There was suddenly a break in the crowd and I could finally get a glimpse of what had everyone so excited. I almost smiled when I saw it. Almost. Then I glanced around for my dad. As soon as he heard about this, he’d be here, sirens wailing. I didn’t see him yet, though, so I turned back to look at the wall. There, painted in thick black against the pale concrete, were half a dozen enormous gorillas.

“Isn’t it amazing? Carter’s going to lose it.”

I agreed that, yes, Principal Carter was definitely going to lose it. This wasn’t your everyday, hastily scribbled graffiti. The gorillas were absolutely lifelike, complete with shadows and stern expressions. They sat staring out at us with huge, watery eyes. Each gorilla was at least four feet tall, and the one in the middle had a thought bubble painted over its head. “So this is what the jungle looks like,” it read.

Tagged

Mara Purnhagen

www.miraink.co.uk

For my parents, who taught me to love books

Acknowledgments

I could offer a thousand thanks to the following people

and it would not be enough, but I’ll try anyway.

Thank you to Robert Lettrick,

“inventor” of the banana latte and diligent reader of first drafts.

Thank you to Kristi Purnhagen,

who offered a critical eye and sound suggestions.

Thank you to all the strong and supportive women in my life, including Barbara Bresock, Mary Ruth Bresock,

Abby Elliot, Barbara Lohrstorfer, Nancy McDaniel,

Sayrah Namaste, Maxine Purnhagen, Christine Sagan,

Jeanne Schaal, Janet Sekerak and Lillian Tupes.

Thank you to Diane Bishop,

my high school English teacher.

Thank you to the entire staff

at the Middle Tyger Library in Duncan, South Carolina.

Thank you to Henry and Quinn,

who inspired me to get serious about all this book stuff.

And finally, thank you to Joe,

who always saw me as a writer.

1

WHEN I GOT OFF THE BUS that crisp January morning and stepped onto the parking lot, the only thing I could see was a crowd of students gathered near the east wall of our school. It looked like some sort of outdoor rock concert, except instead of holding up lighters and swaying to a heavy guitar ballad, people were raising their cell phones to snap pictures and inching forward amid the rumbling.

I had expected the usual zombie-like trance as six hundred sleep-deprived students shuffled silently toward the back doors, carrying their withered backpacks and a deep-seated grudge at being forced to return to the narrow hallways of Cleary High School after two weeks of holiday vacation. But instead of groggy bitterness, everyone seemed filled with a strange, contagious energy. I wondered briefly if the entire student body had descended upon Something’s Brewing and consumed triple-mocha espressos. Nothing else could explain the wide smiles and whooping sounds emanating from the crowd.

I scanned the crowd, searching for my best friend, Lan, but it was nearly impossible with all the people. Everyone seemed to be standing in the same small space, squeezed in between the parked cars and cedar bushes. My cell phone rang and I set my backpack down on the pavement so I could fish it out.

“Kate, where are you?” It was Lan.

“I just got here. I can’t see you.”

“Look toward the back doors.”

I looked over and saw a hand waving from behind a cluster of ball-capped heads. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I slowly made my way through the crowd, which wasn’t easy. No one was moving. They were either talking on their phones or trying to lift each other up to see the east wall. I saw one kid try to climb on top of a car, setting off a piercing alarm.

“This better be good,” I grumbled to myself. Large crowds remind me of cattle, make me feel as if I were just one of the herd. The good part, though, was that you could blend in with everyone else.

“Kate! Over here!”

I finally made it all the way to where Lan was standing. Normally, Lan stood out in any crowd. It wasn’t just that she was the only Vietnamese student at Cleary High School (or in the entire town of Cleary, South Carolina, for that matter) or that she was exceptionally pretty, with long, jet-black hair that she liked to wear in a thick braid that trailed down her back. Lan possessed a sense of style that set her apart from everyone else. Even her name was interesting. It meant orchid in Vietnamese and, to make sure everyone knew it, Lan collected all things orchid, from the delicate jeweled pins she made herself and wore on a regular basis to the live orchids she kept in her room, each one a different color and each one occupying a small ceramic vase.

