towear? Was this too much?Should I really considerdoing something so big withsomeone I’donly just startedhanging out with? It was allslightly embarrassing, butcompletely worth it. For thefirsttimeinalongtime,Iwasso flippin’ excited for mybirthday, but I wasn’t surewhatithadtodowithmore—

seeing Frank LloydWright’sworkupcloseandpersonalorspending all that time alonewithJesse.Both,Isupposed.

After my pre-birthdaydinner, we stopped by thebakery for a small vanillabuttercream cake and thenwentbacktothehouse.

“Sowhatfirst,presentsorcake?” My mother set thecakedowninthecenterofthediningroomtable.

“Presents?Today?”“I guess we have an

answer,” Paul said. Hedisappeared into the livingroom and came back with alarge,flatpackagetiedwithablue ribbon. My mother’sgrinstretchedacrossher faceas Paul handed me thepresent. I had to shove awayfrom the table tomake roomfor it. My heart raced as Iuntied the ribbon and ripped

awaythetissuepaper.Itwasanartportfolio.I ranmy hand across the

soft, smooth leather. Myinitials, MP, were stampedinto the front. I’d beenkeepingmythingsinabinderwithpageprotectors;thiswasprobably more extravagantthanIneededat themoment,butitwasperfect.

“Your mother and Ipickeditout,butifyoureally

don’tlikeit—”“I love it,” I whispered,

opening it up and imagininghow I would fill it. Slippedinto the second page were afew papers that were stapledtogether.

An application to Pratt’ssummerprogram.

My throat tightened; theinitial unease I felt when Ispoke about being handedthis sort ofmoney danced in

mygut.I’dtalkedmyselfintoaccepting NJDI as my onlyoption, that it was what Iwanted, what I needed, thatearningitwasanoblething.Istill believed that, but this?TheloveIfeltatthatmomentoverwhelmed me, filled meup so much that my eyesitched with backed-up tears.They believed in me. Theyreallywantedthisforme.

My mother cleared her

throat. “Mads,weknowhowyou feel about this, but wereally think, if this was yourfirst choice, you shouldreconsider.”

“Think of it as sixteenyears’ worth of birthdaypresents;whenyou lookat itthat way, it’s really not thatmu—”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’llapply, I’ll go. I . . . Thankyou.”Iplacedtheportfolioto

thesideandsprunguptogivePaulanawkward,seatedhug.He laughed and patted myarm, then I went over toMom.

“You won’t regret it,sweetie, really, you’ll see.” Ithrew my arms around her,pressed my cheek againsthers.Werockedforaminuteuntilshesteppedback.

“Andwait,there’smore.”“Really?”

“More”turnedouttobeaset of colored sketchingpencilsandapairofbootsI’dadmired at the mall. I evenallowedthemtosing“HappyBirthday” to me, softly andwithout any additions like “apinch to grow an inch” or acountdown to how manybirthdaysIwascelebrating.Itall felt right somehow. Thethreeofus there.A family—maybe with the seams

showing, but still . . .together.

“Makeawish,Mads.”The candlelightmade the

shadows dance around theroom.

The other part aboutbirthdays I hated was thewishing. It’s like my mindwould go on overload, eversinceIwas little—whatdidIwant? What did I really,reallywant?

I could never think ofanything specific and I wasafraidofaskingforthewrongthing—like a genie storygonebad,whereifyouhadn’twordedyourwishcorrectlyitwould come out in somedifferentwayandburnyou.

Wax dripped onto theperfect white buttercreamfrosting, while differentwishesviedforapproval.

A perfect weekend with

Jesse.Anexcitingsummergoing

toPratt.Me, Wren, and Jazz

becomingyearbookeditors.There was one wish—a

whisper, really—that Iwantedmorethananything.Itcame on suddenly andsurprisedmeinthesheerfactthat it was corny as hell, amade-for-TV movie of awish.

Forthatreason,Iwassureitwasdoomedtofail.

But when I closed myeyestomakemywish,it’sallthatcametomind.

I whispered those wordsinmy thoughts as Iblewoutseventeencandles.

Let it always be like thisnight.

SIXTEENJESSE

THE LAST TIME I’D WOKEN UPWICKED EARLY ON A Saturdaywasmyfirstyearinsoccer.Ican still remember myparents stumbling across thefield with their cups of

coffee, cheering me on as Itriedmyhardesttostayawayfrom the ball. While therewas more to my demise insportsthangettingupearly,itnever meant anything good.Thiswasdifferent,though.

ItwastheSaturdaytoendallSaturdays.

The Saturday I’d spendwithMadisonPryce.

After a quick pit stop atMugshottogetprovisionsfor

our ride, I drove toMadison’s. All a part of mygrand non-birthday plan thatI’d come up with the nightafter we played at WhiskeyBusiness. I had wanted tosurprise her, like reallysurpriseher,butnot in the I-hate-to-be-the-center-of-attentionwayagain.Ithadtobe unexpected. Impressiveenoughtomakehereyeslightupthewaytheydidwhenshe

spoke about art or going todesign camp. That’s when Ithought of Fallingwater, howstoked she’d been about theFrank Lloyd Wright projectshe was working on the daysheshowedmethebandlogo.

Perfect except for theendless-drive thing thatmadeitnexttoimpossibleforadaytrip. Enter Aunt Julia, morepersuading than I’d done inDebate 101, and finally a

birthday overnighter that Iknew (or at least hoped)wouldrockherworld.

Madison was sitting onher frontporch,duffelbagather feet. The moment I sawher,mymindwentintopanicmode—what if this was anidiotic idea?What if we hadnothing to talk about for thefive-hour drive? There wasnoturningback,andIkindofdug it. We were in this

together.Iputthecarinpark,grabbed her drink, andclimbedup the steps tomeether.

“I only get up this earlyforFrankLloydWright.”Shestoodandswattedthebackofherpants.

“Am I allowed to sayhappy birthday?” I handedherahotchocolateI’dpickedup at Mugshot and hoistedherbagovermyshoulder.

Shebroughtthecupuptoher face, peeking into thespout.

“Okay I lied, getting upearly for your hot chocolateworks too.” She closed hereyes and took a sip.“Mmmm.”

Ms. Pryce stepped outonto the porch, opening herarmswidetoMadison.“Givemeahug,birthdaygirl.”

Madisonopenedherarms

awkwardly, holding up thecupandraisingherchinoverher mom’s shoulder,laughing. When they parted,Ms.Prycelookedatme.

“Youdon’ttextanddrive,doyou?”

“No,ma’am.”“Speeding?”“Mom,comeon.”“Nope, the VW sort of

sputters when it hits sixty-five,sonoworries.”

Madisonlaughed.“You have cash on you?

Yourphoneischarged?”“Yesandyes,Mom.And

we’ll make pit stops and eatwhen we’re hungry. Noworries. Thanks for lettingmego.Idon’tknowanyyogaslang,but,um,blissouttodayat training.”Madisonhuggedheragain.

“At least textmeatsomepointtoday,okay?Orleavea

voicemail, letme know yougotthereinonepiece.”

“Will do.” Madison gaveher a kiss on the cheek, thengrabbedmyarm.

“Let’s go before shechanges her mind,” shewhispered.

I tossed her bag into thetrunk, and opened thepassenger-side door. Iremembered what she hadsaid about Gray having a

shitty rideandbracedmyselffor her assessment of theBug. Itwasn’tmuch, I knewthat,butitgotmefrompointA to point B without anytrouble.Islidintothedriver’sseat andmade sure I had therightaddressintheGPS.

“Omigod, you have aneight-ballstickshift?Cool.”

Whew.“So Imade us a playlist,

easy listening’s your jam,

right?”Isaid.She wrinkled her nose.

“What?”I started the car asGreen

Day exploded through thespeakers.

“Justmessingwithyou.”Hersmilefueledme.

Twoandahalfhoursintotheride we had exhausted everyhokey car game. TwentyQuestions. I Spy. And a

version of the license-plategame that hadn’t started outas raunchy but quicklydebased into third-gradehumor.Madisonhaddeclaredme the winner forAstonishing Ass Wombat-3675forusinganunexpectedadjective with a mammalnative toAustralia.WewerealreadyintoPennsylvaniabutstill had about three hours togo. We were both about to

teartheroofoff.“I bet we aren’t even

goingtoFallingwater.You’rekidnappingme,aren’tyou?”

“You’re right. We’reheadingtoCalifornia.”

“NorthernorSouthern?”“Um,Northern.”“SanFrancisco,”shesaid,

as if it were a real decisionwe were making. “Whatwouldwedothere?”

“Rideacablecar?”

“Ohgod,no.”“Ohhkay...then,what?”Sheputherfeetuponthe

dash, hugging her knees intoherchest.“Isthisokay?Thatmyfeetareuphere?”

“Youreallyhavetoask?”“Okay, then this is what

we’d do—we’d get roastedpeanuts and watch the hang-gliders on the bluffs, thenwe’d Rollerblade in GoldenGatePark.”

“Rollerblade?”“Yes, ’cause it’s perfect

and hilly and gorgeous, thenwe’dwindow-shopinHaight-Ashbury and get a headachefrom the incense in the headshop.”

I laughed and glancedover at her. “A headachefromaheadshop?”

“Yeah.” She grinned andlookedoutthewindow.“Andthenwe’dgetlostandtakein

alltheinsanecolorsoftheoldVictorians, and listen to thestreet performers and walkand walk until our legs feltlike they were going to falloff.”

“Wait,whendoesthisgetfun?”

“Thenwe’dfindthislittleItalian restaurant that servesthe best linguine and clamsauceyou’veeverhadinyourlife.Andwe’ddrinkredwine

since the waiter doesn’t carehowoldwearebecauseevenbabiesdrinkwinewithdinnerin Italy.Andwhenwe comeout,it’llbenighttimeandthefull moon along the skylinewillmakeyoufeellikeyou’rein anotherworld.And itwillbethebestdayever.”

She spoke with suchdetail and conviction, itsoundedmorelikeamemory.

“You’ve done this,

haven’tyou?”“There are perks to

havingafamilyfriendwhoisa pilot. Paul took us when Iwas thirteen. Around springbreak. We went for a longweekend. It’s one of thoseplaces that just stays withyou.”

“Cool. Have you goneanywhereelse?”

“We went to St. Louisonce. You know you can go

up in that arch? Totalnightmare.AndHouston . . .but nowhere worldly likeEuropeoranything.”

“Well, the worldliestplaceI’vebeentois,like,theFrance pavilion in EpcotCenter.Wehadtowaitthirtyminutes so my sister couldget her picture taken withBeast. Go me!” I said, fistpumping.

She took her feet down

from the dash and shifted inher seat so she was partiallyfacing me. A good tenminutes passed with thesputteringoftheBugtheonlynoisebetweenus.We’devenexhausted my road tripplaylist at that point. Iconcentratedon the road,butallIwantedtodowaslookather.

“Everythingokay?”“That guy Paul, the one

you met when I dyed yourhair—he’smyfather.”

“YoucallhimPaul?”“Yes, I call him Paul

because up until about amonthagoIdidn’tevenknowhe was my father. He didn’tknoweither.Mymother toldusbecause,well,she’s‘livinghertruth’inyoga,butthat’sadifferentstory.He’sherekindof figuring out some stuff,and I guess she thoughtwhy

not throw this into the mixtoo.”

Ishouldhavebeenabletocomeupwith something thatwouldmakeitallbetter,ortoshow that I understood, butallIcouldcomeupwithwas,“Madison...whoa...shit.”

She laughed. “Yeah, thatwas pretty much myreaction.”

“Imean,heseemscool.”“He is cool, and I think

he’shavingthesameproblemas I am—how are wesupposed to think differentlyabout each other? But we’retrying. I didn’twant to put adownerontheday,Jess.It’sagoodthing,really.Ijust,well,Iwantedyou toknow. It feltlike I was keeping a secretfromyouandIdon’twant todo that. Friends know abouteachother’slives.”

“Aretheytogether?”

Sheshookherhead.“No.They’ve been friends, like,forever, but I alwayswonderedwhytheynevergottogether. I guess they sort ofdid, at least for one night.Which is kind of weird tothinkabout.”

“Wow.”“Nowyouhavetotellme

something about yourfamily.”

I changed lanes to let a

pickup truck speed by us.“We’renotthatinteresting.”

“It’sallnew,everything’sinteresting.” She reachedaround to the backseat andrustled through the Mugshotbag, pulling out a smallcontainerof fruit andcheese.“Wantsome?”

Ishookmyhead.“C’mon, just a grape,”

she said, holding one out tome.

“Tossit.”“You’redriving.”“You look like you have

good aim.” I opened mymouth as she tossed thegrape. It grazed my ear. Weswervedabit. “Okay,maybenotagoodidea.”

“Here.” She leaned overandpoppedthegrapeintomymouth. “Now give mesomething.”

“Information for a

grape?”“Somethinglikethat.”IthoughtaminutewhileI

chewed. “Those were myparents you met the othernight. My dad’s an ex–bassplayer turned adjunctprofessor wannabe author.My mom’s an accountant. Istillwalk inon themgropingeachother—it’sgross.”

“Oradorable.”“No—it’s gross, period. I

havealittlebrother,Ty,whodoesn’t speak much yet, sohe’sokay,anda ten-year-oldsisterwhosemainmission inlife is to make minemiserable.”

“I think you’re beingmean. No grapes if you’remean.”Shesmiled.

“They’re okay, evenDaisywhen shewants to be.Better?”

“Yes.” She fed me

another grape. “Why don’tyou wear your infinitybraceletanymore?”

Ipracticallydidadouble-take.“Younoticedthat?”

She flustered slightly.“Oh,um—youusedtowearitinMugshot.Ialwaysthought—well,Ithoughtitwascool,andnowIseeyoudon’thaveiton.”

“That story might costyouacheesecube.”

“Ha, here,” she said,honoringmyrequest.

“It was from my ex,Hannah. We had matchingwristbands.She’swiththeolddrummer from YellowNumberFive.”

“Wait—is that—Was heinthebandthatplayedat theSadieHawkinsDance?”

“Yeah,why?”Her brow raised, she

chewed her lip and nodded,

as if she’d just figuredsomethingout.

“What?”“Nothing, how much

longer do we have?” SheclaspedthetopofthetakeoutcontainerandputitbackintotheMugshotbag.

“Our ETA is about twoandahalfmorehours.”

She yawned. “Mind if IcatchsomeZ’s?”

“Wait,sothat’sit?Idon’t

gettoaskyouanythingelse?”She reclined the seat,

curling her legs up beneathher.“I’msotired.”

“I think you’re justavoidingit.”

“See, you know mealready.” She snuggled intothe seat, closing her eyes.“And I may snore, so don’tlikemeanyless.”

“Impossible,” Iwhispered.

“Hey.”InudgedMadison.I’d managed to make it

through the gates, and evenpaid the parking fee withoutwaking her up.Her facewasscrunched against the seat,mouthslightlyopen.Shehadsnoredabit,but Idecided tokeep that to myself. Shesnorted awake on the thirdnudge, rubbing her nose andsquinting as she scanned thewoodedareawewereparked

in.“Omigosh,we’rehere!”Madison was out of the

car before Iwrestled the keyfrom the ignition. Shereached for the sky, staringupatthecanopyoftrees,thenshivered,crossingherarms.

I shrugged off my jackettoherprotests.

“Whatareyoudoing?”“You look like you need

this. I’ve got a hoodie in the

trunk,consideritabirth—”“Lalalalalalala,” she said,

pluggingherears.“We’renotusingthatBword,okay?”

“Takeit.”Ihelditoutforheruntilsheputherarmsintothesleeves.

We walked throughwoods, to a gazebo, andpicked up our tour tickets.Madison wandered aroundthepavilion, as if she’dbeena captive on a desert island

and hadn’t seen anythingquite like this. She ran herhands across the railings,lookedupattherafters,outtothe forest. Her lips movingeverysooften,shelaughedtoherself.

Iwavedheroverandshetook my arm again as wewalked with the othertourists, down to a mossypath that followed along astream.Thesoundof rushing

water echoed through thedense, bare trees as wesquished our way along thesoftearthtowardthehouse.Itwas overcast, and slightlymisty,butsuddenlythehousewas there, across a wideravine, in our sight.Madisonslowed downwhile the otherpeople in our tour groupflowedaroundus.

Shepulledmeovertotheside, so we were directly

across from the front of thehouse, or maybe it was theback—I wasn’t sure. Itlooked exactly like thepicture online—all lines,windows, and rushing water,withastaircasethatledtothewater below—but smallersomehow. To be honest, Ididn’t understand what wasso impressive about it. Thecolors were sort of oatmealand that burnt umber crayon

that’s always broken and noone uses. Madison wascaptivated as she took ineverything.

“Youknow,Ireallydon’tget—” She put her fingersover my mouth, still staringstraight ahead, eyes dartingover the lines and angles,until a small smile crossedherlips.

“It’sreal,”shewhispered,finally looking at me. She

laughed.“It’sreal.”“One-thirty tour,”avoice

called.“That’s us!” She tugged

on my hoodie, leading usover to the group. Madisondragged us front-and-centerwhile the tour guide, awomanaboutmymom’sagewearingplaidrainboots,gaveherahead-to-toeonce-over.

“You’ve got the coolestjob,” Madison said, instantly

winning thewomanover.Bytheendofthetour,sheknewMadison’s name. In fact, bythen, everyone knewMadison’s name. From themoment she set foot in thehouse, she was like me atthirteen on Christmasmorning,theyearIopenedupthe cherry-red Fender I’dbegged for for threemonths.Sheflittedthroughthehouse,taking in the furniture, the

artwork, stoppingand staringandholdingherselfbackfromtouching the flat stones thatmadeupthewalls.

“Look at this, isn’t thisjustgenius?”

Itwas thestaircase to thewater.

“Convenient forswimming,”Isaid.

She laughed. “Weren’tyou listening? The waterregulates the temperature

whenit’swarmout:abuilt-incooling system. And it’s sopretty, isn’t it? Bringing theoutdoors in, and the indoorsout? I love that. Can youimaginechillinghere,readingabookorwatchingtheworldgo by, probably drinkingsomethinglikeaRobRoy?”

“Iseetrees,”Isaid.“Andwhat’saRobRoy?”

Shepinchedme.Madison’s favoritewords

on the tour were Can youimagine?

Can you imagine wakinguptothisview?

Can you imagine AlbertEinstein stayed here? We’rewalkingwherehewalked.

Canyou imagine . . . it’sa freaking Pablo Picasso,right there in front of us, asartonyourwall?

AndallthewhileIlookedat her. Experienced her. On

the master terrace—sort ofthenervecenterof thehousethat went out over the water—shetookmyhand.

“Close your eyes, Jess,listen.Hearthat?”

“Yep,” I said, listeningbut not sure if the rushingsoundwasthewaterbeloworthebloodthroughmybrainasIfeltherhandinmine.Itwassmallandcold,butstrongandsoftatthesametime.

“It wasn’t enough forFrank Lloyd Wright that hisclient had a view of thewaterfall, he made them thewaterfall.Theywereinit.”

She turned us around toface the house. “Open youreyes.See?Seethelinesnow?Howitjust—”

“Makessense.Feelslikeapartoftheforest.”

She squeezed my hand,thenletgo.“Yes!”

“You still can’t walknakedthroughtherooms.”

“Because that’s what Ilook for in a house.” Shewalkedbackintothehousetojointhetouragain.

Her enthusiasm wascontagious. She tossed outwords like cantilever andorganic architecture andwhen we reached a smallroom one of the occupantshadusedasanoffice,wherea

halfcirclehadbeencutoutofa desk to accommodate theopening of a window so theroomwouldhavenocorners,she whispered, “Brilliant.”The tour ended up by theguesthouse, a place wereached by climbing a wide,winding stairway covered bya curved cement canopy thatconnected it to the mainhouse. Whoever stayed heremust have been in decent

shape.“Can you imagine this

being your room? Your ownswimming pool andeverything?Damn.Andlook,seehowitallstartshere,”shesaid,her finger following theline of the canopy that wentto the house. “The cascadinglinesfollowallthewaydownto that staircase to thewater,to make it look like thewaterfall.”

“Hence the nameFallingwater.”

That earned me anotherpinch. It was worth it. Theninety bucks. The five-hourcar ride. The absoluteundilutedjoyonherfacewasworthitall.

“C’mon, I want to see itfrom the front again.” Sheskippedoffaheadofme.

Icaughtuptoherandwewalked toward a vantage

pointwhereagroupofpeopleweretakingapicture.

“Your turn,” I said,pullingoutmyphone.

Madison posed with thehouse behind her. Firstserious, then funny, thenseriousagain.

“I can take a picture ofthe two of you if you like,”said an older gentlemanwho’d been waiting his turntogetapicture.

“Yes,c’mon,Jesse.”I handed him the phone,

already set to take a picture,andwalkedovertoher.

“Don’t push me in,” Isaid.

Sheputanarmaroundmywaist and pulled herselfcloser to me. I was sure theautofocus would zero in onmy smile, clearly the biggestfocal point. We thanked theguyfortakingthepicture.

