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  Copyright © 2018 by Gina Ciocca

  Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Vanessa Han

  Cover images © kaisersosa67/Getty Images; Efimenko Alexander/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Aunt Gloria, the reason that this story made it out of my head and onto the page.

  1

  Scaling the back of a house Spider-Man style hadn’t been part of my Saturday-night plans.

  Yet there I was, clinging to the ivy-swathed lattice above the garage of a house I’d never been to, peering through the window of a rec room dominated by an oversized leather couch, which was occupied by a boy whose name I couldn’t remember as he made out with a girl I’d never met. Two pints of abandoned vanilla ice cream sat on the end table next to them.

  The vanilla ice cream that had started it all.

  Two pints of Fudgie’s ice cream were slowly turning to soup in the front seat of my car because of these two. If I hadn’t been in line behind—what the hell was his name? Greg? George?—my double order of Sexual Chocolate (yes, really) and I would be on our way to Charlie’s house for a Saturday movie, gossip, and anti-nutrition night like so many Saturdays before. Except, as I stood there waiting to pay, wondering, Where do I know this kid from and why don’t I like him? it clicked. I’d met the tall, lanky blond boy once, albeit briefly, at a football game I’d gone to at Charlie’s school to watch her cheer. He’d been draped over the fence, flirting with her between routines. When he saw me approaching, he’d given me a lazy once-over and sent a halfhearted nod in my direction before taking off.

  It was him all right. Longish nose, small mole on his left cheek—check, check. But between the way I’d kept my face warm by burying it inside the collar of my winter jacket that night and his disinterested lack of eye contact, he must not have remembered me at all. Because when his eyes darted over to me as he stuffed his wallet into his back pocket after paying for his pints, they didn’t show a trace of recognition.

  This was Charlie’s boyfriend. The guy she went out of her way to not talk about, because she insisted their relationship was no big deal. Yet we’d been dress shopping that very afternoon for a dance he’d asked her to. And she’d tried to hide the dejected look on her face as she’d held a half-zipped, sparkly blue dress around her torso and scanned his last-minute text message canceling their date tonight. I wondered if he planned to drop by with ice cream to make it up to her. Until I watched his two pints of ice cream—Vanilla Bean Dream—disappear into a brown paper bag. I whipped out my phone and sent Charlie a text: Did you change your mind about vanilla ice cream?

  Her response came seconds later: I would not waste energy swallowing ice cream w/o chocolate and you know this.

  That’s what I thought.

  Curiosity mixed with a bit of admittedly premature disgust and indignation welled inside me.

  And just like that, I knew I had to follow him.

  Ten minutes later, I’d wound up parked in front of a white colonial with carefully tended flower beds lining the walkway and pillars flanking the front door. It could’ve been his house for all I knew, but I’d had to circle the block while he parked, and my little detour hadn’t allowed me to see how he got in. I’d hoped he lived there and that the vanilla ice creams were for him and his mother.

  And maybe tomorrow, I’d wake up a monkey—or a spider, as it stood.

  The diamond-shaped wood lattice serving as my foothold groaned softly as I maneuvered my cell phone out of my back pocket. There were probably bugs galore in that ivy, and I didn’t even want to think about bigger, hairier creatures that might also be present. My biggest concern was whether the chipped, splintering strips could hold 116 pounds of prying teenage girl long enough for me to get what I came for.

  All I could see of Greggie-George and Mystery Blond were their heads on the armrest of the couch, eyes closed, mouths sealed together, oblivious to the television and me, their captive audience. My lips tightened and the desire to punch him, or bang on the window and give him the finger, flared up inside me. I didn’t do either of those things, of course. Instead, I angled my phone toward the two of them kissing like they were going for the gold in the make-out Olympics and snapped a picture.

  And realized too late that I hadn’t turned off the flash.

  Greggie-George’s dumbfounded face shot up over the back of the couch. It was the last thing I saw before I gasped and ducked to the side of the window—and before my cell phone slipped out of my hand, landing below with a rustle and a smack.

  “Shit!” I hissed.

  “What was that?” Mystery Blond’s muffled voice came from inside the house.

  “Probably nothing,” he replied. “Maybe it’s your stupid cat.”

  “Go check. What if there’s a raccoon in the yard and Mozart ends up with rabies?”