Lan was exotic without trying to be, unlike me, who was just about as average as humanly possible. Brown hair, brown eyes. Even my name was average. There were times when I wished I possessed a little of Lan’s uniqueness, but I’d learned that it was better not to stand out. I liked to fade into the background and watch people from a distance. Maybe that was why Lan and I were such good friends: we balanced each other out.

I gave her a quick hug. “Good to see you.”

She hugged me back. “It’s been forever,” she agreed.

We hadn’t seen each other since winter break had begun. Lan had been on vacation in Florida with her dad while I had been sprawled out in the den at home watching reality show marathons on TV and consuming way too many carbohydrates. We e-mailed and sent text messages, but I was surprised at how much I had missed my best friend.

I stood on my tiptoes in an attempt to get a view of the wall. “What are we trying to look at?”

She smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

“There’s too many people,” I complained.

There was suddenly a break in the crowd and I could finally get a glimpse of what had everyone so excited. I almost smiled when I saw it. Almost. Then I glanced around for my dad. As soon as he heard about this, he’d be here, sirens wailing. I didn’t see him yet, though, so I turned back to look at the wall. There, painted in thick black against the pale concrete, were half a dozen enormous gorillas.

“Isn’t it amazing? Carter’s going to lose it.”

I agreed that yes, Principal Carter was definitely going to lose it. This wasn’t your everyday, hastily scribbled graffiti. The gorillas were absolutely lifelike, complete with shadows and stern expressions. They sat staring out at us with huge, watery eyes. Each gorilla was at least four feet tall, and the one in the middle had a thought bubble painted over its head. “So this is what the jungle looks like” it read.

“This must have taken hours,” I said. “Who did it?”

It was a stupid question. Everyone already knew.

Lan nodded her head toward the corner. “One guess.”

I could see Trent off to one side, videotaping the crowd and smiling. He was easy to spot because he was the tallest guy at school. Trent Adams, celebrated senior and master of school pranks. He had released twenty chickens in the cafeteria during the first week of his freshman year in protest over the nuggets. As a sophomore he managed to break into the school and move every piece of the principal’s office furniture outside. He rearranged everything just as it had been inside, only now the desk and file cabinets and chairs and plants sat in the middle of the parking lot. That prank made both the local news and school legend. As a junior he decided that he would sing every word that came out of his mouth. There are very few people on this earth who can get away with singing nonstop and still be thought of as cool, but Trent managed to pull it off with ease.

A smaller group of kids had gathered around Trent. Most of them I knew, like Brady Barber and Eli James, who were hard to miss. Not only did they always hang out together, but they always dressed the same, too: baggy black pants, white collared shirt, black hoodie jacket. Reva Abbott was also standing near Trent, wearing tight clothes and a bored expression.

“What I meant to ask was, how did Trent do it?” The mural looked polished and professional. Not the work of an amateur at all. It appeared as if the gorillas had been painted using some kind of laser program—they were that perfect. In fact, it looked like it was the same gorilla copied six times, because they were identical to one another. There was no way it was done freehand, I realized. But there was also no way that Trent had access to the kind of sophisticated equipment I would guess something like this required.

“He’s a genius,” Lan said. “Who knows how he did it?” She stared across the crowd to watch him. Lan had always harbored a secret crush on Trent. Sometimes they flirted, but it had never developed into anything.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out the digital camera my parents had given me for Christmas. It made a sound like tinkling bells when I turned it on. I took as many shots as I could of the wall, knowing that some of the shots would be blocked by people’s heads.

“We might want to get out of here now,” Lan whispered. A police car had pulled into the parking lot. Two officers got out, and kids automatically walked away. One of the officers saw me, smiled and nodded. I nodded back, then let Lan pull me toward the front entrance.