“Okay, let’s leave, if Istayany longerwe’llbehereuntil the sun goes down. I’mso starving I could eat ahandfulofthatmoss.”

“Nowontophasetwo.”“Phasetwo?”“AuntJulia’s.”

SEVENTEENMADISON

MEXICANHOTCHOCOLATEANDFRANKLLOYDWright.

Jesse McMann waswooingme.

Therewas no otherwordfor it. Probably the kind of

word used when Rob Royswere the drink. And menwore smoking jackets. Andthere were weekend visitorswho actually stayed atFallingwater.Hewaswooingme.

AndIwaseatingitup.The day had been better

than I ever could haveimagined.The fact that Jesseplanned this for me wasalmost too much to take in.

This was a day I’d neverforget, no matter whathappened, if anythinghappened, between us. Andnow I had a clue as to whathe might have been thinkingaboutinthatpicturefromthedance—it must have beensomething to dowithhis ex-girlfriend if she had beenthere.Iwantedtoknowmoreabout his family, about hisbreakup,abouthim.

We drove for a whilethrough narrow windingroadswiththick,denseforeston either side. The VWlabored, puttering loudlyuphill and chirping down.Finally there was a smallclearingwith amailbox. Jessturned right, down an evennarrower unpaved lane,which eventually widenedinto a large expanse of land.A few horses grazed in a

fenced-in field. There weretwocorrals,andseveral largebarnsandahousethatlookedlike a yuppie’s version of alog cabin. Three dogs ofvarioussizesandbreedscamerushing up to the car, tailswagging furiously. Jesseslowed down. My jaw mayhaveactuallydropped.

“This is where your auntlives?”

“Yep,cool,huh?”

“Cool? How aboutmagnificent?Incredible?”

He smiled, cutting theengine. “How about—waittillyouseetheinside.”

I looked out the windowat our canine welcomingcommittee.Jessgotoutofthecar first.Thedogs ambushedhim, hopping around andjumpinguponhindlegsashemadehiswayovertomysideofthecar.Hekneltdownand

gave them each heartyscratches on the neck, goingforehead to snout with thehusky.Awomanwavedfromthe porch as two kidsgalloped down the stairs togreet Jesse. The dogsencircled all of them in aflurry of wagging tails andpawsand lolling tonguesas Isteppedoutofthecar.

The small dog, a furballof a thing that looked like a

cross between a fox and aminiature lion, came tearingtowardme,yippingwildly.

“That’s Pepper. Shewon’tbite,”ayounggirlwithalongponytailsaid.

“Hey, Pepper,” I said,reaching out and runningmyfingers across the dog’s softfur.Hercoatremindedmeofa pair of earmuffs I owned.She sniffedmyhandand ranher little pink tongue across

my fingers. I laughed andpulledmyhandaway.

“This is my cousin Sara.Sara, this isMadison,” Jessesaid.

“Do you guys need helpwithyourthings?”sheasked,scratchingthedogbehindtheear.

“Sure.” Jess pulled thebags out of the trunk. Saragrabbedmine.

“Youdon’treallyhaveto

dothat,”Isaid.“No one should carry

their bags on their birthday.”Shesmiledandtrompedoff.IlookedatJesse.

“Doeseveryoneknowit’smybirthday?”

“Kindof,”hesaid.We walked toward the

house. Jesse’s aunt was stillon the porch, smiling as weapproached.

“Hey,about timeyougot

here,” she said. “Charlie’sbeen asking for you since hewokeupthismorning.”

“Have not,” said theyoungblondboy.

“Hi,”Isaid,suddenlyshy.I had the overwhelmingdesireforthemtolikeme.

“Madison,thisismyauntJulia,” Jesse said. “And thatguyoverthereisCharlie, thelittleJackRussellisMax,andlastbutnotleastisDuke,the

Alaskanhusky.”“AndyouruncleVaughn,

buthe’sawayatatradeshowin Louisiana,” Aunt Juliasaid. “Happy birthday,Madison, we’re so happy tomeetyou.”

I widened my eyes atJesse. Not the birthday thingagain.

“How did you likeFallingwater?” she asked,leadingusintothehouse.

“Oh it was amazing.” Istopped immediately aftercrossing the threshold. Jessewas right. If I’d thought thelog cabin was impressivefrom the outside, it wasnothing compared to theinside.MyjawdroppedagainasItookinthehighceilingofthegreatroom.Thefirstfloorwasonebigopenspacefromthe sitting area near thefireplace to the kitchen. The

kitchen was separated fromthe great room by a longcounter, with stools forseating. One wall wascompletely floor-to-ceilingwindows. The view of thehills and the sky wasbreathtaking.

“Why don’t you showMadison to her room, Sara,”AuntJuliasaid.

Sara still had my bagslung over her shoulder. She

waved for me to follow herdown a longhall. If I had toguess I would have peggedher for eleven or twelve, butshe was already a good twoinchestallerthanme.

“Here it is,” she said,opening the door to a roomthat was twice the size ofmineathome.Eventhoughitwas big, the dark woodenwallsmadeitfeelcozy.Therewas a large window that

opened up to the same viewas the great room. Awardrobewasonthefarwall,and the bed framewasmadefrom tree branches, theheadboard a tangle ofbranches and vines, with awhite gauzy dust ruffle. Saratossed my bag on the bed,then sat beside it andproceededtostareatme.

“How long have you andJesse been together?” she

asked.“Oh, we’re not together,

like that anyway—justfriends.”

“Toobad,youseemreallycool.”

I ran my fingers throughmy hair, pulling on a tuftbehindmyearoutofnervoushabit.Aflurryofclickingandpanting rushed behindme asPepper raced across thewooden floor and leapt up

ontothebednexttoSara.“Thanks.”A knock on the door

madeusbothturn.“Sara, your mom wants

you,”Jessesaid.“Later,” she said. With

Pepper still inherarms,Saraskatedinhersocksacrossthefloorandoutoftheroom.

“Sorry if she wasbothering you,” Jesse said.He stood there, hands in

hoodie pockets, his hairsticking up in a charmingway.

“No,notatall,I’mfine—just,youknow,tiredIguess,”Isaid. “I justwant tomaybechange or something, orcheckinwithmymom.”

“Cool. I’m bunking withCharlie if you need me foranything. Hey, you knowhowtoplaySpoons?”

“Um,what?”Iasked.

“The card game? LikeCrazyEights?”

Ishookmyhead.“I’ll teach you.” He

smiled as he shut the door. Icollapsed onto the bed, halfexpectingwoodlandcreaturesto appear and tuck me in.Could theplacebe anymoreenchanting? Before the roadtrip was over, I had thefeelingIwouldknowwhat itfelt like to kiss Jesse

McMann.Breathe,Maddie.

Dinnerwasacontinuationofthe complete and utteramazingness that had beenmy birth—um, special day.We made our own pizzasfrom scratch—well, thedough had been preppedbeforehand, but Aunt Juliahad put out all differentingredients in small bowlsaround the countertop.

Charlie had so muchpepperoni on his pizza itlooked like shingles on aroof;bothAuntJuliaandSaramade regular cheese andtomatosaucepies; I triedmyhand at a margherita withfresh mozzarella and basil;and Jess surprised the heckout of me by making aHawaiian, with pineapplesandhamandcheese.

After dinner we sat near

the fireplace and playedSpoons, which involvedmatching cards and grabbingspoons,andIcompletelyandutterly sucked at it and wasthefirstone tospelloutS-P-O-O-N. Charlie kickedeveryone’s butt. Jessedisappeared and came backwithanacousticguitar.

“Well,thatwasfun.Timefor some not-birthday cake?”AuntJulialookedatme.

“What’s that for?” Imotioned to Jesse and theguitar, anticipating anotherrousingversionof the song Icringedover.Hegrinnedandstrummed.

“Mood music. I promiseto get it right this time.” Helaughed.

I collected the cards,making room for the not-birthdaycake,whichweweregoing to chowdownon near

the fireplace. Aunt Juliacarriedthecakeintothegreatroom, the dogs following atherheels.

“Can we sing?” Sarapleaded.

Iwasabouttosaysure—Imean, really, how could Irefuse?—whenJessecutin.

“We’ll do the versionwesingtomydad—how’sthat?”

They all looked soexcited.

“Okay.”Jesse strummed a few

chords of the Beatles’“Birthday”song,and theyallstarted singing and clappingto it. I blew out the onecandle I’d allowed them toputonthecake,andgrinned.

The cake was some sortof triple-chocolate blackoutcake,whichmademeweakinthe knees after three forkfulsandahalfglassofmilk.Full

and lazy, I never wanted togetupfromthecouch.

“Jess, play that song youplayed at your mom’sbirthday party that time,”Sarasaid.

He shook his head,swallowing a mouthful ofcake.“Nah.”

“Oh, come on, it’s sopretty,”AuntJuliasaid.

“I’m eating,” he said,lookingdown.

“Madison, you shouldhearit,it’s...Whatwasit?”

“‘Claire de Lune,’” AuntJuliasaid.“Helearneditasagifttohismom.”

“Guys,”Jessesaid.“No.”“You play classical? Oh,

you have to do it. It’s mybirthday,Idemandit.”

“Youhatebirthdays.”“Doesn’t matter. Play,” I

said, pointing at the guitarandwavingmyhandtoorder

him around. Being thebirthday girl did haveprivileges, after all. Henarrowedhiseyesatmeashewiped his mouth with anapkin. He picked up theguitar and sat down on theedgeofthecouch,strummingsoftly and fiddling with thetuningknobsattheendafewtimes.

“I have not played thissince last summer,” he said.

“So, you know, you’ve beenwarned.”

He plucked the stringsslowly, stopped, then startedagain. At first he lookeddown at the neck of hisguitar.Eachnote precise andsweet.Thesongwasfamiliar,like something I would haveheard in school, but the wayJessplayed,itfeltmorelikeadream. Quickening at someparts, slowing down and

lingeringoverothernotes.Hehit a sour note and winced,laughedalittle,andlookedatmewhilehecontinued.

Iblinked,lookedaway.There was something so

intimate and raw about theway he played. He couldn’thelp but be an open bookwhen the guitar was in hishand. It had been the sameway atWhiskey Business. Itwasn’tthedark,orthecrowd,

it had been his music thatrevealedapartofhimtome.WhenIlookedback,hischinwas up, eyes closed, mouthtrembling like he waswhispering to someone. Hishair fell across his foreheadand he flipped it back, notmissinganote.Thelongerheplayed, the more it seemedlike he was playing with hiswhole body, not just hishands.

His playing slowed. Isavored each second, notwanting it toend.Hesighed,plucking the final sound, ahigh note. We all sat still,letting the tone reverberate,mixing in with the cracklingfire and the soft hush of ourownbreathing.Sarabrokethespellbyclapping.

“You didn’t hear thoseoff-notes?”heasked.

“No, it was beautiful,”

AuntJuliasaid.Charlieyawned, loudand

long.Jesselookedatme.“It was great.” Great

seemed too brash andunderstated a word.Magnificent felt likeoverkill,butwow...I’dfeltthesong.

“Okay you two, time togetreadyforbed.”

“But Mom, we haven’tplayed Clue yet,” Saraprotested.

“It’stoolateforClue.”Then it occurred to me

thismassexoduswas formybenefit.FormineandJesse’s.Tobealone.

So I did what any girlwho’d been feted andpamperedwoulddo.

Ifreakedthehellout.“I, um, wow, I’m beat,

Jess.”“Oh, yeah, me too.” He

said it, but I didn’t believe

him.“Whattimedoyouwanttoleaveinthemorning?”

Istretched.“Idon’tknow.Whenever.Notinarush.”

“Ten-ishsoundgood?”“Sure.”We gathered up the dirty

cakedishesanddumpedtheminthesink.Ihelpedcleanupthe empty cups and broughtthe leftover cake to thecounter.

“Thank you somuch, for

everything. This has beenincredible.”

Jesse smiled, his eyeszeroed in on mine—askingmetolinger.

Withhim.“Good night,” I

whispered, thenbolted tomyroom.

Sleepwouldnotindulgeme.I’d washed, changed into

my fleece PJ bottoms, and

evenputon thefuzzyslippersocks Ineeded tohaveonsomy feet wouldn’t get cold.Mymindraced.Ijammedmyeyes shut again. WillingmyselftoGo.To.Sleep.

Nothing.Thecomforterwasdown-

filled,andhuggedmybodyina way that was heavy andlight at the same time. Thesheetsweresosoftandwarmnow, with a slight scent of

lavender. The bed was aperfect,blissfulsleepcocoon.There was no reason why Ishouldn’t be able to fallasleep.Except...

The haunting melody of“Claire de Lune” keptdancing through my brain.AnytimeIclosedmyeyes,itwas there, as was Jesse andthatlookonhisface,thewayhis fingers moved up anddowntheneckofhisguitar.

Breathe,Maddie.I was falling for Jesse

McMann.HowcouldInot?Wasn’t that what this

wholetripwasabout?I felt mean thinking that

way. None of it wascalculated. Itwasn’t like thistrip was easy. A five-hourdrive. A weekend off fromwork and band rehearsal,when theBattleof theBands

was two weeks away. He’ddoneitforme.

Thatwas scary,uncertainground. I thoughtaboutwhatZachhadsaidwhenwebrokeup—Maybe you’ll let him in.Ididn’tknowwhathemeantuntilnow.IcouldalwaysboxZach up—as fun guy, greatkisser. And whenever thingsseemedliketheyweregettingdeeper—I’d shut off, ordown, because it was easier

to feel in control that way. Iwasn’tincontrolnow.

I tossedand turneda fewmore times before finallythrowing off the cover andgetting up with plans onraidingthekitchenforaglassofmilkorsomething.Maybeanothersliceofblackoutcakewould put me into a blissfulsugar coma and help mesleep. My door creaked, nomatter how gently I tried to

open it. I paused, waiting tohear any telltale clicking oflittlepawsor feet.Nothing. Itiptoedquietlydownthehall.Thefireilluminatedthegreatroom, shadows expandingand flickering across thewalls.

I froze mid-step, heartjumping into my throat. Jesswas there, on the couch,staring into the fireplace. Henodded out for a moment,

dozing.Stop pretending, chica.

Youdidn’tcomeouthere forcake.

I moved toward him,cleared my throat so Iwouldn’t completely freakhim out. He jolted awake,sittingupwhenhesawme.

“Hey.” He ran a handthroughhishair.

“Hi,” I said. His eyesmoved across me, taking in

my black fleece PJ bottomswith the fluorescent hearts,my thin white tee. I crossedmyarms.

“You’re still up.” Um,duh,Mads.

“Barely.”I flopped in the corner

oppositehim,curlingmylegsup underneath me. The firemade my skin feel tight,warm, and dry. The flameswerehypnotic.

“I can’t stop thinkingaboutthewayyouplayedthatsong,”Ifinallysaid.

He laughed.“Youmissedtheclunkernotes.”

“No, clunkers and all, itwas...Youwere...”

He waited for me to saymore, but I couldn’t find thewords. Nothing coulddescribeit.

“Where do you go?” Iasked.

“Hmm?”“When you play, when

you close your eyes it lookslike you’re whispering orsomething . . . you’re gone.”AfterIvoicedit,thequestionsoundedridiculous.Hestaredinto the fire, a small smilecrossinghislips.

“C’mon,” he said,standingup.

“What?”“Letmeshowyouwhatit

feels like.” For a moment Iwas disoriented. This wasStage Jesse, confident,holding out his hand to me,letting me in on his secret.What was he going to do?“Gogetyourbootson.”

NotwhatI’dexpected.Iwent back tomy room,

pulled onmy boots, andmethim by the front door, heartracing. Where were weheaded? He had on his

hoodie, a patchwork quiltslungoverhisshoulder.

“Here,” he said, handingmehis leather jacket. Iput iton, zipping it up to my chinthis time, and followed himoutintothefrigidnight.

My eyes finally adjustedto the dark, as we walkeddown a dirt path that cutbetween the barns. Softwhinnies echoed through theslats in the stalls; the sweet

smell of hay and sting ofmanure made my nose itch.Aside from that, everythingwasstill,peaceful,exceptforour feet scuffing against thehard road. Questions racedthrough my mind, but it feltlike talking would interruptsomething.

Jesseveeredoff the road,walking into a vast, grassyfieldborderedbyaforestandlooking over his shoulder to

make sure I was followinghim.

“Be careful where youstep,”hesaid.

“How can I even seeanything?”

“Oh, you’ll feel it whenyou step in a pile ofsomething,” he said,chuckling. He looked uptoward the sky and spunaround, fanning out theblanketandlettingitfallonto

thefield.“Thiswilldo.”“Forwhat?”Hekneltdown,pattedthe

spacenexttohim.“Madison,have you been disappointedatalltoday?”

I sighed, easing my wayonto theblanket. Itwascold.Correction:effingcold.But Iwascurious.Isquattedtillmybutt hit the ground, ignoringthe feeling of frostbiteseeping through my PJ

bottoms.“Nowwhat?”He smiled, leaning back

sohewasflatontheblanket,hands folded on his chest. Ididthesame,slidingontomyback.

“Soyougoouttoahorsepasture when you play theguitar?”Iasked.

“Duh.”“Well?”“What are you feeling,

rightnow?”“Freezing.”“Asidefromthat.”“Idon’tknow...thatthe

skyissopretty.Weseemoreout here than where we livebecause of all the pollutionand lights, but then that sortof bums me out because thepollution makes me feel sohelpless.”

“Okay, right. Nothingmore?”

I sighed. “It’s all so bigand beautiful and blah, blah,blah.”

He laughed. “The blah,blah,blahiswhateveryoneisafraidtoletin.”

There itwas, that letting-in phrase again. What was Iafraidtoletin?This?

“I feel so small—likewhen I’m sitting here andlooking up, I realize thatnothing is ever still, those

starsareconstantlyimplodingand dying and new ones areborn, and we’re on somespinning hunk of rock in themiddleofagalaxyandwhenyou look at it thatway, hell,you realize how insignificantwe really are, and it’s scary,but then you wonder, howcan we be alone? It’s purearrogance to think we’re allaloneintheuniverse,andit’sanicethought—thenotbeing

alone.“But then someone hurts

you, or pushes you into alocker, or breaks your heart,and you realize how aloneyou are, and it blows. Andit’s that uncertainty thatmakes us all batshit crazy,right? What does life mean?What if it means nothing?Well, when I’m playing,when I close my eyes, it’slike for a split second, just a

sipoftime,Iunderstandstuffand I’m part of everything.And I know there’ssomething more—canphysically feel connected toit, can feel it going throughme.Sothat’sit,that’swhereIgo when it looks like I’mwhispering. I know it soundsweird but I think everyonehas something like that, youknow? I think you have itwhenyoudraw.Isawittoday

in your eyes, when youshowed me your version ofthat house. It was fuckingbrilliant.”

Time stood still in thatmoment. Listening to Jessetalk, the intensity behind hiswords, the mystery of thenight sky, even the cold—itallfilledme.Jazzpoppedintomyhead,hersparkly,magicallove glitter . . . a personcracking open. Jesse had

always been open, with hissmile, his foam art atMugshot,whenheplayedtheguitar—I was the onecracking open into a wholeotherperson.

“Please,saysomething.”“I think the whispering

thingissexy,”Isaid.He was silent, but I felt

themovementofhisheadonthe blanket as he shifted inmydirection.

Astar imploding,anotherone being born. I wascrackingopen,lettinghimin,Icouldn’tstopit.

“Jesse, I lied about thebirthday thing, about notliking to celebrate. I thinkbecause it never lived up towhat I thought it should be.That people tried too hard tohave a good time or makesure Iwashappy.This is thebirthday I never knew I

wanted.”I turned toward Jesse,

knowing when our eyes metthat I would be a goner.Mylips tingled at the thought oftouching his, but a largeshadow loomed over him. Isat bolt-upright, my handcoveringmymouthinasilentscream.

Heshotuptoo.“What...oh,shit.”

Jesse blocked my body

with his, laying his handsdown on either side ofme. Ipeered over his shoulder,grabbingontothehoodofhissweatshirt.

A massive buck stoodabout five feet away.Towering over us with long,spindly antlers sproutingtreelike from its head. Hepawed at the grass andgrunted, white tendrils ofbreathcomingfromitssnout.

Wesatfrozenontheground,waiting for something tohappen.

“Is he going to charge atus or something?” I hadvisions of being gored withthose antlers, right throughbothofus.AndIneverkissedJesse.

“I don’t know,” hewhispered.

“Shouldwerunforit?”“No, just stay still.” He

sounded confident, but hisheartwaspoundingasfastasmine. I could feel it throughhissweatshirt.

The buck grunted againand lifted its head, frozen amoment except for its ears,which pricked up, twitching.Glassy, dark eyes staredunblinking.Iwasn’tsurehowlong we sat like that, but itfelt like forever, until moreshadows emerged. There

were five to ten more deer,walking slowly across thefield. Jesse laughed, low. Ididn’t feel threatenedanymore, just fascinated.Theywerebeautiful,gracefulwithouteventrying.Thebuckstamped its foot once againbefore galloping off to jointheothers.