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  My fingers curled around the wood diamonds until they ached and I pressed myself as flat against the house as I could, face buried in the ivy like a child in time-out, fervently hoping that if I couldn’t see him, he c
ouldn’t see me.

  The light shifted as his frame filled part of the window. I refused to look, but I felt his presence, like he was standing right beside me, ready to drop a bag over my head.

  A second later: “There’s nothing out there. If Mozart’s foaming at the mouth next time you see him, just shoot him.”

  I went limp with relief as the window brightened with his retreat. Mystery Blond’s responding giggles died down, and I could only imagine they’d picked up where they’d left off, because I sure as hell wasn’t sticking around to find out. I climbed down the lattice as fast as I could, reminding myself to find secure footholds for my black flats so my breaking bones wouldn’t become the next sound to pierce the night. My whole body shook with nerves and adrenaline by the time I stood on the ground, level with the garage windows. I frantically scanned the patio for remnants of my phone until a glint in one of the cement planters beneath the windows caught my eye. I made a mental note to never let Charlie make fun of my jeweled phone case ever again as I plucked my perfectly intact phone from its cushion of mums.

  A smug smile crept across my face as the screen lit up with my photo. I might’ve done something rash and stupid, but already, it felt totally worth it. I didn’t know who this guy thought he was, but he sure as hell didn’t get to screw with my best friend’s life.

  Of course, I didn’t know it then, but I’d just captured the picture that would change my whole life.

  2

  “Char!”

  I burst into Charlie’s kitchen, panting. Doggy nails clicked against the tile as Jelly, her rat terrier, ran in excited circles, as if I hadn’t entered the house a million times before. That’s the great thing about dogs. You’re never old news to them.

  “Marisa? I was about to call you! Where the hell have you been?” Charlie appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and living room wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt that said That’s Madame Bitch to You, cell phone in hand. Thanks to our dark hair and eyes, Charlie and I have been mistaken for sisters a few times. Granted, my hair has a natural wave to it and Charlie’s is poker straight, but we’re even the same height—five feet, four and a half inches. Except tonight, she looked freshly showered and ready to relax, and I looked like a train wreck who’d done battle with an overgrown shrub. She eyed the brown bag in my hand that was dotted with wet spots from the melting ice cream. “Is everything okay?”

  I scooped Jelly into my arms, giving myself a second to catch my breath. “Everything is fine. I mean everything will be fine. I mean…” I shook my head, trying to force my adrenaline-jacked thoughts into coherence. “I have some bad news.” I put the dog down and held my phone against my chest. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “What is? Out with it.”

  “It’s about your boyfriend.”

  “Jason?”

  Jason. I was a little off with the whole Greggie-George thing. And also surprised that Charlie had given up shunning use of the word boyfriend when we talked about him, which meant she was finally ready to admit how much she liked him. Which made my news suck all the more.

  “He was at Fudgie’s buying ice cream.”

  Charlie’s left eyebrow shot up. “He’s supposed to be sick in bed right now.”

  “Right. I thought maybe he was feeling better and bringing the ice cream here for you until I realized they were both vanilla. So…when he left the store, I followed him.”

  “Followed him? What are you getting at, Palmera?”

  “He went to someone’s house.” I pulled up the picture on my screen and held it out to her. “Anyone you know?”

  Charlie stared wordlessly, her lips pressed into a taut line. “That. Piece. Of. Shit,” she growled. But her voice caught on the last word, and I wished I’d given my delivery more thought.

  “I’m sorry, Char.”

  “No. No, it’s fine.” She exhaled and straightened her shoulders. “What time does the mall close? Ten?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  She snatched the bag from my hand, opened the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink where the trash can was located, and dumped our ice cream in it. “Change of plans. We have a dress to return.”

  • • •

  The more I thought about it, the more I wished I’d handled breaking the news about Jason differently. It felt wrong to have told Charlie while I was on such a high, but I couldn’t help it. Outing a scumbag felt more badass than anything I’d ever done—especially when I told her how I’d gotten the picture, and she looked at me like I’d parted the Red Sea.

  Still, by the time Monday rolled around, I continued to worry that I’d been an insensitive jerk. I didn’t think I’d acted excited when I told her, but knowing I’d felt that way kept eating at me, like maybe she thought I’d trailed him for me and not her. So on Monday afternoon I slipped out of my yearbook staff meeting a few minutes early. My brother took the bus home on days when I stayed after school, so I made my way out of the building via one of the side exits, planning to head to Charlie’s house to apologize.