There were still a few minutes before the first bell rang, but we were already in the junior hall, so we didn’t have to hurry. When our new class schedules arrived just before break, Lan and I were thrilled to discover that we had first period history together. We had been best friends since freshman year and had never once had a class together, so this was a cause for celebration. Also, history was my favorite class. Mr. Gildea had a fun teaching style and with his bright brown eyes and wry smile he wasn’t bad to look at, either.

“You’re going to help me out, right?” Lan asked as we slid into desks in the middle of the room. She hated history. I always helped her with term papers and in return she helped me with science labs.

“This is going to be a great class,” I told her. “I had Mr. Gildea last year. He’s awesome.”

“That’s what you said about French, remember?” Lan grumbled.

“I didn’t use the word awesome.”

“No, I think you said it would be très magnifique. Which it was not. And I got a C.”

I dug around in my backpack for a pen, automatically handing one to Lan, who always forgot to bring one to class.

“Oh, great. Look who has decided to grace us with her presence,” Lan whispered. I looked up just as Tiffany Werner sailed into the room talking on her rhinestone-studded cell phone.

“It covers the wall,” she was saying. “I mean, totally and completely. It will never come off, I’m sure. Well, of course. Uh-huh.”

Tiffany Werner was the most spoiled girl I had ever known. She wore “Tiffany-blue,” her signature color, every chance she got. Her parents named her after the famous jewelry store, and she loved to remind people of that fact, which seemed a little odd to me. I mean, if my parents had named me after a store, I wouldn’t be bragging about it, no matter how fancy the store might be. She owned a genuine Tiffany diamond ring, and she considered herself a jewelry expert because of it. She wouldn’t hesitate to lean over and grab someone’s wrist to examine their bracelet or ring or watch, only to laugh and proclaim that it was a fake. She even did it to a teacher once. Tiffany had a way of taking over a classroom and making herself the center of attention, and I hated that.

She took a seat in the front, aware that we were all listening to her conversation. “The police are already here,” she said, and I could feel a few people turn their heads in my direction. I pretended to study my blank notebook. “Trent’s in the office now. They’re questioning him.”

This last comment caused a lot of murmuring in the classroom. The bell rang and Tiffany quickly shut her phone before Mr. Gildea walked into the room. He was one of the few teachers who wouldn’t hesitate to confiscate a phone. Rumor had it that the bottom drawer of his desk was full of them, but I doubted it. Still, no one wanted to take a chance.

“Good morning,” he said as he strode to the lectern. “And how are things in the jungle today?”

We all laughed a little. Mr. Gildea could be funny, probably because he was still young. He always wore khaki pants and a bright tie. This time it was green with thin orange stripes.

“Mr. Gildea, are they going to expel Trent for defacing school property?”

Everyone looked from Tiffany, who had asked the question, to Mr. Gildea, who was examining the attendance sheet.

“One moment, please, Miss Werner.” He looked us over, checked his sheet and then put his pen down.

“Now, then, what was the question?”

Tiffany sighed loudly and repeated herself.

“I have no idea,” he said, “but I’m sure the rumor mill will be up and running with an answer before lunch.”

“They can’t suspend him,” said Brady Barber. He was slouched in a desk at the back of the classroom. “They have no proof.”

“Oh, please,” said Tiffany. “We all know it was him.”

“So what if it was?” Brady was sitting up now. “I’m not saying he did it, but what if he did? It’s art. You can’t suspend people for expressing themselves with art.”

“It’s not art. It’s called defacing public property, and it’s a crime.”

“That wall was already defaced, remember? It was streaked with tar from last year’s roof repairs.”

Tiffany sighed. “That was an accident, Brady. Not vandalism.”

“It was still ugly.”

“So are those gorillas.”

Mr. Gildea held up one hand. “Sounds like we have a difference of opinion,” he said, grinning. He loved a good debate. “You both present a valid point. Where is the line between art and vandalism?”

He went on to say that archaeologists had discovered graffiti in Roman ruins and that, in a way, it was one of the earliest art forms known to humans. Tiffany seemed to think that Mr. Gildea was taking Brady’s side over hers.