“Well, that wasinteresting,” he said, lettingout a ragged breath. He

leaned back on his hands,legs out in front of him, feetmoving back and forthreleasingpent-upenergy.

My heart still throbbedfrom the rush. “You sat infrontofme.”

“I did,” he said, lookingup at the sky. A smile creptacrosshisface.

“Verychivalrous.”Heleanedtowardmeand

nudgedmewithhisshoulder.

“YousaidIwassexy,”hesaid, straightening up, stilllookingatthesky.

I wrapped my armsaround my knees, hid myface, and laughed. “Thewhispering thing. I said thatwhisperingthingwassexy.”

He swept his fingers intomyhair,rakingpastmyeartothe nape of my neck. Ishivered, resting my cheekagainst my knees so I could

lookathim.“You know where else I

was when I played thatsong?”

Ishookmyhead.Hekepthiseyesonmine,

moving closer. I straightenedup,tiltedmyfacetowardhis.The tip of his nose grazedmine. I closed my eyes,anticipatingthekiss,butJesseonlynuzzledmyface,hislipsbrushingmycheek.Hekissed

my neck, the hollow belowmy ear, and sent a flood ofwarmth throughme,my skinelectric.

“Jess,” I whispered, lipstrembling.

Henippedmyearlobe. “Iwashere.”

Kissed my temple. “Andhere.”

I grabbed a fistful of hissweatshirt, turning towardhim. The leather jacket was

suddenlyawkwardandbulky,squeaking as I moved. Hehesitated,handsoneithersideof my face, our foreheadstouching.Oureyeswereopenasourlips touched, lightlyatfirst. Jesse closed his eyes,kissingmefullonthemouth,his tongue coaxing my lipsopen,aswefellbacksidebyside, onto the blanket, ourlegstanglinguptogether.

BroodyBaristacouldkiss.

I unzipped the jacket,grabbed his hand, andbroughtittowardmywaist.

“Mmmmmm,” hemoaned,movinghis handupmy back and pulling meagainst him. We kissed thatway for a while, shiftingpositions, dissolving intoeach other.The air nipped atthe sliver of bare skinbetween my tee and PJbottoms.Reality.

“Jess,” I said betweenkisses, “I can’t feel myfingers.”

He laughed and grabbedmy icy hand, enfolded it inhis.“Samehere.”

“Do you think . . .maybe,” I said, hesitating.What did I want? I wantedmore of this, of him, butwhere?CouldIreallyaskhimbacktomyroom?Itfeltodd.

He looked toward the

house. “No one’s awake, wecould...”

“Sneak into my room,” Isaid.

He touched his foreheadtomine.

I continued. “Not to, youknow . . . just . . .There’s adoorthatcanshut.”

“Exactly,” he finished,kissing the now-frozen tip ofmynose,mylipsagain.

Jesse stood up first, held

out a hand and pulledme tostanding. He gathered theblanket and threw it aroundboth our shoulders as weheaded toward the house. Itlooked so far away. Hestoppedandpulledme in foranother kiss, before wedecided to run for it.Trompingupthestairs,Iwasdizzy at the thought ofpicking up where we’d leftoff.He opened the door.We

were greeted by three littlefur faces, panting andwagging their hello. AuntJulia was in the kitchen,stirringapotonthestove.

“Icouldn’tsleep.Anyonewant cocoa? You guys lookfrozen.”

Jess and I looked at eachotherandlaughed.

“That sounds great, AuntJulia,”hesaid.

EIGHTEENJESSE

THE SMELL OF COFFEE ANDBACON NUDGED ME awake.Andthenaflashoflastnight—kissing Madison. Had itreally happened? That fiveminutes—or five seconds—

seemedlikeaneternity.Then,ournightcutshort.

IcouldjusthearTanner....

Dude, cock-blocked bycocoa?Epic.

Notthattherewouldhavebeen enough of anythinggoing on to block, but thethought of being alone withMadison made a beat pumpthrough my brain. Whenwould that happen again?

Last night had been perfect,like stars and planets alignedperfectly. Was itFallingwater? The chocolatecake? My guitar playing? Amagical combination ofeverything? God—the wayshe looked at me—beingaroundherwasatotalrush.

Charlie burst through hisdoor.

“C’mon, everyone’sawake. Breakfast!” He raced

out of his room with moreenthusiasm than anyoneshouldbe allowed tohave inthemorning.Igrabbedashirtand made a pit stop in thebathroom to gargle with aswig of mouthwash beforeheading out to the kitchen.Madison was up already,talking to Sara as they satsidebysideatthetable.

Dead puppies, greatwhites,genitalwarts.Becool,

Jess.Mysmilewasaforcethat

couldnotbestopped.I grabbed a plate and sat

acrossfromMadison.Don’tstare.Her presence was a

magnet pull. It took all myeffort not to look at herbecauseonceIdid,IknewI’djust start laughing ordroppingsilverwareor losingcontrolofmysensesbecause

all Iwanted todowas swipethebreakfastdishesawayandcontinue where we left offlastnight.

“I taught my friend howto do a fishtail braid, so yes,your hair is perfect for that,”Madison said to Sara. “Hey,Jess,wehavetimebeforewego, right? I can fix Sara’shair?”

Hereyesplantedonmine.Gone was that hungry look.

Her face was so neutral, shecould have been ordering achaifromme.Asifwehadn’tswapped spit out in thepasture,orIhadn’tsavedherfrom a mutant buck, ordazzled her with my guitarprowess.Nada.

“Ah,yeah,”Isaid.“Great.”Shedug intoher

plate of eggs. Somethingtickled my foot. I flinchedand looked under the table,

expecting to see one of thedogs. Madison’s socked footslipped under the cuff ofmyjeans.Proof lastnightwasn’tadream.Ibitbackagrinandreachedforsomebacon.

After breakfast andshowersandhairbraiding,wesaidgood-byeandstartedthelong trek home. The fartherawaywegot frommyaunt’shouse, the more unreal it allseemed, at least to me.

Madison stared out thewindow,takinginthesceneryas we drove. It was a goodday for a drive—perfect,cloudless blue sky and openroads.

Whenwehitthefirsttwo-lane road, Ipulled intoagasstationandshiftedthecarintopark.

“Jess,Ithinkit’sclosed.”I unhooked my seat belt

and leaned toward her, my

hand inherhair.Shepaused,before bringing her facetoward mine. Our lipstouched, soft, sweet. Isqueezed my eyes shut,imagining last night’s starrysky, the perfection of thatmoment, of this one, of her.Hertongueteasedmineaswekisseddeeper.Icouldnotgetenoughofher.Ikissedthetipof her nose, her forehead,finallybreakingaway.

“I wanted to do that allmorning,”Isaid.

Sheputherfingers toherlips and smiled. “Me too.Doesithavetoend?Can’twejustgoback?Screwschool.”

“We could squat atFallingwater. You couldsketch.”Ipulledthecarbackontotheroad.

“And you could entertaineveryone with your guitar.Could you imagine? How

freakin’ awesomewould thatbe?” She hunkered down,proppedherfeetonthedash,and put her hand over mine,nudging her index fingerunderneathmy pinkie on theeight-ballstickshift.Ismiled.

“Although, we couldn’twalk around naked oranything,”shesaid.

Ilaughed.“Areyoutryingto make me drive off theroad?”

“Never.” She squeezedmyhand.

“Wecouldjustliveinthatguesthouse, have our ownprivatepool.”

“You were payingattention.”

“Ofcourse,”Isaid.I could have driven like

that forever, just one longwinding road, with Madisonholding my hand. My mindkept interrupting, though—

makingmethink.QuestionsIwas afraid to ask because Iknew they would wreck themood, but I wanted to knowthe answers anyway. Whatwerewedoing?Could I kissher again? Were we . . .together?

Why ruin the momentwithreality?

Madisonspokefirst.“So why did you and

Hannahbreakup?”

Ah, so she had questionstoo.

“Where’smygrape?”She smiled. “No grapes

today.Youdon’thavetotalkaboutitifyoudon’twant.”

I peeked over at her. Shechewed her thumbnail andstudied my face. Talkingabout Hannah didn’t botherme, but the dose of realitymade it seem like Hannahwas in the backseat, leaning

forward,waitingtohearwhatIwouldsayabouther.

“It’scool.Askaway.”“How long were you

together?”“Forever.”She shifted in the seat,

taking her feet off the dash.“Hmm, that sounds like alongtime.”

“We live on the sameblock,soIdon’tknow,ithasalways sort of felt that way,

but we weren’t together,together until the end of herfreshmanyear.”

I spilled more than Iplanned,butsomethingaboutbeing behind the wheel,driving through themountains,notlookingherinthe eyes, made it easier totalk.

“What made you breakup?”

“You’dhavetoaskher.”

“So you didn’t want tobreakup?”

There was something inthe tone of her voice thatmademewant to change thesubject. The whispering,sexy, chivalrous guitar godwas turning back intoaverage-Joe barista in thenoondaysun.

“I, um . . . at the time, Iguess no. I didn’t reallyexpect it, I was sort of

blindsided. They’re happytogether—it hurt to see themlikethatatfirst,butnow,it’sokay Iguess. Imean, Idon’twanttohangoutwiththemoranything, but, you know, if Ibump into them, I think I’llbeallright.”

“Did you break upbecauseofthedrummer?”

“AtfirstI thoughtso,butit was more than that. Wedidn’t spend any time

together.And then Iwas latefor her birthday party. Sweetsixteen.Shittythingtodo,butatthetime—”

“Herbirthday?”“Yeah.”Her brow furrowed.

“Ironic,no?”“Huh?”“Think about it. We just

hadthisawesometimeformybirthday. Maybe you’retrying to make up for that.

Subconsciously orsomething?”

“No. That’s ridiculous.”Wasn’tit?

She laughed. “Chill, Jess,I’m just fooling around.WieldingmyAPPsychologyknowledge. I didn’t mean tohitanerve.Sorry.”

“Youdidn’thitanerve.”She curled her feet

underneath her and fiddledwiththeradio.

“Man, do you think wecan find a station withoutstatic?” She fiddled arounduntil she hit upon whatsounded like a pop station.Closed her eyes. End ofconversation.

Was it true? Had I justorchestrated this whole thingfor Madison’s birthdaybecause I was still somehowtrying to make up for mymistake? No. No. The truth

was, it never would haveoccurred to me to dosomething like that forHannah, and that made mefeel worse. My relationshipwithHannahhadbeeneasy,Ineverhad towork foranyofit.Shewasprettyandeasytotalk to and we had thishistory, but Madisonchallengedme. I’dwanted tosurpriseher, todo somethingthat would really matter. I

was over Hannah. Over us.Andourbreakuphadnothingto do with Duncan andeverythingtodowithme.

WefinallyreachedMadison’shouse at dusk. I pulled intothespot infrontofherhouseand killed the ignition. I’dbeen so confident after lastnight, and in the morningwhen I’d pulled over at thegas station, but in our

everyday reality, the spellwas broken. She made amovetogetout.

“Wait,”Isaid.“What’sup?”“What you said before—

thewholesubconsciousthing—” She slumped back downintotheseat.“Jess,I’msorry.Ididn’tmeananythingbyit.Iwas being a smartass. That’ssortofwhatIdo,whenthingsgettooreal.”

“Real?”“The past twenty-four

hourshavebeenmaybesomeofthebestofmylife.Itflewby, and the thing is—Inevereven thought about wantingtobe anywhere else.Orwithanyoneelse.Itwasnice.”

Sheplayedwiththestringon my hoodie, pulled meclose.

“I like you, Madison. Ididn’tdo this tomakeup for

anything.Ididitforyou.AndI really hope we can do thisagain.Notthisexactly,butdostuff.Together.”

Maybe I was being tooreal,butIcouldn’thelpit.

“Me too, Jesse,” shewhispered,andputherlipstomine.“Walkmeup?”

“Yes.”

NINETEENMADISON

JESSE SLUNGMYBAGOVERHISSHOULDERANDWE walked upthe stairs to my porch.NormallyIclimbedthemtwoat a time, but I took it slow,feeling the railing under my

fingertips,clingingtothelastmoments of our road trip,because once we said good-bye,Fallingwaterwouldbeinthepast.Amemory.Iwasn’tready for that. I hadn’t evengiven Jesse back his jacket.Maybe if I didn’t sayanything, I could keep itovernight, wear it to school,keep theweekend alive eveninasmallway.

The porch light was on,

but thehousewasdark.Odd.My mother was supposed tohave been finished with herRYTclassbyearlyafternoon.Her carwas in thedriveway.She should have been home.Not that I expected awelcoming committee but Ithoughtatleastshe’dwanttohear how my unofficialbirthday road trip went.Whatever.

“I need my bag,” I said.

Jesse handed it to me and Iknelt down to rummagethroughthesidecompartmentfor my keys. I tucked themintomy pocket, rezipped thebag, and stood up. A fewweeksagowhenI’ddyedhishair,JesseandI’dbeeninthesame face-to-face position tosay good-bye. I’d thoughtabout kissing him then, butnow I wanted to act on it. Ituggedhishoodiestrings.

“Comehere.”“Whatdoyouwant?”“You.”Hesmiledundermykiss,

then finally surrendered tomy persuasive tongue. I’dspent the better part of lastnight tossing and turning,imagining what might havebeen if his aunt Julia hadn’tgreeted us with cocoa. Thiswas worth the wait. I pulledback.Whynottakeadvantage

ofmymother’sabsence?“Wanna come in for a

bit?”He scratched the back of

hishead.“Uhhh—”“Ornot,Ijustthought—”“Yeah, sure. Kind of not

readytogohomeyet.”My fingerswerenoodles,

useless after the kiss.Key inlock,Mads.

I finally turned the knob,and pushed open the door.

Thehousewasstill.“Hello?”Icalled,shutting

thedoorbehindus.Silence.I walked through the

kitchen and flicked on thelight. Everything was inplace.Notevenanoteonthetable. Living room the same.Then I took a breath andcreakedupthestairs.

“Hello?”Iturnedonthelampatthe

top landing.All thedoorsonthesecondfloorwereopen.

We were alone. For howlong I wasn’t sure, but Ididn’t care. My motherobviouslydidn’teitherorelseshewouldhavebeenhome.

Jesse stood at the foot ofthe stairs. Waiting. I slippedoffthejacketandhungitoverthe banister. I raked myfingersthroughhishair.

“Closeyoureyes.”

“Madison.”“Trustme.”Herelented.“So we’re walking back

fromthemeadowandnooneis awake—what would wehavedone?”

I broughtmy forehead tohis, tracing his lips with thetip of my tongue. His handsfoundmywaist, caressed thecurveofmyhipsashekissedme full, takingmy tongue in

his mouth. I threw my armsaroundhim,closingthespacebetween us. He staggeredback and my feet left theground. I wrapped my legsaround him, but themomentummadeusfallbackonto the stairs. My butt atleast softened the blow. Hishands were on either side ofme.

“Are you okay?” heasked.

“Just kiss me.” For themoment his mouth was theperfect sedative, and whocared if we were in thisawkward position on thestairs—they always did thissort of thing in the movies,fadetoblack.Therealitywasdifferent,though,andaboutaminute in, the pain in mybackwentfromdulltosharp.My spine wasn’t meant tofollow the angles of stairs

whileJessedidtheequivalentof a push-up—breaking thelaws of our own organicarchitecture.

“Maybe we should takethis somewhere else,” I saidbetweenkisses.

“Mmmm...”“Comeon,Jess.”Aswegottomybedroom

door, my mother’s facepoppedintomyhead.Whatifshecamehomenow,wouldit

piss her off? I turned onmybedside lamp, and Jesse’seyeswanderedtheroom.

“Hey, you did this?” Hepointed at my dresser to amodel of Hearst Tower,which I’d built out ofPopsicle sticks for asophomoreartproject.

“Guilty. I love thatdesign.”

“Cool,” he said, movingovertomydesk.Iresistedthe

urge to dart in front of himand body-block it. It was adisaster zone. Koh-I-Noorpens with missing caps,crumpled paper with faileddrafting attempts, rubber-bandbraceletsthatIstillworesometimes. I noticedsomethingelse,somethinghewasabouttopickup.

“Oh,um.”I froze, fingers on my

lips. My cheeks burned. I

normally didn’t blush but itfelt like I could light thewhole room. This was toopersonal. For both of us. Helookedatthesketch—theoneI drew from the picture ofhim from that night at theSadie Hawkins Dance—without saying a word. Iwouldn’thaveblamedhim ifhewantedtoleave—Iwantedto leave. Why had I askedhim in?Where the heckwas

mymotherwhenIneededhertointrude?

“Isthis—?”“You? Yes.” I stepped

from one foot to the other.“Fromthatnightatthedance.You were in the backgroundof this picture I took andwhen I saw it I thought—itmade me wonder what youwere looking at, and I juststarteddoodlingand,Iknow,it’sawful.”

“Noit’snot.”Hetiltedhisheadashestudiedthesketch.

Thequestionthatinspiredme to draw the pictureproddedmybrain.

“Were you really justthere to see the band thatnight?”

He nodded, placed thepaper back on the desk, andturned to me. His eyes weredifferent,ormaybeIwas—hehad theupperhand,heknew

somehow he had caught aglimpseofmeinthatpicture.HeknewthatIthoughtabouthim. I stepped back as hecametowardme.

“I sawHannah that night—with Duncan. That’s thenight I realized they weren’ttogether to screw me over.They were just together. Itook off that infinity braceletafterthat.”

“Oh.”

His fingers traced myjawline, snaked up into myhair.

“Soyoudon’tthinkI’matotal creeper for drawingyou?”

He answered me with akiss so soft and sweet itwaslike taking a sip of a warmdrink;heatcreptdowntomytoes,tomyfingertipsasIputmy arms around him. Hisheart thumped against mine.

We fell back onto my bed,tangledupineachother—mykneebetweenhis,hishandonmyhip.

His lips explored mycheek,my forehead. I kissedhisneck, thespacebelowhisear.Hesighedandpulledmecloser.

“Stay,” I whispered,laying my cheek against hischest,feelingtheriseandfallof his breath underneathme.

His laugh vibrated in his ribcage.

“Sure.”I snuggled against him,

my head fitting perfectly inthecrookofhisneck.Iclosedmyeyes.

Soperfectly.Soperfect.Soperf...

“Madison.”I opened my eyes, my

cheekstillonJesse’schest.Ittook a moment to orientmyself. Howmuch time hadpassed? I proppedmyself uponmyhands.

My mother stood at thefoot of the bed. A creaseformed on the bridge of hernose as she looked at Jesse,then me. I nudged Jess. Hekind of gasped awake,running a hand across hisface,eyessoftwithsleep.He

lookedsodamncuteashesatup, all I wanted to do waspushhimbackdownandkisshim. Well, maybe if mymother hadn’t been boringholesintomybrain.

“What time is it?” Iprayed she wouldn’t start inonmeabouthimbeinginmyroom. She had to see it wasinnocent.

“It’s a little after eight.”Hervoicewasclipped.

“Wow.” Jesse blinked afewtimesbeforestandingup.I followed, ignoring theweightofmymother’sglare.

“Where were you? Ithoughtyou’dbehomewhenwe got here,” I said. Herfeaturessoftenedslightly.

“A few of us went outafter class. Why are you uphere? How long have youbeenhome?”

I looked at Jess; his face

wasblankbuthe’dcaughtmymother’s miffed vibe. Heshovedhishandssodeepintohis hoodie pockets, the frontstretchedtaut.

“Around six maybe,” Ianswered.

She nodded and lookedbetweenus.

“Jesse, Madison’s notallowedtohaveguestsonthesecond floor. I guess shedidn’tmentionthat.”

She hadn’t yelled, butsomehowthatmade itworse.My gut wrenched withshame.“Mom.”

The room became avortex of awkward. Jesseeyedthedoorandthenlookedat me, his eyes pleading tomakearunforit.Inodded.

“I, um, didn’t realize itwas so late, I better gethome,”hesaid.

“I’llwalkyouout.”

“Howwasthetrip,guys?”Mymotherfollowedusdownthestairs.

She really expected alightheartedconvoaftershe’djusthumiliatedme?

“Oh, it was great,” Jesseanswered. “We had a goodtime.”

“And the drive?” sheaskedaswehitthelanding.

“Long,”wesaid together.Ibitmytonguetostopmyself

from saying jinx. It seemedliketoomuchofafun,casualthing to say after gettingcaught upstairs. Even thoughwehadn’tactuallybeendoinganything. I reached for thedoor.Mymother opened hermouthtosaysomething.

“He has to leave,” Isnapped. It came out a littlemore forceful than Imeant itto sound. She recoiledslightly.

“Well, have a safe ridehome, Jesse. I’mmaking tea,Mads,wantsome?”

“Nope.”Iclosedthedoorbehind us and stepped ontotheporch.“I’msosorryaboutthat.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Heleaned down so his mouthwasbymyear.“Itwasworthit.”

I growled, tugged on thefront of his hoodie. “I don’t

wantthisweekendtoend.”“Maybe,” he said, “we

can think of it as abeginning.”