  “Marisa! Hold up!”

  I paused at the mention of my name and the accompanying sound of sneakers slapping against concrete. TJ Caruso came flying down the stairs toward me. It took me a second to register that he’d called to me, because I was so unaccustomed to hearing him speak. He’d transferred to Herring Cross for senior year and didn’t strike me as unfriendly, just quiet. He usually sat in the back of the yearbook classroom with his feet propped up on the chair in front of him or earnestly editing whatever interview he’d been assigned for the week. Seeing him so animated was a little weird.

  “Hey,” he said, coming to a stop in front of me. “This, uh, fell out of your pants.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He opened his hand. In his palm sat the silver M charm from my ankle bracelet.

  “Oh no,” I groaned, bending down to inch up the right leg of my jeans. They were tight enough that they’d prevented my broken bracelet from falling off completely, but as I eased the limp strand into my hands, I saw that at least two other charms had slipped free—including my favorite glass poinsettia bead. “Did you happen to find any others?”

  He shook his head apologetically. “Only that one.” Seeing the dejected look on my face, he added, “But I can take another look when I go back.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  He jogged up the steps as I contemplated going back inside to search for my charm. My mother had special ordered it for Christmas last year, and the thought of it getting swept into the janitor’s dustpan and thrown out with the trash made me nauseous. Except I had no idea where to start looking. The clasp could’ve snapped this morning and been slowly leaking beads ever since. I’d have to retrace all my steps and—

  “Oh, Marisa?” TJ’s voice cut into my thoughts and I turned to see him on the landing, one hand poised on the door handle. “Is it all right if I send you my interview with Mr. Leroche on Tuesday? I’m working a ton of hours this weekend.”

  “I’d really like to get it locked into the layout on Monday, if you can.”

  TJ scratched his head, making a few of his dark curls dance. “Let me see what I can do. I have this other…obligation that I might be able to get out of.”

  “No, don’t cancel your plans. It’s not that important,” I said, even though I got the feeling he kind of wanted to get out of whatever it was.

  “It’s not something I’m looking forward to anyway.”

  “Oh. Good luck then.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.” He started toward the school again. As I clutched the remains of my ankle bracelet in my palm, I thought, You and me both.

  And as I approached my beat-up red jalopy, I realized I needed it sooner rather than later.

  Because someone sat perched on the hood of the equally beat-up car that had been backed into the space next to mine, f
eet propped on the bumper, one hand resting on the faded gray metal as the other typed on a cell phone. Someone with wheat-colored hair, long, slender legs clad in black leggings crossed beneath a short jean skirt, and a cute, freckle-dotted button nose.

  No freaking way. I made a mental note to bump up my next eye exam, because that could not be Kendall Keene, my oldest frenemy, draped across the hood of a random car in my school’s parking lot.

  She looked up then, as if I’d spoken her name out loud. I halted midstep as her green eyes went big. “Oh my God, Marisa? Marisa Palmera?”

  “Kendall? What are you doing here?”

  Her familiar smile, the one with the slightly crooked teeth that somehow made her even more adorable, lit her face. She hopped down from the car. “My boyfriend goes to school here and I thought he needed a ride, but I had the days confused.” She waved her cell phone, and I assumed said boyfriend was the one she’d been texting a second ago.

  “But I thought you moved to Arizona.”

  “I did! We moved back to Pennsylvania last year. We’re living in Monroe now.”

  “That’s… Wow.”

  Wow about covered it. Kendall and I had gone to school together and played on the same rec soccer team from third through sixth grade, before I moved to Herring Cross. We did everything together, but our friendship operated like a race run neck and neck. If I had a new pair of shoes I couldn’t wait to show off, Kendall would get the same ones and wear them first. If rumors swirled that a boy she thought was cute liked me instead, suddenly I’d find myself the lone member of our circle not invited to her sleepover. Whenever we’d get assignments back, without fail, Kendall asked what grade I got. If she’d scored higher, she’d flourish her paper and show me. If she hadn’t, she’d say “oh” and turn away without telling me her score.

  By the time she and her family moved to Arizona at the end of sixth grade, we’d grown past most of the immature head-to-head, but our relationship had exhausted itself into friendly-but-not-friends status. So the way Kendall stood there, smiling like we were lifelong BFFs, had me wondering if I’d stepped straight into some kind of time warp.