“Art belongs in a museum, not smeared across a concrete wall,” she announced. Well, this got the entire class talking, and I was glad that most people disagreed with her. I wanted to jump into the conversation, but I couldn’t think of anything remotely meaningful to add. I wasn’t like Tiffany, who could sum up her thoughts in one clear sentence. And I wasn’t like Brady, who could always be counted on to come up with an idea no one else had thought of yet. Part of me wanted to be good at those things, but part of me knew that announcing my opinions out loud would automatically expose me to judgment, and that was something I could do without.

Mr. Gildea let the class debate the issue for a while before handing out our textbooks.

“I can see this isn’t going to be resolved in one class period,” he said just before the bell rang. “So we’ll pick it up again tomorrow. Your assignment for tonight is simple—define art. Three hundred words.”

Everyone groaned, and Tiffany snorted. “This has nothing to do with history.”

Mr. Gildea smiled. “On the contrary. Art is a reflection of history. And this class owes you its thanks, Miss Werner. I wasn’t planning on assigning homework today, but you brought up such a good point, I thought we should build on it.”

Most of the class turned to glare at Tiffany while I smirked and Lan gave me a friendly nudge. If Tiffany thought she was going to run Mr. Gildea’s class, she had another think coming.

The bell rang and I gathered up my things. As I was walking down the aisle, I tripped over Tiffany’s foot and stumbled a little.

“Watch it,” she snarled, glaring at me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, then immediately felt stupid. Why was I apologizing to her? She was the one sitting with her leg stretched across the aisle.

The rest of the day was pretty much the same. Everyone was talking about the gorillas on the wall. Trent wasn’t seen at lunch, and everyone assumed he had been suspended.

“This is really odd,” Lan said as we stood at our lockers at the end of the day. “No one knows what’s going on. No one.”

I put on my jacket. “I’ll find out and let you know.”

“You going to ask your dad?”

“Even better,” I said. “I’ll ask Trent.”

2

I WORKED INSIDE A PURPLE triangle. It was probably the only building in the entire state of South Carolina that was shaped like a slice of pie and painted the color of a grape popsicle. It was a little coffee drive-through place called Something’s Brewing. I loved it because the hours were good, the coffee was great and, best of all, there were no crowds. Something’s Brewing was designed to fit two employees, a wall of coffee machines, a tiny storeroom and an even tinier bathroom in the back. Cars pulled up, people placed their orders, we handed them coffee in insulated paper cups, and they drove away, happy and fully caffeinated. Best job ever. Plus, I got free coffee, which I always seemed to need right after school.

Some days I worked with Bonnie, my boss. She was a grandmother who was supposed to retire years earlier, but opened Something’s Brewing instead. “I just couldn’t stay retired, you know? It got boring,” she said to me once as she knitted a green sweater. I loved Bonnie. She was really easy to work with and was always in a good mood.

Most days, though, I worked with Eli James, another junior from my school and one of Trent Adams’s very best friends. Trent usually gave Eli a ride, which I was hoping would be the case that day so I could find out what was going on. Lan was counting on me. She loved knowing things other people did not, and this was the biggest scandal our school had seen since Trent filled the teachers’ lounge with Styrofoam peanuts the year before.

When I arrived at Something’s Brewing, Bonnie was there, wiping down the counter. “Hello, dear,” she said. “What can I make you?”

She didn’t really need to ask. Bonnie always made me a caramel latte. She put in just the right amount of caramel—they were perfect.

“The usual,” I said, and Bonnie began to steam milk. “I thought Eli was working today.”

“He is. Just running a little late, I guess.”

That was interesting. Eli was never late. What if they had suspended Trent and Eli couldn’t get a ride? I wanted to call Lan immediately, but a car pulled up and I had to take the order. While I was doing that, another car pulled alongside the building. I heard a door shut, and the next moment Eli walked through the back, running a hand through his chestnut-colored hair and apologizing to Bonnie for being late.