“Jess.”Wekissed.“I’llcallyou.”Hebacked

off the porch, keeping hiseyes on me until he finallyrealizedgoingdownthestepsin reverse in the dark mightnotbethesmartestmove.Heturned and jumped over the

lasttwostairstothesidewalk.I waited until the VW wasdown the street beforeheadingbackintothehouse.

My mother was in thekitchen, standing over thekettle. Her cup and sauceralready on the counter,chamomiletaghangingout.

“Whydidyouhave todothat?”

She looked at me, thesamefaceasshehadonwhen

I saw her at the foot of mybed.

“Icouldaskyouthesamething. You know how I feel—”

“We didn’t do anythingexceptfallasleep.”

“It’sonerule,Madison.”Oneridiculousrule.“I’m seventeen, Mom.

Maybeit’stimetochange.”Sheseemedtoconsiderit.

“I’ll think about it, but for

now, you broke a trust—I’mnothappyaboutthat.”

Herwordssunkin.Trust.Nothappyaboutthat.I stomped out of the

kitchen.What the frig? I stomped

rightbackin.“YousaidIbrokeatrust?

What about you? You’vedonenothingbutlietomemyentirelife.”

“That’snotfair.”“Another word that you

shouldstopusing.”“Madison, enough—I’m

nottalkingaboutmychoices,I’m talking about yours. Myrule about not going upstairsis about boundaries. Don’tblow this up into somethingit’snot.”

“You’re theone throwingaround the ‘trust’ word. Itmakesyouahypocrite.”

“What do youwant fromme? I can’t go back andchange anything. I can onlydeal with what’s in front ofme. I screwed up. I knowthat.I’msorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t makeanything better!” I left theroominahuff.Shefollowed.

“Don’t you think I knowthat? Paul’s angry with me.You’re angry with me—andfor that I’m actually grateful

—we both thought youweretakingthistoowell.Youhaveeveryrighttobeoutraged.”

“You’re grateful that I’mangry? So now even beingangry isn’tmy choice either,you’re allowing me to feelthiswaybecauseit’stherightthing?Thanks,Mom.”

“You know that’s notwhat Imeant.All I’msayingisgettingangryispartofit—yell at me, don’t talk to me,

whatever it takes for you toget through this, so you canfindyourwaytoforgiveme.”

“Omigod, just cut it withthe earthy-crunchy pop-yogaspeak already.” I openedmyarms wide as I walkedthroughhermeditationspace.“I could probably meditatefor twentyyears and still notfindmywaytoforgiveyou.”

I trippedovertheedgeofthe bolster, flailing to keep

upright.MyfingertipsgrazedthestatueonthemantelandIwatched in horror as itslipped over the edge. Ireached out to save it, butLaughingBuddhasmashedtothe floor into several littleplasterchunks. It soberedmeup from the fight. The kettlewhistled from the kitchen.My mother stood still, handover her mouth. Her eyesgrewglassy.WhydidIgooff

likethat?“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I

whispered, bending down tocleanup.

“Don’ttouchit.”“Mom.”“Justgo.I’lldealwithit.”Shewalked back into the

kitchen. The kettle sputteredand went silent. I flewupstairs to my room,slamming the door behindme.Iwaitedformymotherto

stormupthestairsandyellatme for making the houserattle,buttherewereonlythesounds of her putteringthrough the roomsdownstairs. I guess I couldhave insisted on cleaning upthe mess I made. Was shereallythatbrokenupoverthestatue?

No.Ofcoursenot, itwaseverythingbeforethat.

Itfeltgoodtogetthatoff

mychest,butmaybeI’dbeenalittletoodramaticaboutthetrust thing. I knew she feltbad about everything, that ifshe could change things shewould, but—she couldn’t.The only thing we couldchange was right now. Puttogethersomenewversionofus with Paul included—likeform ever follows function inarchitecture, we’d shape anewfamily to suitus.And it

was about time the second-floor rule was retired. Iwasn’talatchkeykid.Icouldhandlemyself. I’d be onmyown in the summer program—andinalittleoverayear,ifall went well, I’d be on myowninschool.

Once she finishedher teashe’d probably knock onmydoor—I could apologize,really tell her about theweekend—but when she

came up the stairs herfootstepswentpastmyroom.The lockonherdoorclickedshut.

Screwit,then.I took a scalding-hot

showerandchangedintoateeand PJ bottoms. While Ibrushed my teeth I heard adrumming noise. My phone.Jesse. I ran out of thebathroom and intomy room,doing a quick scan to figure

out where the ring wascoming from, then realized itwas from downstairs. Iclomped down the stairs,nearlytrippingagain,beforeIrealized I’d leftmyphone inthe pocket of Jesse’s leatherjacket, which still hung overthe railing. I grabbed thejacket, rifling through thepockets for the phone. Theping of change echoedthrough the hall as the

contentsofoneofhispocketsspilledontothestairs.

“Shit.”The phone stopped

ringing. I tapped in myunlock code and swiped theflashlight feature so I couldpickupwhathadfallenoutofthepocket.Therewasasmallrectangleofgum,afewcoins,a green guitar pick, and anapkin from WhiskeyBusiness with some sort of

writingonit. Igathereditupinmypalmandwentbacktomy room to sort it out andcheckmymessages.

I sat on the bed and slidthe change back into Jesse’spocket. Iunwrapped thegumand put it in my mouth—cinnamon. Ha, I’d peggedhim as more of a spearmintguy,not surewhy. Iheld thegreenguitarpickbetweenmyfingers. It was smooth—the

word Fender worn offslightly in the center of it. Ituckeditbackintohispocket.

The Whiskey Businessnapkin had writing on it.Therewas a name—Becca—written in swirly blueletteringandaphonenumberunderneath.Ismootheditoutonmybed, just tomakesureI wasn’t seeing things—maybeitwasjustthenumberfor the bar, maybe this was

some special marketinggimmick tomake it look likepen—butasIlookedcloseritwasindeedagirl’snameandnumber, in blue ink that hadsmeared. The surge ofjealousy that flared in mystomachsurprisedme.

I scrolled through mymessages. There were fourfromJesse.Thelastoneread:

Asleep?

And a voice mail to callhim at any time.He’d be upforawhile.

Andthentherewasatextfrom...Zach?

Missubabe.HB!

Thedate stampwas fromthe previous night and musthavebeendelayeddue tomebeing in the Middle ofNowhere, Pennsylvania.

Maybeitwasadrunktext.Hehadn’t looked like he wasgoing to miss me when hehoppedintothecarthatnightinHoboken.Thephonerang.Jesse. I let it roll over tovoicemail.

You’re overreacting. Anumber in a pocket doesn’tmean anything. And look,Zach texted you. Are yougoingtotellJessethat?

I said these things to

myself, even understoodthem, but the ragged feelingate away at me anyway.Without thinking I flattenedout thenapkinandcalled thenumber. After two rings, agirl’s perky voice sang,“Hello?”ontheotherend.

WhatwasIdoing?“Um,hello?”I deepened my voice.

“CanIspeaktoJesse?”“Who?”

“JesseMcMann?”“Wrongnumber.”Click.I stood up and threw the

phoneonmybed.Ididn’tdojealousy. The voice on theother end took on thephantomformofsomeleggy,hot girl named Becca, readyto leave lipstick stains onJesse’sskinwithoutathoughtifhehadanyoneelse.

Whydidthisbothermesomuch?

Allof thethingsI’ddonewith Jesse over the pasttwenty-four hours came backin a rush. What I told himabout Paul being my fatherand the way I felt aboutbirthdays.Howrightitfelttokiss him in the meadow, towake up in his arms in myroom, no matter how muchtrouble it got me into. Howcouldanapkinwithanumberjust pull it out from under

me?I’dcrackedopen,lethimin, and I hated howvulnerable it made me feel,thatthisfeelinghadsomesortof power over me, mademedoridiculousthingslikecallastranger.

Maybewe can think of itasabeginning.

How could I beginanything, when I couldn’teventrust—

Trust. That fucking word

again.I flopped back down on

mybed,pickedupmyphone,anddialed.

He picked up almostimmediately.

“Madison?Hey.”I needed a dose of the

familiar.“Zach . . . thanks for the

birthdaywishes.”

TWENTYJESSE

I COULDN’T REMEMBER THEDRIVEHOME.ALLIcouldthinkofwas her face, theway shelooked up at me, the gentlecurve of her jawline. All Icouldhearwasthatbeatfrom

the morning when I firstwoke up—the one that wentthrough my brain when Ithought about being alonewith her in the meadow. Ithought about the stars, theheat of her mouth when wekissed. Fragments comingtogether.Andthenwords...

Youcomeinlikeastorm.I was writing a song,

withouteven realizing it.Myfingers burned to bring the

soundtolife.When I got home, the

house was quiet.My parentswere parked in front of theTV watching a movie wheredragons battled an army inthe desert. I leaned over thetopofthecouchtosayhello,but they were both soundasleep with Ty’s babymonitorontheendtablenextto them. I backed awayquietly and went upstairs.

There was a sliver of lightcomingfromDaisy’s room.Ipokedmyheadin.

“Hey,I’mhome,”Isaid.She looked up from her

book.“Yeah,so.”I laughed;herenthusiasm

killedme.“Night,Daze.”I flicked on the light in

myroomandclosedthedoorbehindme.Myacousticsatinits stand, abandoned sinceHannahDunk. I took off my

hoodie, grabbed the guitar,and sat on the edge of mybed. All went silent in mybrain. I put down the guitar.Grabbed my phone. Sent afewtexts toMadison,hopingsome interaction wouldinspireme.Nothing.

I called and left a voicemail.

She’d probably changedher mind about having teawith her mother. Her phone

couldbedead.Or possibly you should

calm the fuck downand stopacting like a drooling lovezombie.

I picked up the Yamahaagain,wishing Iwere one ofthose divinely inspiredmusicians who could comeup with a song in an hour.The guitar had fallen out oftune.Ittookafewsecondstohit that sweet sound, but

when it got there, I startedstrumming, trying to pindownthemelodyinmyhead.

Eyesalightwithfire.Anotherline.I grabbed my song

notebook from my desk,openedtoafreshpage.

Therewasaknockonthedoor.

“Yeah.”Mom stood in the

doorway, her eyes darting

across thebas-reliefmydirtyclothes formed across thefloor.“Jess—thisroom.”

“Oh, sorry, I’ll clean it.DidIwakeyou?”

She came in and sat onthe foot of the bed. “Nah. Ithought I heard Ty stirring.How did I miss you comein?”

“Youguysweresleeping,I didn’t want to bother you.Must have been some

movie,”Isaid.“Your father picked that

out.Anytime Igetamomentto sit still, I end up fallingasleep these days. Taxseason,ugh.Iwantedtomakesureyougotinokay.”

“Yep,I’min.”She nodded, looked

aroundtheroomagain.“So...areyougoingtotellmehowthe weekend went? Or am Ijust going to have to get the

skinnyfromAuntJulia?”Ilaughedandstrummed.“Like you haven’t

already.”“You know me, yes, we

talked, but it’s only becauseyou’resotight-lipped.”

“Madisonlikedit,alot.”“And I heard you guys

tookalittlemoonlightstroll.”Aunt Julia. Nothing was

sacred.“See, I don’t need to tell

youanything.DidAunt Juliasayanythingelse?”

“Only that it was nice tosee you happy. She thoughtyouandMadisonmadeaverycutecouple.”

“We’renotacouple,yet,”I said, not even sure what Imeant. I knew that I neededto take things at a glacialpace, butmy heart had otherideas.

Shesawmynotebookand

smiled. “Writing again too, Isee.”

“Tryingto.”“It’ll come. Don’t try so

hard,sometimesthebeststuffpops up when you’reunfocused.”Shestoodup.

Musical wisdom wasusually Dad’s forte—hearingthis from hermademe thinkofwhatDeclansaidthatnightatWhiskeyBusiness.

“Mom.”

“Yeah.”Shepausedatthedoor. I tried topictureherasthat long-hairedgirl fromthephoto in Deck’s office. Mymother, so straight-laced andorganized, who could spendhoursporingover tax returnsandfinditachallenge,didn’texactly strikemeasa singer,backuporotherwise.

“Whydidn’tyouevertellme you sang with Dad’sband?”

She laughed, leanedagainst the doorjamb. “Whotoldyouthat?”

“Declan. The picture inhisoffice.”

“That’s another life,Jesse.Wow.God,Deckusedto play some real awfulplaces, and whenever myfriends weren’t around, I’dsing backup to avoid gettinghiton.”

“And you never thought

todoitmore?”“I could carry a tune, but

it really wasn’t my thing.Declan’stheonewhowantedme to take itmore seriously,there were some clubs hewantedtoplaywhereitwasaplus to have a girl in theband. I went to one of hisvoice lessons with him—theone we were talking aboutwith the voice coach whosaid,‘Ifyou’regonnablowit,

blow it big’—and I couldn’tstoplaughing.Kindofpissedhim off—so that was myshort-livedsingingcareer.”

“WasDadtheretoo?”Mom looked up, chewed

the side of her lip beforespeaking. “I knew Declanbefore your father, Jess.Backtalk was together for ayear before your fatherjoined.”

I’d only assumed in the

band stories that my fathertold thatMomwas always—well, I knew that’s how theymetbut . . . thepicture fromDeclan’s office came to mymind.

Holyeffingshit.“Mom, what are you

saying?”She actually giggled and

wavedherhandatme.“Icanbetight-lippedtoo,

Jess. Good night. Keep it

down. And make sure youpick up this room at somepointthisweek.”

“Goodnight,Mom.”I strummed the guitar

again,playingaround, lettingthewordscollideinmybrain.I picked up the pen andscribbledafewmorelines.

Thenithitme.Dadwasfreakin’Duncan.

“Musthavebeenonehelluva

weekendifyouwereinspiredto write a song, but I don’tsee how we can make itsound good by Saturday,especially if you’re stillworking on the lyrics.”Tanner plucked at his bass.We’dbeenpracticingforjustabout an hour at Lot 23 andstill couldn’t get the song togelthewayIwanteditto.

“John Lennon wrote‘Across the Universe’ in a

night,”Graysonsaid.“Dude, thanks, but I’m

notJohnLennon.”“Just saying, it’s not

impossible.”“And I’m saying it is

impossible,ifwewanttowinthebattle.AndIdon’twanttojust win, I want to crushKenny,”Tannersaid,playingthe bass line to Pink Floyd’s“Money”andgrinning.

Iwantedtowinthebattle

and crushKenny too, and anoriginal song would give usan edge. There was more toit, of course. Whether I’dadmitittotheguysornot,thesong was for Madison. Thefew words I had seemed soordinary and disconnectedthat Iwas close to scrappingthewholething.Youcomeinlike a storm. . . . What didthatevenmean?

“We know Plasma is

goingtodoanoriginal,so—”“Don’t bring that up.

You’retheonewhogaveoursong to Duncan, Jess,”Tannersaid.

“And I’m trying tomakeup for it with somethingbetter. Just take it from thebridge.”Westartedagain,butit sounded pretty much likethree dudes making noise.Gray went off a bit on thedrumsandstopped.Whathad

soundedamazing inmyheadand on my acoustic was nottranslating. It was so damnfrustrating.

“Sorry, start again,” hesaid.

“No, you guys are right.Let’s just run through the setwe did at Whiskey, and I’llwork on the song later.Maybeifitcomesdowntoit,I can just do it solo on theacousticforthebattleandwe

canhaveitfinishedforwhenweplayoutagaininMay.”

“We can’t win if you dothe song on your own,”Tannersaid.

I thought for aminutehemight be screwing around,buthisfacewasserious.

“What?”Iasked.“It’s in the rules. Every

person in the band needs toplay or you’re disqualified.Unless you’re a solo act, of

course,andyou’renot,so,weallneedtoplayifwewanttowin.”

“That’sastupidrule.”“Yeah, well, Kenny’s

neighbor probably made itup.”

I didn’t like giving in soeasily, but I let it go for themoment.Weconcentratedonplaying the set we’d done atWhiskey Business oncethrough.We’dreallygottenit

down—so comfortable wewere able to riff off oneanother. It felt good to getlostinthemusic,tonotthinkabout life outside therehearsal space for a littlewhile,becausenomatterhowincredible the weekend hadbeen something didn’t feelright.

Madisonhadnotreturnedmycalls—even thoughI toldhershecouldcallatanytime.

I’dtextedagainbeforeschool—to make sure things werecoolwithhermom—andshejusttexted:

yes.

That’sit.Not:Yes,stud.Or: Yes, amazing rock

godwho inspiresme todrawpictures.

There weren’t even any

sillyemojis.She didn’t owe me any

sortofexplanation,butshe’dsaid she didn’t want theweekend to end, didn’t she?That seemed prettystraightforward. Enthusiastic.Mymind flipped through theentire weekend, the tour ofthe house, sitting by the fire,theridehome,everythinghadbeen perfect. A glimpse ofwhatwecouldbe.Oratleast

itfeltthatwaytome.Whatifthings had been too perfect,likewe’dcreatedsomesmallspace in time that was oursonly, and now, back inreality, it couldn’t stand up?Maybe Iwanted toomuchatonce. Maybe I was freakingher the fuck out withovertexting.

“Again?” Tanner askedwhenwefinishedtheset.

“Nah, have to meet up

with Wren, practicetomorrow,right?”Graysaid.

“Tomorrow.”We loaded up the

equipment in our cars andheaded out. Tanner and Igrabbed a quick bite atBurger King before I drovehimhome.Iknewbetterthanto allow T in my car withfood. He spread out in thefront seat, reclining it a bit,leaning back with his hands

claspedbehindhishead.“So, are you and

Madison,like,athingnow?”Ishrugged.“BecauseIknowthereal

real reason you want to dothatsong.”

“Tanner, don’t start.” IturnedontoAvenueC.

“Jess, we’re finally at aplace where we’re decentagain, probably better thanthat, I don’twant to see you

get all wrapped up andmoody over a girl. Beenthere, done that, running outof vodka. She’s great and all—so are her friends—but Idunno,youdon’thavetoletitgettoyou.”

“What are you talkingabout?”

“Whenyoudosomething,you do it a hundred and tenpercent, and I think maybeit’stheband’sturntogetthat.

Be with her, have fun, butdude, don’t, like, cut hername into your arm oranything. I’m not up for thefallout.”

“There won’t be anyfallout, T. I know how tokeepitlight.”

“Yeah, right. ’Causewritingasongforsomeoneislight.”

Icouldn’targuewithhimaboutthat.

“Hey, so what do youthink about Jasmine?” Tasked.

“Whatabouther?”“Wehititoffthatnightat

the bar. She’s cute. Funny.Obviously has a hiddenwildside. Wren mentioned shewasintomovies,soIthought,maybe we could, you know,allgooutorsomething.Afterwecrushthecompetition;weneed to keep focus, of

course.”I laughed. “But wait,

Tanner, what about giving ahundred and ten percent totheband?”

“Dude, please. I canalways spare at least fortypercentforthechicks.Iknowhowtomultitask.”

“Wow, you’re a trueladies’ man,” I said as wepulleduptohishouse.Hegotout and shifted the seat to

grabhisbassfromtheback.“Welp, you’re the

songwriter,Romeo.”Thatremainedtobeseen.

TWENTY-ONEMADISON

RED BULL AND CHIPS AHOY!WERE NOT CUTTING it inyearbook today. My moodwasacompleteflatline.Isat,headdown,waiting forPiperto hand over our next

assignments while randomthoughts scrambled aroundmybrain.

ItwasWednesdayandmymotherandIwerestillnotonpleasant speaking terms. Iwasn’t sure if she was justgiving me space, letting mefind my own path toforgiveness,orifthatBuddhastatue had secretly beensomething she’d wanted tobring onAntiques Roadshow

and she was heartbroken itwas now in smithereens inour garbage can. We spoke,but itwasday-to-daydetails.Wehadn’tevendishedaboutmyweekend.

Andthen,Jesse.Myfeelingsforhimwere

tooraw,new.IhatedthewayI’d acted about that stupidnapkin. Yellow #5 had beenon fire at Whiskey Business—whywouldn’theget some

attention?Gettingsoclose tohim,insuchashorttime,wasscary.Pushinghimawaywasmuch easier. Now I was incontrol. Only it didn’t makemefeelanybetter.

“SadieHawkinsgirls,canI talk to you for a minute?”Piperhadherseriouseditorinchief face on. I glanced atWren and Jazz, who boththrew me perplexed looks.We got up and walked to

Piper’s desk. She motionedfor us to come around to herside to look at something onhercomputerscreen.

TheSadieHawkinslayoutwaspulleduponherlaptop.Imanaged a smile. Out ofeverything I’d done for theyearbooksofar,thismadememostproud.

“So no final tweaks orchanges?We can put this tobed?”

The threeofus lookedateach other and nodded atPiper. “Excellent. There’ssomethingelseI’dliketotellyou. It’s not completelyofficial—well, not until theendoftheterm—butIwantedto let youknow I’m recc’ingyou three for editorialpositions next year. Thisdoesn’t mean you can slackor anything. I’m telling youas incentive to keep up the

goodwork.”“Well where’s the fun in

that?” I asked. “Aren’t thereanyperks?”