“Not a problem, dear.” Bonnie treated us more like her grandchildren than her employees. She even knitted scarves for Eli and me—her “two favorite workers”—and gave them to us as Christmas gifts. She once spent a month trying to teach me how to knit, but I didn’t have the patience for it. I managed to make half a scarf, although it looked more like a very fluffy dishrag. I was disappointed, but Bonnie said that not everyone had a knack for knitting.

“It’s not your talent, dear,” she’d said. “But don’t worry, you’re good at so many things.”

I wanted to ask her to name some of those things I was supposedly so good at because, honestly, I didn’t know. I had tried to knit because I thought it could be a retro kind of hobby, something I could be really creative with. I envisioned myself making funky sweaters and bright hats for Lan, who always made me pieces of jewelry for Christmas. The most imaginative thing I’d made for her was a CD of our favorite songs.

I placed lids on three double espressos and handed them to my customer while Bonnie gave Eli the inventory list. “I need you to check this,” she said. “Especially the small cups. I don’t think they sent us enough this time.”

Bonnie gathered up her purse and coat, told us to have a great day and left. As soon as I saw her car pull away, I turned to Eli.

“So?”

He gave me an innocent, surprised look. “What?”

“You know exactly what,” I said. “What’s going on?”

He plopped down in one of the two little chairs Bonnie had set up for us. “I need a strong drink, Katie.”

Eli knew I hated being called Katie. People always assumed that my name was short for Katherine, but it wasn’t. My parents had named me Kate. Just Kate, pure and simple. They said they didn’t want anything fancy or something that could be turned into a nickname, which was fine by me. Still, sometimes I wished I had a more sophisticated name, like Isabelle or Olivia.

I glared at Eli. “If I make you a drink, will you tell me everything you know?”

“Depends on how good the drink is.”

I turned to the coffee machine. I always made Eli a special drink, something not on the menu. It was a latte, but extra strong. I added shots of chocolate and caramel, and just a hint of praline. Eli said it tasted like a candy bar. He called it a “Katie Bar” for a while until I threatened to stop making them. No one calls me Katie, I don’t care how cute they are.

I made his drink and handed it to him.

“I hope you didn’t skimp on the chocolate,” he said.

“Would you like to drink it or wear it?” I asked him sweetly. He smiled and took a sip.

“Perfect,” he announced. “So, what was it you wanted to know?”

I sat down across from him, which was kind of hard to do. Eli was tall and lanky, and his knees bumped into my legs. “I want to know everything,” I said. “What happened to Trent? Where is he? Why were you late to work?”

Eli smiled and took an extra-slow sip. He was torturing me and enjoying every second of it.

“Trent is alive and well,” he said finally. “He is at home. I was late because Brady’s new girlfriend is incredibly slow and we couldn’t leave without her.” He wrinkled his nose. “I mean, we could have and maybe we should have because she’s really annoying, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you about Brady’s girlfriend. I asked about Trent. Is he suspended? Did they take him to the police station?”

Eli raised an eyebrow at me. “I thought you would know that.”

“Just because my dad’s the police chief doesn’t mean he tells me everything. In fact, I probably know less than anyone else about what goes on in this town.”

Dad tended to keep things to himself, which I appreciated. Occasionally, he would relate some police-related story at dinner, but only if it was funny—like a naked guy stuck in a tree, which happened a lot more than you would think—or strange—snakes discovered in a car, for example. Everyone seemed to think that I did know things or, worse, that I was potentially a rat. Sometimes kids would stop talking if I was close by. But my dad and I had an understanding that I would go to him if, and only if, someone was in danger of hurting themselves or someone else. Other than that, I was not responsible for the actions of others. Of course, try telling that to the entire school. Any time a party got busted, people looked at me funny the next day, like I was somehow responsible. Lan thought I was imagining things, but I knew I wasn’t. My dad’s job created a negative side effect for me: it made me stand out during those times when I most wanted to fade away.

“I don’t know anything,” I repeated.

Eli pulled his laptop out of his backpack. “I believe you,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don’t know anything, either.” He began typing.