“You’ll find there are alot of people who suddenlywant to be your friend—notthat I take advantage oranything.”Pipergrinned.“I’llhave more assignments nextmeeting. You’re finishedtoday if you’d like to leaveearly.”

Thatwasperkenoughforme at the moment. Wecollected our things andwalkedouttothelockerbay.

“I’m already thinkingaboutallthewaysIcanmakeAva Taylor suck up to me,”Wren said, grin so wide itmade my cheeks hurt justlookingather.

“We don’t have the jobyet,”Jazzsaid.

“Don’t be a buzzkill.We

should celebrate—how aboutan after-meeting chai orsomething.”

“Can’t today—I’mmeetingLoganforarun.”

“Really? So this friendthing with Logan is reallyworkingout,”Isaid.

“Yeah, weird, huh? It’slike, afterwe hooked up,werealized we’re better asfriends.”

“Can’t kiss to save his

life?”Iclosedmylockerandputonmyjacket.

“Mads.”Jasmine laughed. “Nah,

heknowswhathe’sdoing.”“You can really just be

friends even after youswappedspit?”Wrenasked.

“It’s weird, I guess, butI’m trying to take a play outof the Madison Prycehandbook.”

“I have a handbook?

Newstome.Youshouldloanittomesometime.”

“You know what I mean—I’ve always liked the wayyou can be cool, not let thephysicalstuffmesswithyourhead. Logan’s been a greatrunningpartner.Keepsmeonpace, challenges me on thetrail. Kind of better than aboyfriend right now. Beatsalways runningwithmydad,too.”

“I’m impressed.” I wasflattered she looked atme asa sort of relationship guru,butthatwasfarfromthetruthat the moment. Everythingabout Jesse messed with myhead. I envied her blindenthusiasm.

“I’m just, you know,experimenting. We’ll see.Hey, I switchedmy schedulethis week at my mother’soffice, so Icango toyoga—

why don’t we just have ourcelebratory chais after classthen?”

“Do you mind?” I askedWren.

“No,soundsperfect.”“Great, see you later,”

Jazz said, trotting up thestairs,gymbagintow.

Wren stuffed the rest ofherbooksintohermessengerbag and twisted thecombination dial on her

locker.“Ready to slum it on the

bus?” she asked. Now thatYellow #5 was practicingevery day, she was back tobeingridelessafterschool,atleast until after the Battle oftheBandswasover.

“Leadtheway.”We climbed the stairs

from the locker dungeon andwent out through the sidedoors.Springwason itsway

to being sprung—new budsformingonthetreesthatlinedthedrivewayofSacredHeart—but therewasstillabite intheair.Ipulledupmycollar,wishing I’d worn Jesse’sjacket instead. After findingthat number in the pocket, Icouldn’t bring myself totouchit,letaloneputiton.Itwas still in a heap on mybedroom floor.No handbookpageforthatone.

“SodoesJesse think theyhave a chance on Friday?”Wrenasked.

“Haven’t talked to himsincetheweekend.”

“Why?Ithoughtyousaidyouhadagreattime.”

“I did, it was, like, best-time-of-my-lifegood,but...there’ssomethingIdidn’ttellyou. Something I feelsupremelystupidabout.”

We walked a few feet in

silence. I’d told both WrenandJazzabouthowgreat theweekendhadbeen,andaboutthe weirdness with mymother, but I left out thenapkin,andwhatIdidwhenIfound it. I’d been burning tospill my idiocy to someone,but I still felt, well, idioticaboutit.

“And?”“IcalledZach.”Wren stopped in the

middle of the sidewalk.“What?”

“He texted me happybirthday,andIcalledhim.”

“Why would you dothat?”

“Self-sabotage?”“I don’t get it, you said

youhadsuchagreattime.”I loopedmy arm through

hers and leaned closer to heraswewalked toward thebusstop. “I found a girl’s phone

number in his jacket pocket.On a napkin from WhiskeyBusiness.And...Icalledit.”

“Madison Pryce. You’rejealous?”

“Shh,” I hissed, lookingaround as if someone reallycared about what we weresaying. “I think I am, was,anyway—wouldn’tyoube?”

Her face scrunched inthought. “If the number wasstill in his pocket, what are

theoddsheevenusedit?”Ihadn’tthoughtofthat.“What happened when

youdialedthenumber?”“Nothing, the girl on the

other end didn’t sound likesheevenknewhisname.”

“So,that’swhyyoucalledZach?”

“I’mnotsurewhyIcalledZach. It wasn’t like one ofour, you know, sexytimescalls. We talked. It was

friendly. Normal. He’salready with that sophomorefrom the Sadie HawkinsDance that was drooling alloverhim.And the thing is—that didn’t even bother me.Why would a napkin with aphone number drive me tosuchbatshitterybutIwasall,like, ‘Hey, that’s great, youmake a nice couple,’ whenZachtoldmeaboutthatgirl?”

Wrensmirked.

“What?”“Youreallydon’tseeit?”Of course I saw it, but I

didn’t get it. At all. Wecrossed the street with armsstilllooped.

“Zach’s hot and fun, butyou guys never had thatthing.”

“Whatthing?”“That thing where you

hangontotheotherperson’severy word because

everything they say is onemore piece of their puzzle.Zach’s puzzle wasn’t thatcomplicated. I think that’swhy it was easy for you tokeep your distance. Deepdown you craved a bit morethan that—even though youpretendyoudon’t.”

“Howdoyouknowthat?”“Because you’re a pretty

complicated puzzle yourself.Like attracts like. The secret

ofattraction.”“I’mnotsureIcanhandle

all this angst. What wouldyou do if you found a girl’snumber in Grayson’spocket?”

“I trust him, maybe itseems naive, but I do. Helovesbeinginthisband—andIknowhe’llprobablygethisshare of numbers, but at theend of the night, he’s withme.Andwhenhe’swithme,

he’scompletelywithme.SoIdon’t think of all the otherstuff. That may be a directquote from the MadisonPryce handbook.You shouldtake your own advice. Theguyissmitten,Mads,sowhatif a girl gave him hernumber?Fuckjealousy.It’sawasteoftime.”

“So is ‘fuck jealousy’from the Wren Caswellhandbook?”

She laughed. “Sure.Let’smakeT-shirts.”

When Igothome, I tookoutmy leather portfolio and laidout all the pieces that Iwanted to include in it. Thesketch of my floor plans foran extension on our house.The logo forYellow #5.Myprize photo of the Ferriswheel from the fall. Thechoice photo from the Sadie

HawkinsDance.Therewasapastel landscape from artclass,andI’dtakenaphotoofmy Popsicle stick version ofthe Hearst building toshowcase my model-makingskills.

Thentherewasthesketchof Jesse—I wasn’t sure if Iwanted to include it. Was ittoopersonal?Iguessthatwaswhat art was all about.Getting your heart and soul

onthepageforall tosee.I’dalways had such troubledrawing Zach’s face right—wasitbecauseIreallyhadn’tseen him? Wasn’t interestedin his puzzle enough, likeWrenhadsaid?Iletmyeyesgo unfocused as I stared atmy work, dreaming up theorder that I’dput theminforthe most impact, wonderingwhat pieces were strongenough to include. The

process made me so unsure,butitthrilledmetoo.

When I thought I knewwhere to start, I opened theportfolio. The Prattapplication fell out. I pickedit up and read over the firstpage, which was just a formfor basic information: name,address,emergencycontact.Ilet my focus blur, the linesbecoming swirls on a whitebackground, and dreamed of

what it would be like to gothereoverthesummer.

Was I ready for Pratt? IsthatwhatIreallywanted?

I knew that’s where Iwanted to go after highschool.

Wouldn’t it be better todosomethingdifferentbeforethen?

I did have a choice. Icould delay going to Pratt—gosomewhereandgainsome

experience and build up myportfolio. Sure, NJDI wassmaller, but so were theclasses. And if I was beingupfrontwithmyself—earningmy own way would meanmore to me than someoneswooping in to pay all mybills. Maybe it would be amistake to turn down themoney, but it would be mymistake.

Therewasaknockonthe

frontdoor,thentheclickofaturninglock.

“Hello?”Paul.“Hey, I’m in here. Why

areyouknocking?”Hesteppedinside,closing

thedoorbehindhim.“Didn’twanttobargein.”“It’s not barging if you

live here,” I said, continuingwithmy project.He lingeredin the entryway, silent for amoment.

“Well, uh . . . I actuallyfoundanotherplacetostay.”

I looked up. He still hadhisjacketon.

“Oh. When?” I asked,chewingonmythumbnail.

“Today. I just thought itmight make things lessconfusing.”

Lessconfusingforwho?Iwantedtoask,butheldback,forcingmyself to look atmyworkagain.Myconcentration

wasblown.Paulwalkedoverandsurveyedthetable.

“Feel like going for aride?”

“I’msortofinthemiddleofthis.”

“It won’t take long.There’s something I want toshowyou.”

“Um . . . yeah, sure.” Igrabbedmyjacket,turnedoffthe lights, and followed himouttohiscar.

Our first stop was thebakery—the one with thegood doughnuts. Fiveminuteslaterhereturnedwiththe telltale grease-stainedwhite bag and drove to thepark, down to the bottom bythe bay. I got out of the car,bracing myself against thewindcomingoffthewater.Itfelt good to be outside. Likeeverything that had beenbothering me would expand

to fill the space.What couldhepossiblywant toshowmehere? I’d thought we wouldprobably end up walking onthe path by the water, butinstead Paul sat on the hoodof the car, fished out adoughnut, and took a bite. Ileaned next to him. He heldoutthebagtome.

“CanIcallthisdinner?”“Wouldn’t be the first

timeIdidthat.”Helaughed.

We sat and ate as atugboat sliced through thebay. He put the bag on thehood of the car and swipedhishandsclean.

“When I was a kid, andeveryone was over thereplaying soccer or flagfootball,” he said, motioningtothesportsfieldsbehindus,“I’d be over here watchingthoseplanestakeoffandlandfromNewark airport.Watch,

that one is going to turn,that’sheadingtoFlorida.”Hepointed to the sky, my eyesfollowed.

“Lucky.”“And that one?” he said,

pointing to a plane that washeaded out over theManhattan skyline. “Thatone’sgoingtoFrance.”

“Howdoyouknow?”“Can see the Air France

logo.”

I laughed, took anotherbite.“Isthiswhatyouwantedtoshowme?”

“Seems like the kind ofthing a father would tell hiskid.”

I got the sense that Paulwas trying tohaveamomentwith me, somethingsignificant, parental. Had hebeencoerced?

“Did my mother put youuptothis?”

He turned sharply tome.“No. I know it’s her latenight; I was coming over tomakedinneranyway,thoughtyou might want somecompany.”

“I’ve survived her latenights onmyown for a longtime.”

“Sorry about that.” Herustled open the bag andreached in for anotherdoughnut. Multicolored

sprinkles. He offered me thebag.Ishookmyhead.

“You don’t need toapologize.Idon’tneedyoutorescue me. I’m fine on myown.”

“Rescue? The last thingyou or your mother needs isrescuing. I just thought itwouldbenice tospendsometimetogether.”

I shifted away from him,kicked a phantom rock with

myfoot.“If you wanted to spend

time with me, why did youfindanotherplacetostay?”

Hepickedatthesprinkleson the doughnut beforetossing it in a nearby trashbin. It hit the rim beforefallingin.Helookedatme.

“Mads, I’ve changed mymind about the summer. I’vegot a job offer in SanFrancisco. I’m going to take

it.”I repeated his words in

my head before asking theobvious.

“DoesMomknow?”“Yes.”“Soagain, I’m the last to

hearaboutsomething.”“It’snotlikethat—”“Thenwhat’sitlike?”He sighed, jamming his

hands in his pockets andstepping away from the car.

“Idon’tknowhowtodothis.Thefatherthing.”

“Youhaven’teventried.”My voice caught in mythroat. The anger behind thewords startled me. I think itstartledhim,too.

“Before . . . when youaskedmewhyIknocked?”

“Yeah?”“I know how to be that

casual guy, the one whoshows up and surprises my

friend and her daughter withgreatmeals,andgets tohangout and tell stories andcomeandgoashepleases.Andfora little while I can pretendthat there are actually peoplewho look forward to beingwithme,peoplewhomatter.”

“We do look forward tobeing with you. You domatter. Why leave now thatyou know you’re part of thefamily?”

“That’s just it. Now thatI’msupposedtobelongthere,Idon’tfeellikeIdo.Youandyour mother are this unit.You’re a family already andI’m—”

“Myfather.”“But what is that,

anyway?Ihaven’tearnedit.”Ididn’tknowwhattosay

tothat,maybebecauseitwasthetruth.

“I’m not sure I can ever

forgiveherforsomethingthishuge,” I said. “I don’t getwhy she didn’t tell ussooner.”

I zipped my jacket up tomychin,crossedmyarms. Itwasgettingabitmuchhavinga heart-to-heart outside. Iwanted to be home, puttingmy portfolio together. Thisfatherthingwasn’tsomethingthat could be sorted out in anight over a couple of

doughnuts.“I was really angry at

your mother, Madison.You’reright,it’sahugethingto keep from us, but after awhile, when I stopped beingso pissed off about it, Irealizedsomething.She’snotvindictive.Ihavetobelieveitwas hard for her, too. Shedidn’t tell us because shegenuinely thought it was theright thing. And the more I

thoughtaboutit,rememberedwhat I was like back then, Ithinkshewasright.”

“Howcanyousaythat?”“Hard toadmit,but . . . I

didn’t want a family. Iwanted to live overseas, flyjetsinEurope,beunattached.I’dliketothinkifI’dknown,I would have done right bythebothofyou,butIcan’tbesureofthatanswer.”

“But don’t you . . . You

love her, right? That’s whatshesaidtome,thatyoulovedeach other.” I felt mybirthday wish slippingthroughmyfingers.

He looked straight up tothesky.Abeatpassedbeforeheanswered.“I’dalwayssortof hoped if I ended up withanyone, itwouldbeher.Andyou. Maybe somehow, Iknew all along. Rememberthat time in San Francisco?

When we had dinner at theItalian place that served youwineandyourmother tookitaway and I let you sneak asip?”

Heremembered that too?“Yes.”

“When I paid the checkthe owner told me I had abeautiful wife and daughter.You both had already goneoutside.Iwasabouttocorrecthim, but I couldn’t. I just

thankedhimandweleft,andit felt nice. I’m thinkingmaybe that’s why I want togo back, to be in the placewhereIfeltthebestaboutit.”

“Thatwasagreattrip.”“I’m going to treat this

jobasatrial—maybeI’llhateflying tourists around andpointing out the sights.MaybeI’llloveit.It’sahugechange, but I’m ready forsomethingonmyown terms.

I can keep my feet on theground, stay in one place forawhile.”

“But, if youwant to stayin one place,why can’t it behere?”

He shifted, leaning backagainstthehood.“Ithinkthisisa lot to take in—becomingan instant family, somethingmaybe we need a little timeandspace togetused to. I’mnot saying it’s going to be

perfect,orthatyouwon’tgetangry about it all over again,but we know the truth now.And that’s all that reallymatters,isn’tit?”

“Iguess.”“C’mon, I promised your

mother I’d make her penneandvodka sauce tonight.Wecankeepourdinnerasecret.”

Ilaughed.“Sure.”

Backatthehouse,whilePaul

whipped up a meal for mymother,Iporedovermyworkagain,thinkingaboutwhathesaid—that we needed a littletimeandspacetogetusedtothe idea of us, as a family. Iwasn’t sure if I believed it—that space was the answer—butwhatchoicedidIhave?Iguesseditwasastart.

There was a quote Iremembered from my essayon Frank Lloyd Wright:

Space is the breath of art. Ithought I understood it—thespace thing—that it could belight or dark, positive ornegative. It was part of awork, though. Essential.Maybe space would help usshedalittlelightonwhatwasimportanttous,too.

Paul poked his head intothe dining room. “You sureyoudon’twantanyofthis?”

“No, I’m good. Are you

guyseatinginhere?Givemeaminutetoputthisaway.”

“Wecaneatinthekitchenwhen your mom gets home.Hey, how’s the applicationfor Pratt coming along? Didyousenditinyet?”

“I’m rethinking Pratt forthesummer.”

He leaned against thedoorway, and folded hisarms.“Rethinking?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure I

want to be there yet, I thinkI’d like a little moreexperiencefirst. I’mgoing totryfor thatscholarship to theDesign Institute, like Iplanned. Imean, that’s okay,right? I appreciate your offer—themoney—butcouldIputthattoward—”

“It’s there for when youneedit,Mads.”

“Thanks.”I continued packing up

mywork.ThesketchofJessewasontheendofthetable.Ipicked it up to put it away,taking a moment to look itover.My heartwarmed.HadI let enough space comebetween us? Why was I soafraid of opening up to him?Was it really easier to pushhim away? All at once Iwanted to see him, toapologizeforbeingsoweird.I slipped the sketch into my

portfolio and ran upstairs tograbJesse’sjacket.

“Paul, I’mheadedout forawhile,I’vegotmyphone,”Isaid, thundering down thestairs.Ididn’twaittohearhisreply.

TWENTY-TWOJESSE

MUGSHOT WAS SLOW ONWEDNESDAY NIGHTS. Therewasa studygroup in theonecorner commandeering thecrushed-velvet chairs, and acouple sitting close to the

window, holding hands, intheir ownworld. Iwas aloneandkeptlookingattheclock.There was less than an hourtogoand Icouldshutdown.I’d already cleaned a few ofthe pitchers, and restockedthe paper products. I didn’tmindnotbeingbusybecauseitgavememoretimetofocusonmysong.

I stood at the counter,bent over my notebook,

frustrated at the scribbles onthe pad. I’d been trying tofigure out a way to describeher eyes in the song, butyeah, that wasn’t happening.And it was too cheesy.Madison would not likecheesy and this was for her,even though I couldn’t tellherthat.Learnedmylessonatthe Whiskey. But she’dknow.AlthoughatthispointIwasn’t sure if shewas going

to the battle. I wasn’t surewherewestoodatall.

A shadow passed acrossthe counter and I looked up.I’d been so involved in thesong that I hadn’t noticedsomeonecomein.

“Hannah.” I glancedbehind her, at the door,waitingforDuncantoappear,but there was no one. Shesmiled.

“Hey,Jess,”shesaid.Her

hairwasinabraidtotheside,hervolleyballwarm-upjacketzippedtoherchin.

“What’sup?”Sheleanedonthecounter,

looking into the bakery case.Therewasnexttonothingleft—mostly crumbs. Her eyesfound my notebook and sheglanced across the page. Iclosed it fast, then tucked iton the shelf below theregister.

“Hmm,newsong?”“What are you, a spy for

theenemy?”Ikidded.“Pfft, as if,” she said.

“Are you working onsomethingnew,though?”

“Maybe,” I offered.“Where’sDuncan?”

“Where do you think?Wherehe’sbeen for thepastthreemonths—rehearsing.”

“Decided to sit this oneout?”

“I can only take somuch,” she said, “and LotTwenty-Three smells likefeet.”

I laughed. “Are you surethat’s not just Kenny’s bandyou’resmelling—oh!”

“Thatwasbad.”“Yes, but it had to be

said.WhatcanIgetyou?”“I’m in themood forone

ofyourpeppermintmochas.”“Sure.” I grabbed a to-go

cup and attempted to do theTanner flip-thing that he’dperfected.

“That’stostay,”shesaid.The cup fell just out of

my grasp and bounced ontothefloor.

“Oh,really?”“Yeah,thoughtIcouldsit

withyou till closing.Doyouthink . . . maybe you couldgivemearidehome?”

“Er,sure,whynot?”

“Great,”shesaid,smiling.“Hey, I like your hair.Whatmadeyoudothat?”

“A friend suggested it,” Isaid as she took a seat at thetable I used to consider her“usual.” Igot toworkonhermocha.

When we were together,Hannahclosedwithmealot.She’dsitwithabookorworkbehind the counter with me,pouring coffee or filling

baked-goods orders. The lasttime she’d helped me westayed a half hour afterclosingandmessedaroundinGrace’s office. It was amemory I’d put out of mymind until this moment. Shekept looking at me. Iconcentrated on the drink.Maybe she justwanted to befriends.CouldIdothat?

I didn’t get that jangled-nerve feeling—the one that

felt like every moment Ilooked at her, it physicallyhurt. It helped that Duncanwasn’t with her, but eventhinkingofhim,orthetwoofthem together, didn’t jab methe same way it used to. Ibroughtherdrinktohertable.

“Aren’t you going to sitdown?”

“Working.”She looked around. “Oh,

yeah, you’re swamped.

C’mon.Sitaminute.”She pushed out the chair

acrossfromherwithherfoot.“NowIknowyoumustbe

doing some recon for theenemy,”Isaid,sittingdown.

“No, but if you want toask me anything I can tellyou.” She wiggled hereyebrows and took a sip ofher mocha. “Perfect, asalways.”