“You must know something,” I protested. “You’re his best friend.”

Eli didn’t answer me. He was staring at his computer screen. “Just checking my e-mail,” he said softly. I could tell he was reading, and once Eli got into his computer, forget it. He completely focused on that and nothing else. “Well, Trent’s not suspended,” he said finally. “Yet.”

A car pulled up to the window and Eli stood up. It was a big order: five drinks, each one different, including a strawberry cheesecake cappuccino, which is a hassle to make. Eli started on a low-fat, almond latte while I handled the cash register. We worked well together. Eli was fast and efficient, and I double-checked everything, made sure the lids were on tight and cleaned up afterward. After our customer left, Eli sat back down at his computer while I rinsed out the steamer cups.

“So he e-mailed you?” I asked.

“Yeah, but it’s brief.” Eli read aloud from the message Trent had sent: “I’ll be back at school tomorrow. They’re checking my alibi. Not to worry, it’s all good. No proof, no crime.” Eli started to say something else, but stopped. I knew he was holding back, but I wasn’t going to push it.

“I wonder what his alibi is.”

Eli yawned. “He was out of town visiting relatives.”

“So you do know more than you’re telling me.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Why does everyone assume it was someone from our school?”

“Who else would do that to the building?” I wiped the counter and made sure we had enough medium-sized cups. I knew we’d be getting an after-work rush in a half hour, and nearly everyone ordered a medium.

I glanced at Eli, who was still typing away at his computer. I wanted to remind him to do the inventory, but I also knew he would get it done and I didn’t want to sound like a nag. If Eli was anything, it was reliable. And adorable, in a way. When we first began working together over the summer, I thought he was potential boyfriend material, but the timing was off. He had just started dating Reva, a junior who came around all the time to gaze at him and glare at me, and I was just breaking up with Kevin Cleaver, a senior I had dated for a total of three months.

Kevin and I had dated casually because we both knew he was leaving for college at the end of the summer. He took me to the prom, where we danced and laughed and ate chicken Marsala. We had fun, and I thought we would keep seeing each other until August, when he left for school.

Then, a month before he was supposed to leave, he announced that he’d been “hooking up” with a college girl he met at a party. It was the first time anyone had broken up with me. Kevin just stood there, his hands shoved into his pockets, and shrugged. “We both knew this wasn’t a long-term thing, right?” he asked, and I nodded and said something like “Yeah, sure, no big deal.” But I was crushed. It actually surprised me that I was so hurt. I mean, I knew it was a temporary thing, but still. I guess it was the fact that I had been so easily replaced. I thought I had mattered to him at least a little, and when I realized I hadn’t, I felt even worse.

“You look tired,” I said to Eli. He had dark circles beneath his eyes and he kept yawning.

“I need to get back on schedule,” he said, not taking his eyes off the computer. “I stayed up too late over break. Ben was in town and he never sleeps.”

Eli’s brother Ben went to college out West somewhere, where he was an undeclared senior. According to Eli, Ben changed his major every semester and would be in school at least another three years.

Eli looked at me. “So, what did you think of it?”

“Think of what?” I was debating whether or not to bring another bottle of almond syrup out of the back room. We were getting low.

“The gorillas. What did you think of the gorillas?”

“I think someone wasted an awful lot of time and effort. I mean, they’re just going to be removed.”

“But what did you think about the actual gorillas? Did you like them? Hate them? Anything?”

I considered it. My first thought had been that someone—most likely Trent—was going to be in a lot of trouble. But I also thought that the gorillas had been very well done. Beautiful, almost.

Eli would probably think I was crazy if I called them beautiful, so instead I said, “We debated it in history. You know, whether it was art or just vandalism.”

“And?” Eli seemed pretty intent on the topic.

“And the class was fairly divided.”

“Which side were you on?”

I knew what he wanted me to say. Despite his claims that he didn’t know anything, Eli was almost certainly covering for Trent.

“I haven’t decided,” I said finally.

Eli stood up and stretched. “Well, let me know when you do,” he said. “I’m going to do the inventory. If you get a chance, check out the article on my computer.”

After he went back to the storage room, I sat down and picked up the laptop. The screen showed the front page of a newspaper from Tennessee. Mt. Juliet Encounters Gorilla it read. It was about a town near Nashville where a four-foot high gorilla had been painted onto the wall of an abandoned building. There was a small black-and-white picture of the building. I pulled out my camera and compared the pictures I had taken earlier in the morning to the one in the article. The gorilla was exactly the same as the ones on our school. Exactly. I checked the date of the article.

“Two days ago,” I murmured. Mt. Juliet was at least a four-hour drive from Cleary, maybe more. Was that where Trent’s relatives lived? If so, it was a bad alibi. And why paint the same picture in both towns? The police would be able to connect him to both places and he’d really be in trouble. If Trent’s relatives did live in Mt. Juliet, it wouldn’t make any sense that Eli would want me to read the article. He would be pointing the finger at his best friend. I was confused.

Eli came back from the stockroom just as cars began lining up for the after-work rush. I wasn’t sure what to say to him, but fortunately we were so busy making drinks that neither one of us had time to talk. Finally, just before six, we began to close up for the day.

“So what did you think of the article?” Eli asked.

“Well, it’s obviously the same guy,” I said, handing him my camera. He clicked through the images I’d taken that morning.

“These are good,” he said. He paused at a shot I’d taken of the crowd. “This one’s really good.”

I looked over his shoulder. The picture on the screen showed one of my crowd shots. A group of freshmen boys had just moved in front of me, blocking my view of the wall. One of the boys was holding something in his cupped hands, and the others looked down at what he held, smiling. I didn’t get a look at what was in the boy’s hands, and just after I took the picture, they walked away.

“The gorillas aren’t even in that one,” I pointed out.

“I know, but it’s still a good shot. Very clear. Plus, it’s not staged. There’s something real there.”

“I guess.”

Eli turned off the camera and handed it back to me. “You should take more pictures like that.”

“I think people would notice if I stood around taking pictures of them.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You could try to, you know, stay out of the way.”

Something I tried to do every day, I thought. But taking pictures of unsuspecting students seemed like an odd thing to do if you weren’t on the yearbook staff.

“Think about it,” Eli said.

“Um, okay.”

I wasn’t sure what else I was supposed to say. Eli and I cleaned up and locked the doors. Brady was waiting for him in the parking lot. He waved at me. “Hey, Kate!”

I could see Reva in the backseat of Brady’s car. She looked at me, scowled and then smiled wide when Eli opened the door. Eli turned to me just before getting in the car. “You okay with a ride?”

“My dad’s coming,” I said.

“We’d better get out of here, then. Brady’s tags are expired.” He smiled so I would know he was joking and got in the backseat next to Reva. I watched them leave, still trying to figure out not only why Eli had shown me the article possibly connecting Trent to two separate acts of vandalism, but why he had seemed so intense about me taking more pictures. Did he think I was actually good at it, or was he just trying to get me off the topic of the gorillas?

Minutes later, Dad pulled his police cruiser into the parking lot and I got into the front seat.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“It was very strange,” I replied.

LAN WAS MORE THAN A LITTLE disappointed that I didn’t have any real news about Trent. “But he’s definitely coming to school tomorrow?” she asked for the tenth time.

“Definitely,” I assured her. I was talking to her on my cell phone while I searched the Internet for “gorilla graffiti,” in the upstairs office. My parents wouldn’t let me have a computer in my room. They said anything I needed to search for could be done in public, which was just their way of saying that they didn’t want me looking at naked people online.

I wanted to read through the Tennessee newspaper article again. I felt like I was missing something. Lan moved off the topic of Trent and on to Mr. Gildea’s class.

“No one else assigned a paper on the first day back,” she complained. “What am I supposed to write?”

“It sounds fairly easy, Lan. Just do a Web search. You can write three hundred words about art in ten minutes.”