“Are they doing the

originalsong?”“Yes,butit’snotasgood

astheywantittobe.Kenny’ssortofa...”

“...tyrant,”Ifinished.“Yeah,that.They’vebeen

practicing every day. If I tellyou something, you have toswear to keep your mouthshut,”shesaid.

“Who would I sayanythingto?”

“I mean it, Jess. Just

swear on the VW, or yourFenderorsomething.”

“I swear on the Beetle,whatgives?”

“They were there atWhiskey Business and gottotallypsychedoutbyYellowNumber Five. Duncancouldn’t believe how greatthe guy you replaced himwithplayed.”

“Really,” I said, tryingnot to show her how good

that made me feel. “I didn’tseethem.”

“They didn’t stay long,but they stayed long enough.Guess it’s going really wellwith the new guy. Duncanmisses you and Tanner; hedoesn’t get along so greatwithKenny.”

Considering the past fewtimesHannahandIspokeshewas trying to subtlywheedlethesongfromme,Isuddenly

had the feeling that shewasn’t there for a friendlyvisit—shewantedsomething.Or wanted something forDuncan.

“Look,thebandbrokeup,andGrayson isagoodfit, soif you’re here to see ifDuncancangetbackin—”

“I’mnothereforDuncan,Jesse.”

“Then what are you herefor?”Iasked,gettingup.

“I’mhereforyou.”The words made me

pause;ajoltcrackledthroughmewhenshelookedmyway,her eyes friendly, warm . . .familiar.

“Don’t say that,” I said.One of the guys from thestudy group came up for arefill.Iwalkedtothecountertohelphim,lettingherwordsandhereyesdotheirnumberonme.

“We’ll only be aboutanother twenty minutes,” theguysaid.

“No worries,” I said,fillinghiscupwiththelastofourhouseblend.

When I turned back,Hannah was sipping herdrink, as if she hadn’t justdropped a bomb of epicproportions.Maybeherbeingwith Duncan didn’t botherme, but I still felt something

forher.I’dbelyingifIsaiditdidn’t feel good to hear shewasthereforme.

We had a history. Amostlyniceone.OnethatI’dcountedonuntilHannahDunkscrewed me, or I screwedthem, or however it all wentdown.Iwasdoneanalyzing.Iwas done, period. I was stillin that zone, though: the no-longer-boyfriend, but-not-ready-to-be-friends zone. I

wasn’tsurewecouldeverbefriends—maybe friendly, likebumping into each other onthe street or in the Stop N’Shoponerandomnightyearsfrom now, like in a countrysongorsomething.

Thecoupleatthewindowleft, and Hannah shot up toclean off their table. Igrabbed thecountermopandfollowedher.

“Hannah,youdon’t—”

“I want to, Jesse, comeon, you can get out of herequicker,” she said, handingme the dollar the couple hadleftasatipandgrabbingtheirmugs.Iwipeddownthetableas she took the cups into theback. When I turned aroundshehad theboxof rawsugarpackets andbegan restockingtheself-servicestand.

“This is what you’rereallyhere for, restocking,” I

said. She always said itcleared hermind to refill theself-servicestand,likeputtingeach thing in its place gaveherasenseoforderandcalm.ItwasoneofthejobsIhatedthemost, so I neverminded.Shetossedarawsugarpacketmywayandgrinned.

I reached below andhandedhertheboxofstirrers.

“I guess, while you’re atit,” I said, handing them to

her.“You’reright,Ilikedoing

this,” she said.She lookedatmy wrist. “You’re notwearingyourinfinitybracelet—band—anymore.”

“WhywouldIbe?”She lifted up her forearm

and pulled back her sleeve.Theinfinitysymbolglintedinthe light. My stomachdropped.

“I noticed you were

wearing yours the last time Icamein.”

“Does Duncan knowyou’rehere?”

“I’m not sure Duncaneven knowswhen I’m in theroom,”shesaid,pattingdownthe sugar packets into theircompartment.

I turned away, headinginto the back room to set upthe dishwasher. Whether shewas doing this to mess with

myheadornot,Iwasn’tsure.Itwasn’t like her to flirt justbecause. Maybe she wasn’tdoing it purposely but Irefusedtoletitgettome.

I thought aboutMadison.How different it felt to bewith her. Everything was upin the air, and unexpected,and Iwasn’t ready to let thatgo. Even if I had no ideawhereIstoodwithher.

BythetimeIreturnedout

front, the study group in thecorner was finally calling itquits. The guy who’d comeover for the coffee broughtsome of the cups to thecounterforme,andshovedafiveintothetipjar.

“Thanks, man.” Ifollowed them to thedoor. Itwasfiveminutes tonine,butI locked the door as theywalked out and turned theslatethathungonthedoorto

CLOSED.Hannah was busy

collecting the rest of thedishesfromthestudytable.

“Duncan’s not ignoringyou.Thisbattlething,gettingreadyforitisprettyintense,”I said, grabbing a bin to putthe dishes in. “I’m sure heknowsyou’reintheroom.”

“Didyou?”“Whatareyoudoing?”“I’m just,” she said,

putting the cups into the bin.“I don’t know. I miss you,Jesse. Our talks. Duncandoesn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear it.Please.Ican’ttalkabouthim,about you together, whatdon’tyouget?Youbrokeupwithme.”

“I’m thinking that mighthavebeenamistake.”

A knocking sound gotbothofourattention.

“We’re closed,” I said,keepingmyeyesonHannah.Theyknockedagain.

Gracewouldhaveflippedout if she heardme talk to apotential customer like that,so I took a deep breath andwalked toward the door. Isaw her hair first, the lightblond tufts falling everywhich way. I quickened mypace, undid the lock, andpushedopenthedoor.

Madison scampered in,chilly air following her. Nodark-lined eyes, hair sweptback with a headband. Shewas wearing my jacket, herfingertips hanging out thebottomofthesleeves,makingherlooksotiny.

“What’swrong?”Iasked.She shook her head,

stampedherfeetforwarmth.“I, uh,” she began, then

lookedpastme.

“Hi,” Hannah said overmyshoulder.Isteppedaside.

“Madison, this isHannah,” I said. Madison’seyes widened slightly whensherecognizedthename.

“Hannah,Madison. She’sthe one who, um, made myhair this color,” I said,pointingtomyhead.Fuckingbrilliant,Jesse.

She smiled at Madison,then looked at me as if she

expectedmetosaysomethingmore.I’dseentherecognitioninhereyeswhenshenoticedmyjacket.Diditbotherher?Thethreeofusstoodthereasthe world turned s-l-o-w-l-y.There was no reason for metofeelawkward,butIdid.

“What, um, what bringsyouin?”ThewordswereoutofmymouthbeforeIrealizedhow idiotic they sounded. Ididn’t care what brought her

in—shewasthere,infrontofme.All Iwantedwasforhertostay.

“I wanted to see you,that’s all. You seem likeyou’re in the middle ofsomething.” She shuffledback and forth, lookingbetweenHannahandme.

“No, just cleaning up,” Isaid. “Do you wantsomething? You lookfreezing. Here, please, sit

down.” I pulled out a chair,andreachedoutahandtoher.She hesitated a moment, butthenrelented.

“I can make yousomething if you want. Hotchocolate?Chai?”

“No, everything’s clean,you’reclosing,”shesaid.

“It’snotaproblem.”“Maybe a hot tea,” she

said.“I’llgetit,”Hannahsaid.

“I’m going to clean thattable, and close down, andthenwecandowhateveryouwant,okay?”Iwastalkingtoherlikeshewasathree-year-old, but I couldn’t help it.She’dcometheretoseeme.Ididn’t want her to leave, orchange her mind. Shenodded.

I raced over to the tableand tossed the rest of thedishes into the bin and then

ran back to fill thedishwasher. On the way Icollected Hannah’s half-finished mocha cup andglanced over my shoulder.HannahhadbroughtMadisona cup of tea and sat downwithher.Thesightofthetwoofthemtogetherwassurreal.

I finished up with thedishes quickly, turned on thewasher for a ten-minutepower-wash, andwent out to

turn off the neon MUGSHOTsignwithaclick.Thegirlssatinsilence.

“So, um, do you want tohang out?” I asked.Madisonshrugged.

“I was going to giveHannah a ride home,we candowhateverafter.”

Hannah stood up. “Youknow,Icanwalk,it’sfine.”

“No, it’s pretty cold out.You should take the ride,”

Madison answered, sippinghertea.

“Letmegetmyjacket.”I walked to the back,

grabbed my stuff, and madesure everything was set forclosing. The last thing Ineeded to do was set thealarm code for the door. Ipunched in the numbers andthethreeofuswalkedtowardthe VW. As we reached thecar,Madisonsteppedforward

so she could hop into thebackseat. I wanted to saysomething, butwhat?Get upfront? Hannah didn’t doanything to change thesituation,either.

By the time we reachedHannah’s, we’d managed tomake some small talk abouttheBattleof theBands.Iputthecarinparkandwaited.

Hannahturnedinherseattoward the back. “Nice to

meetyou,Madison.”“Yes, nice meeting you

too.”Hannah leaned closer to

me.“Bye,Jess,seeyouatthebattle.”

She kissed me on thecheek, paused a minute, andwhispered, “Bye” againbefore getting out of the car.We waited until she was onthe porch and in the house.Madisonremainedinherseat.

“Why don’t you sit uphere?”

“Doyouwantmeto?”sheasked.

“Doyouhavetoask?”“So, that was Hannah.

Hannah-Hannah.”“Yes.”She climbed over the

console.“Hold this.” She handed

me the tea so she could flopdown properly into the seat.

Onceshewasbuckledin,shetookthecup.

“She just, I don’t know,stopped by to say hello.” Ishiftedgearsandputteredoffdown the street. It felt weirdtodrivebymyhousewithoutstopping.

“I don’t think she wastheretosayhello,”shesaid.

“Where do you want togo?”Iasked.

“Home,”shesaid.

“Sure?”“It felt like I was

interruptingsomething.”“You interrupted me

cleaningup.”“She’spretty,Jesse.”Westoppedatalight.The

car stalled as I tried to shiftinto first when the signalturnedgreen.Completebrainfart. It rolled a bit until Igained control, and sputteredto life. I cracked my neck,

trying to shake off thedirection Madison wasleading the conversationtoward. Neither of us saidanother word until wereachedherhouse.Iparkedinfront of her driveway andturnedofftheengine.

“Tha—”“You came to see me

tonight.Why?”Iasked.Sheblinked, thenpointed

tohertea.

I grumbled. “You’relying.”

“Jesse.”“Why are you acting like

everything’s okay? Ifsomething’s bothering you,just talk to me. I called youtwice, texted you, what,maybeahundredtimes—”

“Don’t exaggerate,” shesaid.

“You came looking forme.”

She pressed her lipstogether and turned her faceaway. Were we fighting?Why? I didn’t want to arguewith her. I wanted to makeher laugh, kiss her; whatcouldhavehappenedtomakeherchangeinthreedays?

“It made my night,” Iadded.

The side of her mouthroseslightly,butthenshewasallbusiness.“Idon’tknow,I

just—IknowIhaven’t—well,you called, and I didn’t callyou back. I’m sorry aboutthat. I’m in a weird placerightnow, Jess. I hadahugeblowout with my mom afteryou left last Sunday. AndPaul is leaving, taking a jobout in California, and Iwanted something to benormal,forustobeokay,butIreallydon’tknowifIcandothis.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”“I mean, get attached to

someone who’s obviouslyconfused.”

“I’m—me?YouthinkI’mconfused?”

“I know you said youwereoverHannah,but—”

“I had no idea she wascoming to theshop tonight. Idon’t know what she wasdoingthere.”

“It was pretty obvious.”

Shetookasipoftea,thenputthecupinherlap,tracingtherim with her thumb. “Shekissedyoubeforeshegotoutof thecar—youdon’tdothatifyoudon’tcare.”

“Madison.” I reachedover, took thecupoutofherhand, and placed it in theholder. She looked at me. Itracedtheoutlineofherface,the way I had in her room,and touched my mouth to

hers. She was rigid at first,but then she softened, lipsparting so her tongue couldmeetmine. Iwanted the kisstosayallthethingsIcouldn’tput into words. To eraseanythingthatshethoughtshesaw at Mugshot. Her kissesgot stronger, more insistent,herfingersinmyhair,onmyshoulders. She pushed meback.

“Hey.”Ilaughed.

She kept her eyes on meand slipped out of her jacket—my jacket—and tossed itover the seat, then climbedover the console andstraddledme.

“Doesn’t this go back?”Shereachedalongtheseat tothehandleandgaveitapull.With our weight, the seatreclined almost horizontallyin one swift motion. Sheunzippedmyhoodie,thenput

her elbows on either side ofme,pressingagainstmewhileshe did that thing with hertongue—tracingmymouth—whichwassobrain-frying-hotIcouldbarelymove.

It felt soamazing,havingher there on top of me, thatrational thought disappeared.Mugshot, Hannah, Battle ofthe Bands, all evaporatedwiththeheatofhermouthaswe kissed. My hands found

her hips, the fabric of heryoga pants so thin, her bodyso warm. She rocked backand forth, gently pushingagainst me. A milliondifferent nerve endingsexploded inside of me, butsomethingwasoff.

I turned my face to theside.

“Hey,”Iwhispered.“What?” She kissed my

cheek, my jaw, her tongue

trailed along my neck,stopping below my ear. Iopened my mouth to speak,but forgot what I was goingtosay,closingmyeyesasshenipped my earlobe. Sheunbuttoned my jeans, herfingers slipping under theband of my boxers. Shenuzzled my nose with hers,kissingmeagain.

“Madison,” I saidbetween kisses. I caught her

wristbeforeshecould take itanyfurther.

“Don’tyouwantthis?”“Yes, Ido,butnot inmy

car,infrontofyourhouse.”“C’mon, the thrill of

getting caught is hot,” shesaid,kissingmeagain.

Igentlyshiftedheraway.“Youseempissedoff.”

“Why would you saythat?”

“Areyou?”

“NowIam,”shegrowled,pushing herself off me andslidingclumsilybackintothepassenger seat. I adjusted theseat upright. My heartthrummedinmyears.Iranahandthroughmyhair,forcingmy breathing to return tonormal.

“Maybeyoucan’tdo thisbecause you still havefeelingsforHannah.”

“Areyou trying topicka

fightwithme?”“No, but . . . What if I

hadn’t stopped by and youended up driving her home,alone? Would you be doingthisinfrontofherhouse?”

Ibangedmyheadbackonthe seat cushion, then turnedmy face to her. “Christ,Madison, I don’t havefeelings forher.Not thewayyou think. I’m here. Next toyou.Idon’tknowwhatmore

Icando.Ifyoudon’tfeelthesame way, or whatever it isyou’retryingtosay,fine,butdon’ttellmehowIfeel.”

“Fine,whatever.”Shegotout of the car and slammedthedoor.

“Madison.”She was halfway up the

stairs, but turned around andstompedbackdown,openingthedoor.

“I’m—”

“I forgot my keys.” Shegrabbedmyjacketandfishedher hand inside the pocket.As she pulled out her keys acascade of change and othercrap came tumbling out. Shelookedattheseatlitteredwithstuff, then at me. Her browfurrowedandshedroppedthejacket, leaving again. I gotout of the car and stood up,realized that my pants werestillunbuttoned.

“Madison, wait, comeon.”

“Go home, Jesse.” Shedisappearedintoherhouse.

What.The.Hell.Justhappened?My blood still raced as I

slid back into the driver’sseat.Itossedmyjacketintheback, picking up the randomchange and shoving it inmy

hoodie pocket. There was aguitarpick,andanapkinwithnumbers on it.Huh? I laid itflatonthedashandturnedonthe interior light. Becca.Those girls from WhiskeyBusiness. Had Madison seenthistoo?

Fuhhhhhhhhhhhhck.Howcouldsheeventhink

this meant anything? Thesong I’d been writing, hersong, buzzed through my

head again. Bits of wordsagain right there for thetaking. I reached into thebackseat, dug around mybackpack for my songnotebook. No pen. I sighed,looked up at her house,debating whether to ring herdoorbellandinsistwetalk.

No.Therewasnoclearingthis

uprightnow,shehadtocooloff.Whatever itwas shewas

going through, she didn’tneedmeinherface.Istartedup theBug and drove home,playing the song over andover inmy head, eager onceagain to pick up my guitar.This songmeant so much tome,nowmorethanever.

I needed to get it out ofmyhead.

Forher.

TWENTY-THREEMADISON

“CONSIDER THIS A YOGA-VENTION, YOU NEED TO go.”Wrentuggedonmyfoot.

“You can’t miss my firstclass,”Jazzsaid.

They both flopped downonthefootofmybedwhileIput a pillow over my headand screamed into it. It wasforty-five minutes beforeclass started and I had nointerest in finding innerpeace, no matter how bad Ineeded it. I’d broken thecold-shoulder routine withmymotherandbeggedhertolet me take a mental-healthday from school—from life,

really. Playing the I-just-found-out-who-my-father-is-and-he’s-leaving card mighthave been a bit dirty, butshe’dagreedontheconditionthat I put my portfoliotogether and attended yogaclass that night, since itwould be her first timeassisting and she needed themoralsupport.

I’d finishedmyportfolio,but I was waffling on the

class, which had more to dowith being in the vicinity ofMugshotthananythingelse.Isat up and pleaded my caseagain.

“I don’t know myselfanymore. Why would Iangry-kiss Jesse and pick afight?Ican’tbetrustedtobewithintenmilesoftheboy.”

“C’mon, Mads, you’regoing through an insaneamount of stuff, you’re

allowed to act a little crazy.And angry-kissing is kind ofhot. I’msurehegotover it,”Jazzsaid.

“Is that Jazz or Diaraspeaking?”Iasked.

She blushed. “I’ll nevertell.”

Ifloppedbackdownontomy pillow and stared at theceiling. They were breakingme down about yoga, butthere was something else I

hadn’t told them—somethingthat had me even moreunsettled than my fatherleaving or the whole Jessesituation. After I’d puttogether my portfolio, Iresearched summer programsin the Bay Area. I’d beendoing it for fun, on the offchance that there wassomethinginteresting.

Thetuitionwasridiculousand it involved transcripts

and letters ofrecommendation and it wastotally, totally insane, and Ihadn’tevenbookmarkeditoranything.

And yet I couldn’t stopthinkingaboutit.

That would be anexperience. It wasn’t muchmore than Pratt. And PaulhadofferedtopayforPratt.Icoulddothefatherthingwithhimandmymothercouldlive

her yoga without meunderfootforawhile.Itcouldbeawin-winsitchallaround.Maybe she could even comeoutandvisitandwecouldflyhome together. Could hehandle living with me underthe same roof for a month?Couldmymother?

“So you got jealous, andhad a pissed-off make-outsesh.You’rehuman.Andyoubothpromisedmecelebratory

chais, so I’m holding you tothat. Besides, you have towish Jesse good luck, orbreaka leg,orwhatever it isyou say to someone before abattle,”Wrensaid.

She stood up andrummaged through mydresser, pulling out myfavorite pair of yoga pants—the ones with the daisies upthe side that made me smileevery time I was in

downward dog. She tossedthem over to me and theylanded on my head, one legdraped over my face. Igrabbed them and playfullynarrowedmyeyesather.

“If that’s not enough toconvince you, I saw on thecalendar thatLeif is focusingon inversions tonight.Whichmeans his shirt will beflipping up a lot. Whichmeans a one-way ticket to

abtopia.”“DoesGraysonknowyou

lustafterLeif?”Jazzasked.“I don’t lust after him.

I’mjustadmiringtheview.”“Yes, every time Wren

catches a glimpse of Leifhalf-naked she thanks theuniverse for creating suchperfection,” I said. Maybegoing to class to drool overLeif’s abs would be a goodstart on the road back to

normal. It wouldn’t be theworstwaytospendanhour.

“Right. As long as hedoesn’tassistme,I’mfine.”

“Then she turns into ameltinglustpuppy.”

“Wait—assist? He mighttouchme?”Jazzasked.

“Melting lust puppy isexaggerating,” Wren said.“And Mad’s mom is theretonight so you only have afifty-fifty shot of being

assistedbyLeif.Noworries.”“The lust-puppy thing

sounds fun, though,” Jazzsaid,grinning.

Mymouth dropped open.“I’m liking this side of you,Jazzabelle.”

“Okay,thenareyouinornot? We’ve got, like, fifteenminutes to get there fordecent mat space,” Wrensaid.

Showing up for my

motherwas theright thing todo—she wanted me there,and it would be an olivebranch, a small step in therightdirection, especially if Iwasgoingtorunthestudy-in-Caliideabyher.Wecouldn’tturn back time to change herdecision not to tell us, butPaul was right—my motherwasn’t a vindictive person. Ihad to keep telling myselfthat;her choicenot to tell us

wasnotoutofspite,evenifIdidn’t fully understand it. Isat up and grabbedmy yogapants.

“All this talk of lust andabs, fine, you win, I’ll bereadyinten.”

Leif introduced my mother,and another student whowould be assisting, at thebeginningofclass.

Mom looked almost shy,

hair back in her tribal-printheadband,standingtothesideandgivingusamodestwavebefore snapping into seriousyogini mode. We started theclasswithameditation.Leif’svoice was practically anopiate.

“Take everything that’sbothering you, all the dreckthat makes you crazy, roll ittogetherlikeabigballofclayandput it to the sideofyour

mat.Ipromiseitwillbethereat the end of class and youcan pick it up again, but fornow, feel how much lighteryouarewithoutit.”

The ball of dreck Icollected was the size ofJupiter.Mymother,Paul,mynew idea of a summerprogram in Cali, Jesse . . . Iput them all away for amoment and focused on me.Hearing Leif’s calm, even

voice made it all seempossible, to step away for amomentand justexistonmymat.

My hamstrings were sotightthatIcouldbarelytouchthe floor in forward fold.After a few rounds of sunsalutation, my hands werewrappedaroundmytoes.Mybreathing propelled me. Iimagined I was slicingthrough the air during swan

dive, focused on putting myforehead to my shins,enjoying how each movemade my body more openandrelaxed.

“We’re going to open upwith trikonasana—if youneed a block, raise yourhand.”Mymotherdistributedblocks to those who wantedthem as Leif talked usthrough setting up ouralignment.

I prepped for the pose—after five months, I didn’tneed to listen, could just feelwhatwasrightwithmybody.I reached out, tipping at mywaist,placingmyhandonmyshin.

Ifeltwarmthonmylowerback.Ahand.

“Your hip is tiltingslightly forward, here.” Mymotherplacedafirmhandonthepointofmyhipboneand

gently nudged it back,causing a muscle I hadn’teven known existed in mylower back to smart. Isnappedtostandingsofast, Inearlyknockedusbothover.

“Whatareyoudoing?”She shook her head

slightly, blinked. I hadn’tmeant it to sound so snotty.I’d been doing the pose formonths without anyoneadjusting me, why all of a

sudden did she think I wasdoingsomethingwrong?

“Your hips were out ofalignment.”Shedemonstratedthe first part of the poseherself, showing me how tosquaremyhips.Whywasshecalling me out? If she couldso easily point out what waswrong with my pose, whycouldn’t she use that samefocustofigureoutwhereshewentwronginherownlife?

Olive branch . . . olivebranch...

“Sometimes when youreachtoofar,youcompensateby rolling your hip forward,and your hips go out ofwhack.”Shedemonstratedbyoverreaching and turning herbody in such a way that herbuttstuckout.Thewomanonthe mat in front of minestopped mid-pose andwatched my mom. Jazz was

suddenly behind me,observingtoo.Thetipsofmyearswereonfire.

“Idon’tdothat.”Mymother stoodup, and

held out her arms as if sheweregatheringmeup.

“Trytheposeagain.”“Mom,stop.”Thewomaninfrontofus

resumed stretching. Mymother took a deep breath,eyes onme, looking like she

wanted to say more. Shenodded, though, and backedoff. Jazz, ever thepeacemaker, asked her aquestionaboutfootplacementand the unpleasant momentpassed.

Leif moved on toinversions.

“Inversions arechallenging because most ofus are afraid of going out ofourcomfortzone—andbeing

upside down is about as outof your comfort zone as youcangetwhenyou’reabiped.But reversing gravity’s pullhelps the body eliminatewaste, improves circulation,and,” Leif said, putting hishands on the floor andbringinghis legs in theair inone nimble move that madethe room go silent, “it’s justkindoffuntoseethingsfromadifferentperspective.”

His gray shirt flipped up,displaying his washboardperfection as he walked onhis hands a few feet acrossthe studio floor beforelanding on his feet again. Icould practically hear thecollective cougar-roar fromthe class, but I didn’t peekover atWrenorbackat Jazztoseetheirreactions.Whenitwas time to partner off topractice headstand, I feigned

a coughing fit and left theroom.

“Madison.”I turned to see Leif right

behind me, pulling the doortothestudiogentlyshut.

“Oh,hey.”“Areyouokay?”I coughed intomy fist to

continue thecharade.“Ihavea tickle inmy throat,wantedtogetsomewater.”

“Inoticedyouseemtobe

alittleoverwhelmedtoday.”“Nope.”“Because it’s

understandable to feel thatway.”

ThelastthingIwantedorneeded was some catchallyogic wisdom, but I wascurious. Did he know mysituation? My mothercouldn’t have possiblyblabbed about our personalstuff to him, right? That

wouldhavebeenweird.“Whatway?”“It’shardtoadjust,tosee

a person in a different light,but change is the onlyconstantinlife.”

I wasn’t sure if I wasrelieved to hear someoneacknowledge my feelings ortickedoffthatmymotherhadshared what was going onwith Paul. All I knew wasthat I was sick of hiding

behindmyangry face.Beingpissed off at the world hadbecome a real energy-suck. Ididn’tfeeltotallycomfortabletalking about it with astranger, but if my motherhadtrustedLeifenoughtotellhim, maybe he could offersomeobjectiveinsight.

“I am a littleoverwhelmed,actually.”

“Yoga training can reallyshuffle a person’s beliefs,

kind of rock them to theircore—so it’s natural tomaybe feel threatened by thechanges your mom is goingthrough.WhenIstarted—”

He hadn’t been talkingaboutPaulatall.

“Wait, you think I’mthreatenedbymymother?”

Hisdarkeyeswentblank,lips pursed to the side. I’dneverseenhimlookpuzzled.It made him less mystical

yogi, more human.“‘Threatened’ might be astrongword.Isawthingsgota little tense when sheadjustedyou.”

I hadn’t realized it wasthatobvious.“Oh,um,yeah.”

“I know you startedpracticing together, so it’sprobablyhard to seeherasateacher, and that’s fine—Ijustwantedtomakesureyouknow it’s okay to feel that

way.Yourbeinghereatallisgreat support for her.” Hestepped back toward thestudio door. “I have to getback to class, see you in afew.”

I nodded and watchedhim reenter the classroom,feeling slightly off balanceagain after I’d assumed he’dbeen talkingaboutsomethingdifferent. My face felt hot, Ineededacoolsplashofwater

—something, anything, toreboot.

The bathroom was thesame peaceful shade of sagegreen as the studio with asoundtrackofbubblingwaterand nature sounds playingsoftlyinthebackground.Isaton a small bench along thewall, pushing down thesudden inexplicable urge tocry.Whatthehellwaswrongwith me? Was I really so

infantile that I couldn’thandlea simplecorrection ina yoga class? Had Leif beenright? Did I really feelthreatenedbymymother?

I’dstartedtakingtheclassas a fluke and I liked it,looked forward to it, even,but it was different for mymother.Shewasbeyond that—itwasmorethanaclassforher.Itwasbecomingawayoflife for her—a way of life

withoutme.The realization hit me so

sharply.Was that why I was

thinking of studying inCalifornia?Was it less aboutliving with Paul and moreabout leaving her because Icould feel her leaving me?No,nottotally—Ididwanttomake my own way, separatefromher,butIalsowantedtoknow Paul better than just

sporadic visits. Even thoughtheyweren’ttogether,Icouldnever separate Mom andPaul. They were their ownunique pair, connected bytheir sharedhistoryandnow,me.I’dhavetofindawayforbothofthemtobeinmylife.

By the time Igotback tothe studio, the class was infinalmeditation.Ididn’twanttointerrupt,soIwaitedinthereception area. There on the

counterwasthesamekindofBuddha statue I’daccidentally knocked off ourmantelpiece. The girl behindthedeskwasbusyworkingonwhat looked like nextmonth’s class schedule. Iclearedmythroat.

“Excuseme,doyouknowwhereIcangetaBuddhalikethisone?”

“This guy?” She pickedup the statue. I anticipated

some exotic locale, orZen.com or something, butshelookedonthebottomandsmiled. “That home-accessoriesplaceonthebackhighway.”

Sure enough, the stickeron the bottom was from thehomestore,anditwas$10.99toboot.

“Thanks.”Whenthefinalmeditation

wasthrough,Iwentbackinto

the studio to collectmymat.Mom came over to me. Ispokefirst.

“That was a great class.Niceadjusting.”

She smiled. “Are youokay—youleft,Ithought—”

“Nope,justhadatickleinmythroat,”Isaid.

“Ready?”Wren and Jazzsidleduptous.

“Howdidyouenjoyyourfirstclass?”mymotherasked

Jazz.“Very relaxing. I’ll be

back.”“Great. Maddie, I’m

assisting with the next class,too—you do have a ridehome,right?”sheasked.

“Grayson’s picking usup,”Wrensaid.

“Yep,guess Ido,” Isaid,rolling up my sticky mat.“Seeyoulater.”

“Let’s go, chais on me

tonight,”Wrensaid.“Why don’t we get them

from Quick Chek?” I asked,semi-dreading the apology IowedJesse.

“You can’t be serious,Mads.”

“Onlyalittle,”Isaid.The three of us left the

studio andwent next door toMugshot. Jesse was behindthe counter with Tanner. Atthe sight of him my heart

quickened—whatdidhethinkof me, after I’d practicallyattacked him in his VW andjust stomped off? I knew Ihad to face him sometime,and maybe a well-lit, noisycafé would be a good bufferagainst my angst. I’d beenemotionally fragilewithhim,therewasnogoingbackfromthat,andIhadtodealwithallthe weird, jangled feelingsthat came from sharing so

much of myself withsomeone.

I kept my eyes down aswe inched up to the counter.Howwouldhereacttoseeingme?CouldIblamehimifhedidn’twanttodealwithme?Iimaginedtheworst,butwhenI looked into his eyes, theyweresoft,inviting.Hesmiledat me from under the well-wornrimofhisMugshothat.

“Hey,”hesaid.

“Hey.”Wren spoke up. “Three

chailattes,forhere.Oh,andablack coffee for Gray. He’sstoppingbytopickusup.”

“Ah, here—you’rethrowing me off my game.”Tanner put down the cupshe’dbeenabouttojuggleandcastasidelongglanceatJazz.Shesmiledbackathim.Theirflirtation momentarilylightenedmymood.

“Youdon’tmind.Wecanhang out awhile, right?” sheaskedhim.

“You can hang out aslong as you want, Jasmine,”he said. “I don’t know aboutthose other two, though.”Tannerwinkedatus.Winked.Theboyhadgrownapairanddeveloped some flirtingskills. There was some hopeforhimafterall.

Wren nudged me and

grinned. “They’d kind of becutetogether.”

She handed Jesse atwenty andwe found a tablenear the window. Fiveminutes later he brought ourdrinks to us. He lingered amoment, looked at me. Mystomach hollowed out. Ishould have been the one tomakethefirstmove.

“Can we talk a minute?”heasked.

I slipped out of my seatandfollowedhimtoanarrowhallway behind the counter.Weleanedonoppositewalls.

“Aboutlastnight—”“Jess—I was totally out

of line, I’m sorry. I believewhatyousaidaboutHannah.I do. I don’t get like thisnormally. I like you. A lot.And . . . this—” I wasspluttering. Uncomfortable.Jesse waited, a small smile

crossinghisface.“Me too.” He leaned

down and gaveme a kiss onthecheek.

“So you’re not mad Iattacked you, then basicallyranoff?”Iasked.

“Um, no—I hopewe candoitagainsometime,well,inamoreprivateplace,withouttherunningoff.”

Ilaughed,feelingtheheatrise in my cheeks. “That

wouldbeawesome.”“I was worried you were

upset about that number inmy pocket, you know, thenapkin....Ithought...youdo know about that, right?Thewayyoulookedatit.”

I briefly entertained thethought of lying.Not a goodwaytostart,though.

“Yeah,Idid,butIfiguredif itwas still in your pocket,youprobablydidn’tuseit,”I

said,usingWren’swisdomtocovermyjealousass.

“Cool.”“Hey,Jess,Ihatetobreak

this up but—” Tannermotionedwithhisheadtothegrowingline.

“Berightthere.”Hestoodupstraight,adjustedhishat.

“So, um, are you comingto the battle tomorrownight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I

said.“Great,”hesaid.“Seeyou

tomorrow.”We left the hallway and

partedways.Iturnedback.“Hey,Jess.”“Yeah?”“Goodluck.”“Thanks.”Grayson was sitting with

Wren and Jazz when Ireturned. The three of themhad goofy-ass grins on their

faces as I sat down. I sippedmychaiandignoredthem.

“Hey, do you have to goright home after this?” Iaskedthem.

“Idon’t.”“Meeither.”“Guess not,” Grayson

answered.“What’sup?”“Think we could make a

slight detour before headinghome? There’s something Ineedtoget.”

The following night, I tookmy time getting ready. Iwanted to look special forJesse.. .forme.. .becauseit felt good to be goingsomewhere with my friendsand that my main concernwas perfecting my smokyeyesandpickingoutmyskirtand boots for the evening.The finishing touch was theYellow #5 shirt.Wren’s dadwas dropping us off at the

high school and I had fifteenminutes left to get ready.There was a knock on mybedroomdoor.

“Hey,Mads.”Mymotherwalked in holding theLaughing Buddha statue I’dstopped by the store to getlast night after class. She saton the foot of my bed andsmiled. “Noticed this on themantel this morning. Thankyou for replacing it, you

didn’thaveto.”“Yes, I did. I’m sorry

about that. I know I haven’tbeen that supportive of yougetting into yoga. Whatyou’re doing is incredible,Mom.You’re going to be anawesomeinstructor.”

“You really think so?Sometimes,Iwonder.”

“It’s a good fit for you.And you look cute in theyogapants.”

She laughed. “Where areyouofftotonight?”

“Jesse’s in the Battle ofthe Bands over at BergenPoint tonight.Going tocheerthemon.”

“Sounds fun, what timedoesthatstart?”

“Eight-ish.Not surewhattime he goes on. Wren andJazzwillbehere in less thanfifteen.”

“Oh . . . Paul is coming

by tonight. He’s leavingtomorrow, you know that,right?”

I stopped mid–swirl ofblush application and lookedather.

“Wait, what? He said hefoundanewplace.”

“Yes, at a hotel near theairport.”

Anger I thought hadsubsidedbubbledupagain.

“He didn’t mention he

wasleaving,like,now.”My mother shook her

head.“Itdoesn’tsurpriseme.I had to bribe him withPalermo’s pizza and a bottleof his favorite cab to evenstop by tonight; he’s not onefor good-byes. He doesn’treallyconsiderthisgood-bye,though.”

“Butitis,isn’tit?”I thought about my

tentative plan to apply to

summer architectureprograms inCalifornia.Whatwastheusenow?Ifhehadn’tevenwantedtosaygood-bye,why would he want me tolive with him for a fewweeks?

“Mom,I’lltrytogetback,but I need to see Jesse. It’simportanttome.”

“Well,maybehe’llstillbeherewhenyougethome.”

“Idoubtit.”

Mymother stood up andput a hand on my shoulder.“Madison,it’salottotakein.Wewon’tfigurethisoutallatonce. I told you before—thisis happynews toPaul.Very.Don’tforget.”

“So happy he’s prettymuchrunningaway.”

“Well—you know,sometimes it’s hard tochange.”

“Maybe he should start

takingyoga,sohecanlivehistruth.”

“I’ll have to tell himyousaidthat.”

TWENTY-FOURJESSE

“DUDE, YOU HAVE TO CALMDOWN,WE’VEGOT this thing,”Graysonsaid.

“I’mtrying,”Isaid.Beingstuckinavestibule

along with the other bands

and various equipment wasabout as fun as being nakedin a cagewith a rabid honeybadger. Although, truth betold, a honey badger wouldhaveprobablysmelledbetter.Not everyone, it seemed,cared about hygiene, and thesmall space made thatpainfully evident. My nerveswere live wires; I couldbarely stand still in the twofeet of space we had

surrounding us. At least thedoorhadwindowssoIcouldseeintothegym.

Thereweretwostages,soasonebandplayed,theothercould setup their equipment.Thankfully, Plasma didn’tshare our staging area; theywaited in the hallway on theother side of the gym.SharingacrampedspacewithKennyorDuncanwouldhavemade me even edgier. I’d

seenthem,noddedinasortof“Good luck, may the bestband win” kind of way, butthey had just sort of stared,tryingtopsychusout.Outofsix bands,wewere set to goon third. Smack-dab in themiddle.Notthemostenviablespot,butitwastheluckofthedraw.Plasmawastheclosingband. Tanner thought it wasfixed.

I paced back and forth,

occasionallypeekingout intothegym,whichdidnothingtocalm my nerves. The Battleof the Bands always drew adecent crowd, and the spacewasalreadystartingtofillin.I kept looking for one face,though,and tenminutesuntilthe battle was supposed tostart, Madison was nowhereto be seen. Her absencewasn’t the reason I wasnervous. She said she’d be

thereandIbelievedher.Therealreasonitfeltlike

my blood was replaced withpure adrenaline was that Iwas about to throw thecompetitionandIhadnoideahowIwasgoingtobreakittoTannerandGrayson.

After the weirdness withMadison inmy car, I’d gonehome and finished the song.Her song. I couldn’t handleplayingitforheroneonone,

I’d be too self-conscious—but being on a stagewhere Icouldgetlostintheenergyofthe crowd would somehowmake it easier. I didn’t planon singling her out, I knewhow she felt about grandgestures,butshewouldknowitwasforher.

Grayson would be easiertopersuade.Thiswasallnewto him, andwhile I knew hewanted to win, he wouldn’t

think twice about me doingthe song. He’d said asmuchatpractice.

Tanner was a differentstory. Itwas nowor never. Igrabbedhisarm.

“Dude, I have to talk toyou,”Isaid.

“Shoot,”hesaid.“Nothere.”His upper lip curled.

“Wherewegonnago?”Ilookedaround.Hehada

point.Iturnedmybacktothesmall area, forming our owncorner, and motioned forthemtocomecloser.

“Okay,I’mstartingtofeellike a douche, Jess, are wegoing to joinhands anddo apowerchantorsomething?”

“This from the guywearing the hat,” Graysonsaid.

“Luckyhat.”“The song is done. It’s

good. I want to play it forMadison.”

That was as plain as Icouldmakeit.

Tannerbreathedouthard,staring up at the ceilingbefore answering. “I thoughtwe talked about this. JustsaveitforMay.”

“Ijust...”“Want to impress a girl.

Did you know about this?”He turned to Gray. Gray

shookhishead.“No, this is sort of a

game-timecall.Look, Ican’texplain it, I just think sheneeds to hear this. We’realready better than Plasma—we know that, does it really—”

“How could you springthis on us now? Why is itmoreimportantthanustryingourbesttowinthisthing?”

“Becauseitjustis.”

Tanner’s face fell. Heshook his head. “It’s still allaboutyou.”

He spun away, knockinginto the girl singer from theband who was set to go onfirst.“Sorry,”hemumbledasshescowled.

“T, wait,” I said as heshoulderedhiswayover to aset of double doors.Throughthe glass window I saw himstorm off into the locker

room, out to the area wherewe unloaded our equipmentearlier.

“Ishouldn’thaveasked.”“Jess, you wouldn’t have

asked if it wasn’t important.I’ll go talk to him,” Graysaid.

Inoddedashewalkedoffin search of Tanner. WasTannerright?Wasitallaboutme? I hadn’t meant for it tocome out like that. I wanted

to win, I did, but wasn’tmusic more about reachingpeople, making them feelsomething instead of thisstupidcompetition?

Ipeeredout into thegymand finally spotted Madison,standing between Wren andJazz.SheworetheYellow#5shirt. Her smile a small, stillvote of confidence in thecrowd.My heart wigged outat the sight of her.What the

hellhadIbeenthinking?Thesong was too personal toshare, it needed work—Isounded clumsy. What if Itotallyscreweditupandblewit?

Mr. Katz, ourgym/driver’s-edteacher/emcee for the night,tappedamiconthefarstage,welcoming everyone andannouncingthatthefirstbandwould be on in five. My

stomachcoiledtight.IneededtofindTandGrayson.Iwovemy way around the otherbands, pushed through thedoors, and found thedarkened locker room. Therewas a door open to theoutsideonthefarend.Iracedtoward the sliver ofstreetlamp and out into theparkinglotbehindtheschool.Tanner sat on the curb.Graystoodnexttohim.

“Hey, you know, justforget it,” I said. “We’ll doourfivebestsongs,that’sit.”

“No, do the song, Jess,”Graysaid.

“Ican’t.”Tannersprangup.“Nowyouneedmetotell

youhowgreatyouare,right?Because that’show it alwaysworkswithus.”

“No, you were right.Wewouldn’tbehereifitweren’t

foryouputtingupthemoney,fillingouttheapplication.I’mjust, it was stupid of me.Arrogant.”

He breathed out, crossedhisarms.

“Chickenshit.”“What?”“Just play the song you

wrote for Madison. Okay?You’re wimping out, that’sworse than losing onpurpose.”

“Whatifitsucks?”“Itwon’t. It never does,”

Tannersaid.“Okay, gather in,” Gray

said, motioning for us tohuddle.

“Dude, I was seriousabout the chanting feeling.Notright.”

“I was lacrosse captain,just huddle, it brings a teamtogether,andweareaboutasnot togetherasyoucanbeat

themoment.”“Fine, but if you start

tellingmetobreathedeep—”IjabbedTannertostopit.

Thethreeofusputourhandsout and brought themtogether.

“Nowwhat?”“Someone say something

inspiring.Asfrontman,Jess,Ithinkthatfallstoyou.”

My mind was blank.What to say? Two months

earlierI’dwantedtogiveup,and here Iwaswith a viableband, both Tanner and Graywerebetter thantheythoughttheywere.Wecouldbegreat.Blow them all away. Thatwasit.

“If we’re gonna blow it,blowitbig.”

“FromtheWhiskey.Cool,Ilikeit,”Tannersaid.

“Metoo.Soon thecountofthree,um,‘Blowitbig.’”

“Dowe—”“Just say it.” Gray shot

Tanneralook.“One...two...three...

.Blowitbig!”We pulled our hands

away, and Grayson howled.Tannerpunchedtheairafewtimes.

“Let’sdothis.”

Icouldneverbesureatwhatpointithappened,whenStage

Jesse took over, but it wassomething I could alwayscounton.The fearof failure,the nervous anticipation, andthe energy of the crowd allconverged and fueled me.The last piece of the puzzlewas my Fender. I put thestrap over my head and ranmyfingersacross thestrings.Grayslidintohisseat,givingme a stick up that he wasready. Tanner nodded. I

stompedmyfoot,holdingtheguitar close tomy body, andwalkeduptothemic.

“S’up, Bergen Point. Areyou ready for some YellowNumberFive?”

Therewasacheer,butnotaloudone.

I screamed into the mic,“Areyoureadeeeeeeeee?”

I didn’t wait to hear alouder response, justlaunched into “Welcome to

Paradise” and the crowdwasinfused with the music, awave of people under ourcontrol, at least for theduration of our set. I lookedover at Tanner; he grinned,tassels on his hat whippingaround with his movement.We owned the stage and itfeltfuckingamazing.

We went into the nextsong, a Say Anything cover,without breaking. I scanned

the faces in the crowd, nowmorevisible, lookingforher.She was there, her faceflashing green, then blue, inthestagelights.Asmilewhenoureyesmetthatfiredupmyconfidence. I played for her.For me. For everyone. Wedrove the song hard, Grayending with a thrash ofdrums. Tanner waved meover.

“Doitnow,”hesaid.

“No, I can wait until theend.”

“No, do it now, but itbetter be friggin’ amazing,”Tannersaid.

Graysonnodded, takingagulp from a water bottle. Iswitched guitars, pulling thestrapof theacousticovermyhead. I hadn’t given muchthoughttohowIwasgoingtointroduce the song. Onlyknew I wouldn’t say her

name.TherestIwaswinging.“Gonna slow it down a

little. This next one is aYellow Number Fiveoriginal. Kind of the worldpremiere.”

“You suck!” someoneyelled.

Was it amistakedoing itnow that everyone was sopumped?Screwit.

“Thanks,” I said,laughing.“Thisone’sfor,um

. . .well,sheknowswhosheis.”

Brilliant,Jess.I fumbled with the

opening chord, my mindsuddenly empty. Blowing itbigwasonething,fuckingupcompletelyinfrontofaroomfull of people who couldremind me on a daily basiswas another. I stoppedstrumming,tookabreath,andfoundMadison in the crowd.

She smiled. It was all Ineeded.

I strummed, feeling thebuilduptotheopeningverse.

YoucomeinlikeastormAforcestrongandtrueEyesalightwithfirePowerlessagainstyou

I closed my eyes, lostmyself in the words and the

melody.Iwasinthemeadow,under the stars, filling thespace,mymindamontageofvisions of her—her hands inmy hair, her face atFallingwater, that sketch inherroom,thefightinmyVW—as I sang. Everything. Thegood,thebad,thebest.WhenIopenedmyeyes, I saw thatTannerhadpulledupalighterapp on his phone, inspiringotherstodothesame.

Madison’s eyes wereriveted on mine, her headtilted slightly; she stoodstock-still in the swayingmass.Sheknewthesongwasforher.Thecrowdbrokeintoapplause as I strummed thelastnotes.Wehadamoment,an exchange, the two of usalone in the crowd, before Ihadtodiveintotherestoftheset. I wished I could say Iknewwhat shewas thinking,

that we had telepathicallycommunicated our mutualdesire, butwhen themomentwasover,Iwasjustasunsureas I’d been at the start. Iswitched guitars again, theworry of what she reallythought of the songthreatening to paralyze myability to play. She liked it,that was sort of evident, buthowdidshereally feelaboutit?Ipusheditoutofmyhead

asIcalledoutthenextsong.The final twosongswere

a blur. We’d practiced somuch they were automaticand we finally loosened upand acted crazy. Me andTanner stalked each otheracrossthestage,jumpingnowandthen.Laughing,even.Bythe time we finished, we’dwrungoutthegymnasium.

Atleastitfeltthatway.The stagecrewhelpedus

breakdownour stuff andweloadeditintothe’burbanjustas the fourth band took thestage.The stress frombeforethe show was gone. I wasrelieved—the set had gonewell, we’d played our best.Thatwaswinningenoughforme.IhopedTannerandGrayfelt the same.Anewkindofanxiousness tightened mythroataswewalkedbackintothe gym. HadMadison liked

thesong?The fourth band was in

themiddle of their set aswehit the gym floor. WrenspottedGray first andwavedhim over. Jazz beamed atTanner.Madisonwasn’twiththem.Mystomachtookafreefall.

“You guys wereawesome!” Wren screechedover the band. Gray pulledher in for a kiss. I looked at

Jazz.“Where’sMadison?”She leaned in toward me

andcuppedahandaroundmyear.“Shehadtorunhome.”

My playing high deflatedinseconds.“What?Why?”

Jazz shrugged. “She justsaid something like, ‘I haveto go, call me if you go outafter,’andthenshewasgonebeforewecouldstopher.”

“Was she pissed off or

anything?”She shook her head as

Tannerjoinedus.“You were great,” she

said to him, punching hisshoulder.

He pulled on his hat.“Workseverytime.”

Had she hated the songthatmuch?

The crowd suddenly feltthicker.Ipulledonmycollar,trying to cool down, looking

around the gym on the offchance that Jazz maybehadn’t heard Madison right.That maybe she was just atthe back of the gym,waitingforme.

“Hey, do you mind if Ibail?” I asked Tanner. Hecrossedhisarms.

“I’ll try to make it backbefore they announceeverything.”

“Noyouwon’t.Yousure

youdon’twanttobeherefortheresults?”

“Not really. In my mind,wewon.”

Tannerlaughed.“IguessIcan catch a ride with Gray.Youbetter comeout after.Aplateofdiscofriesistheleastof what you owe me fortonight.”

“Tanner,thanks,man.Foreverything.”

“Yeah, yeah, you better,

like,nameyourfirstkidaftermeorsomething,”hesaid.

Ipushedmywaythroughthe crowd and out into thehallway, checking mymessages hoping to find onefromMadison.Nothing.

“Jess.”I spun around at my

name.Hannah stood behind a

tableofcupcakes.Thereweretwo other girls with her, in

front of a sign that read:SUPPORT THE ARTS! $1CUPCAKES! They stoppedtalkingasIcameover.

“Hey,”Isaid.“Youguyswerethebest,”

oneofthegirlssaid.“Thanks.”“There’s still two more

bands to go,” Hannah said.“We’re rooting for Plasma,remember?”

The girl shook her head

andheldoutacupcaketome.“You guys are still the best.Here,onthehouse.”

“Nah,I’mgood,”Isaid.“Do not refuse her

cupcake,” the other girl said,takingitfromherandholdingituptomyface.Ilaughed.

“Well, um, okay.” I tookitfromher.“Thanks.”

“Can I talk to you for aminute, Jess?” Hannahmotionedformetowalkover

to the side with her. Ifollowed.Westoppedinfrontof a bank of lockers. Sheleanedagainstoneandsmiledatme.

“I’mkindof ina rush,” Isaid.

A crease formed betweenher brows. “You’re leaving?You’re not even going towatchDuncan?”

“No, I’m sure they’ll begreat.”

“Guess you’re not afraidofthecompetition,then.”

I shrugged. “I don’tknow, not really thinkingaboutit.Ijust...Weplayedour best. It’s not really acompetition to me—doesn’tmatterwhowins.”

“Yoursongwasbeautiful,Jesse.”

My mouth went dry asshe reached up and ran herfingersunder the lapelofmy

jacket.Shehadthissparkleinher eyes for a moment, butthen pulled her hand awayquickly, like she suddenlyrealized she shouldn’t betouchingme.

“Thanks, I really have to—”

“So did you write it theother night? Your notebooklooked pretty blank, I wasjust wondering. It was sopretty, the way you

introduced it,” she said,looking down at her feet.“Are you really powerlessagainstme?”

Holycrap.She thought it was about

her.The kind thing might

have been to ignore it, Iguess,butIcouldn’t.Ishouldhave been happy, this waswhat I’dwanted for so long,for her to come back to me,

butshe’dbeenrightaboutthebreakup.MaybeIhadalottodowithit,butwe’dbothbeenalittletoocomfortable.Itwastimetomoveon.Icouldfeelthatnow.

“Hannah, I . . . There’ssomeoneelse.Youknow,thatgirl you met the night atMugshot?Madison?”

The look on her facejabbedmeinthegut.

“Oh. I . . . I’m sorry,

Jess,”shesaid.Ihadnocluewhat tosay

toher.Whateverdoubtsshe’dbeen having about Duncanwere things she had to dealwithonherown.AsmuchasI still cared about her, Iwasn’t ready to dole outrelationship advice. Still, Ididn’twanttoleaveitatthat,without saying somethingupbeat. I didn’t want her tofeellikeshitoveranyofit.

“The song Plasma isplaying, the one Duncanwanted so bad . . . just, youknow,listentoit.Therewasareason he wanted it. You’lllikeit.Ipromise.”

Her eyes brightened.“Thanks.Um,Madisonseemsreally nice. I hope you guysarehappy.”

“Thanks.Metoo.”“Banana girl, you’re

fraternizing with the enemy,

come back!” the cupcakegirlscalledtous.

“Bye, Jess.” She walkedto the stand without lookingback.

Thisfeltlikegood-bye.I dashed out the door to

find Madison, hoping thesong hadn’t scared her off.Sometimes you just had tohavefaithingrandgestures.

TWENTY-FIVEMADISON

THESONGWASFORME. IKNEWTHAT. AND I WASN’T runningaway—I hoped Wren andJazz made sure Jesse knewthatwhen theysawhimafterYellow #5’s set. I wanted to

seehimafterthebattle,andIwould, but I had to dosomething first before it wastoolate.

Thankfully, thenightwaswarm—winter finally givingway to spring—and it waspleasantwalkingacrosstown.I stopped at the bakery. I’dmade it just as they wereabouttoclose,buyingthelastof the good doughnuts, theonesurethingthatPaulandI

shared. Well, the second, Iguess.WesharedMom,afterall.

Iwasn’tabout to letPaulget away with not sayinggood-bye to me. I wasn’t anarchitect yet but I was thearchitect ofmy own life andthisnot-saying-good-byecrapsetupaweakfoundation.

Jesse’s song—seeing himalone, vulnerable, voice andguitar—reminded me that

being an open book, sharingwhat was inside, was anuncertain leap. Scary butnecessary. I didn’t quiteunderstand what had comeovermeasIwatchedhim.Ormaybe it was something thathadbeengraduallyhappeningsinceImethim.Jessepouredoutwordsthatcutmestraightto the core. I couldn’t helpbutmelt,myheartfirmlyandsappilyonmysleeve.Maybe

onlyJazzandWrenknewthesong was for me, but it feltlike everyone in the BergenPointgymhad.

Iclimbedthestairstomyhouse two at a time, stillharboringthetiniesthopethatI’dburstinonMomandPaulin a lip-lock, they’d professtheir love to each other andme,andwe’dbeafamilyandlive happily ever after justlikemybirthdaywish.

Nosuchluck.“Madison, I thought you

were out for the night,” mymothersaid.

The two of themwere intheir usual spot in the diningroom, each with a glass ofwine, half-eatenpizza still intheboxbetweenthem.Iliftedup the grease-stained whitebag for Paul to see. Hegrinnedandraisedhisglasstomebeforetakingasip.

“Pizza and doughnuts,this is quite a send-off,” hesaid.

“Wereyoureallygoingtoleave without saying good-bye tome?” Iplaced thebagon the table andpulledout achair. Paul put his glassdown.Mymother rested herchinonherhandsandwaitedexpectantly for him toanswer.

“And don’t giveme ‘I’m

not into good-byes.’ I thinkthat’ssortofParenting101—you say good-bye to thepeople you love when youleave. Especially your kids.Especiallyme.”

He looked between mymotherandme.“Okay, Icandothat.”

“There’ssomethingelse,”Isaid.

My mother gave me thesame expectant look she’d

givenPaul.Noturningbacknow.“I did some research

about summer programs inCalifornia and I thought,well, maybe I’d applysomeplaceoutthere.”

“The one at Cal Poly?”Paulasked.

“No, the one at Berk—wait, how do you knowthere’s one at Cal Poly?” Ilookedatmymom,whowas

chuckling and shaking herhead.

“Afterwespoketheotherday,Ilookedintoit,IthoughtI’d toss the idea out to yourmom, see what she thoughtfirst.Iknowhowimportantitisforyoutoearnyourway.”

“I’dhavetoearnmywayinto Berkeley. I think I stillhave time to get everythingtogether.” I stopped, lookedatmymother.“Areyouokay

withthisifIgetin?”She smiled. “I think it

would be great, for the bothof you.And I guess Iwouldhavetomaybeflyoutatsomepoint. Ugh, a vacation outwest, how awful would thatbe?”

“The three of us in thecity by the bay again,” Paulsaid, liftinguphiswineglass.“Thatwouldbesomething.”

Thethreeofus.

Itsoundedweirdbutnice.Not exactly what I’d

wished for on my birthdaybutitwasastart.

Goingtodiner.Needaride?

I was about to answerWren’s text when I gotanotherone.

nevermind

Whatdidthatevenmean?I hoped it meant what Ithought itdid.Moments laterI heard footfalls on the frontporch.My heart jumped intomy throat and I sprung upfrom the table, crumbs fromthedoughnutI’deatenfallingtothefloor.

“Wait, no good-bye peckon the cheek for your oldman?”

Ilaughed.“Oldman?”

“Yeah, I don’t like iteither.”

“Let’ssticktoPaul.”Iranbackandgavehima

kisson thecheek,Mom, too,just as someone knocked.“Don’t wait up,” I said,headingout, and right smackintoJesse.

“Hey.”He smiled, shrugging his

shoulders up to his ears.“Hey.”

His hair was all over theplace from flipping it aroundas he played, but thedisheveled look worked onhim.Iresistedtheurgetorunmyfingersthroughit.

“What are you doinghere? Is the battle over? Didyouwin?”

“Isn’titobvious?”“Thatyouwon?”“No,whyI’mhere.”I felt oddly shy

remembering the song, thewords,thewaytheymademefeel.

“Come on.” I led himdown the stairs to the firstlanding, and motioned forhimtosit.

“I came to see if youwantedtohangout,”hesaid,perchingontheconcretestep.Ieasedontohislap,eatingupeverymomentofthesurpriseonhisface.

“Yes, I do, but first . . .Jess, that song . . . you . . .”Every word I came up withsoundedcheesy,orstrangeorhorribly inadequate todescribe how his songtouchedme.Howitmademefeel.HowIfeltabouthim.

“Thank you,” Iwhispered. “Thank you forthe song, for being here, forFallingwater, for hotchocolate, for being kind

even when I wasn’t . . . foreverything.” I touched mylips to his. His mouth wassoft and warm. I closed myeyes, lettingmyself drift intothefeeling,thatevenifitwasjustforamoment,everythingwas theway itwas supposedto be. This was right. Hedrew me closer to him,encircling me with his armswhileIwrappedminearoundhisneck.

I never wanted to comeupforair.

The diner was noisy andpackedwithpeoplewhenwewalked in. Jesse had his armaround my shoulders as wescouredthetablestoseeifwecouldfindtheothermembersof Yellow #5 who weresupposedlysomewhere in thecrowd. I saw Wren andwaved. They sat at a big

circular table in the back,menusstillspreadoutinfrontofthem.

“Finally, you’re here toshare in our victory,”Tannersaidaswegotcloser.

Jesse stopped. “Victory?Whatdoyoumean?”

“Doyouwant to tell himor should I?” Tanner lookedatGray.

“Ithinkyoushouldbetheone.”

“Comeon,oneofyousaysomething already!” Jazzsaid.

“We won.” Tannergrinned, pulling the ear flapsofhishatdown.“Luckyhat.”

“What? How?” Jessepulledoutachairforme,butI nudged him onto it andplopped down on his lapagain. Wren wriggled hereyebrows at me. I wrappedmyarmsaroundJesse’sneck

andsmiled.“Iguessthejudgesdidn’t

readtherules.”“And since Plasma came

in second theyarecontestingit,sowecan’tclaimwe’rethewinnersyet,butyeah,winornot, the crowd loved us,”Graysaid.

“Wait, why would theycontestit?”Iasked.

“I wasn’t supposed toplay the song solo. It was

againsttherules,”Jessesaid.“Sothenwhydidyou?”He touched his head to

mine. Everyone at the tablewaslookingatus—intruth,Ididn’t care. The old me, thePDA-loathing me, finallyrealized that maybe when itwasright,beinginpublicwasirrelevant,because it felt likewewere the only two in theroom. Warmth rushedthrough me as his lips

brushedmyear.“BecauseIhadtoplayit.

..foryou.”“Andyouriskedlosing?”Helookedatme,hiseyes

sointenseandsteady,likeallthis time he knew somethingthathe’dbeenwaitingformeto understand. I pressed mylips to his, ignoring theclappingatourtable,shuttingout everything else but us,thismoment.Itwasscaryand

sexyandfun.Andreal.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you, dear reader, forspending some time inMadisonandJesse’sworld; Ihope you enjoyed your stay!Ifyou’rethesortwhoturnstothe acknowledgments first,you should know that this

bookinyourhandswouldnothave been possible withoutthe following excellentpeople:

Tamar Rydzinski, agentextraordinaire, I’m so luckyto have you and Laura DailLiterary Agency in mycorner, twowordscanhardlycontainmygratitude.

Donna Bray, dreameditor,youhavetheknackforsaying the right words, just

when I need to hear them.Thank you for helping meshape a rather unwieldymanuscript into this novel,and for believing that I wasuptothetask.

TherearesomanypeopleatBalzer+Bray/HarperCollinswho’ve toiled on behalf ofmy work—a million thanksforbeingsuchabrilliantanddedicated team, with specialshout-outs to Viana

Siniscalchi,you’resimplythebest; Erin Fitzsimmons, foranother cover I want to hug;Caroline Sun, for yourpatience and mad publicityskills; Nellie Kurtzman, foryourmarketing prowess; andBethany Reis and BrennaFranzitta, for the amazingcopyedit.

Thank you to MegWiviott for fresh eyes andwordsofencouragement.

Thank you to the writersfrom the Montreat weekend,who laughed at all the funnybits—Kip, Patty, Lauren,Juliana, Jen, Mary Ann, andespecially to Jro, for lettingme crash your party in thefirst place. Great food, goodwine, laughter—let’s do itagainsoon.

Thank you to thestupendously talented OneFours,forwisdomandlaughs

and for sharing this wild,wonderful ride. I owe mysanitytoyou.Grouphug.Wemadeit!

At one time or another,the following individualshaveofferedhonestcritiques,gentle advice, shoulders tocry on, or are just plainawesome—soblessedtohavecrossed paths with CindyClemens, Laura Renegar,JudyPalermo,JaniceFinnell,

Brianna Caplan Sayres, GaleSypher Jacob, MeganMiranda, Megan Shepherd,andKasieWest.

Thank you to my Gurls,for memories old and newand for your unwaveringsupport, even during ablizzard.

Thank you to Mike, Jan,Dylan, and Grace for road-trippin’withme in the nameof research. It’s the journey,

notthedestination!Thank you to my family

for being a safe haven in anuncertain world, especiallyMom, my number-one fanandunabashedbookpimp.

And finally, a ginormousfireworks finale of a thank-youtoJim,forgivingmethespace to follow my dreams,for knowing when I need abreak (sometimes better thanI do), for making me laugh,

everysingleday,andfor justfor being you. My heart isyours.Always.

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ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

PHOTOBYDEBORAHTRIPLETT

ROBINCONSTANTINE istheauthorofThePromiseofAmazing. A born-and-raisedJersey girlwhomoved southso she could wear flip-flopsyear-round, she spends herdays dreaming up storieswhere love conquers all,eventually, but notwithout alot of peril, angst, and theoccasionalkissingscene.Youcan visit Robin online at

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