“No, you can write three hundred words in ten minutes. It’ll take me hours.”

Mom called me downstairs for dinner and I told Lan I had to go.

“By the way, did you hear about Tiffany’s party?” she asked before I could hang up.

“She’s always having a party.” Every time her parents took a weekend “holiday,” Tiffany threw some kind of wild celebration for half the school.

“This is different. It’s her birthday party, and apparently she’s going all out. As in, bigger than homecoming and prom put together.”

“Well, I’m sure it will be lovely. Gotta go.”

I had never been invited to one of Tiffany’s parties, and I didn’t think she was going to start putting me on the guest list now. I guessed it would be nice to see what all the fuss was about, but at the same time, I knew I’d feel completely out of place with Tiffany’s crowd.

My parents were already sitting at the dining-room table when I walked in.

“How’s Lan?” Mom asked as she scooped steaming vegetables onto her plate.

I took my seat and dug into a bowl of pasta salad. “Good. She’s freaking out about a history paper we have due tomorrow.”

“A paper on the first day back? Good,” Dad said. He approved of hard work, strict teachers and rigid rules. Dinner, for example, was nonnegotiable in our house. We ate dinner together six days a week, with only Friday as an exception. My parents kept strange hours and dinner was the one time we were all together.

Sometimes Dad was called out in the middle of the night, and Mom worked at Cleary Confections, the local bakery, and usually got up around four in the morning, which I considered inhumane. Mom was in charge of cakes. Birthday, wedding, graduation—she made them all, from plain yellow with chocolate frosting to a six-tiered red velvet monstrosity decorated to look like a volcano. She said baking was her “creative outlet,” and she loved it. She came home smelling like buttercream icing and devising new ways to shape gum paste into flowers.

“I heard you had an exciting morning at school,” Mom commented. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Dad or to me.

“You mean the graffiti? It wasn’t that big a deal.”

Dad looked at me. “Not a big deal? Do you have any idea how much money it’s going to cost to sandblast that stuff off the wall?” He shook his head. “No one respects public property anymore.”

“It was on the news at lunchtime,” Mom said. “It’s certainly interesting. Not your typical graffiti. It seemed more, I don’t know, professional?” She looked at Dad like he might be able to supply the appropriate word.

“Well, it just might be,” he admitted. He told us that Trent’s alibi was a good one, that he was out of state visiting his grandmother that day. He got home around eleven, a fact established by a gas receipt, and went to bed at midnight, which was confirmed by his parents.

“And we think the vandalism occurred around 1:00 a.m.,” Dad said. “He could’ve left after they thought he went to bed, but his folks let us search his car, and we didn’t find anything. No paint, nothing. So Trent may be innocent.”

Unless his parents were covering for him, I thought. Why would he be visiting his grandmother in another state the night before school began? I didn’t say anything about the article I’d read, but I didn’t have to. Dad had seen it, as well.

“This same thing happened in Tennessee just a few days ago. We think it was some guy traveling through town, looking to stir up a little trouble.”

Mom reached for her glass of wine. “Well, it certainly is strange.”

Dad shrugged. “It’s probably a one-time thing. This guy tagged the town and moved on. Some other town will get those gorillas next.”

“Tagged?” Mom asked.

“It’s what they call it now.”

After dinner I went to my room to work on my history paper. I had looked up some definitions of art and tried to find a clever way to use them. The problem, I discovered, was that no one could come up with one single definition for art. It didn’t have to be beautiful if it was considered “significant.” But who decided what was significant?

I figured I could spend hours on the question and still not come up with an answer, so I decided to use a quote from Hippocrates because I knew Mr. Gildea liked the Greeks. “Vita brevis, ars loriga,” I typed at the top of the page. Then I included the translation: “Life is short, art endures.” I argued that the gorillas on the school wall weren’t really art because, in the end, they would not endure. They would be removed within the month, and if they had truly been art, wouldn’t someone want to keep them around longer? I knew it wasn’t the most solid argument, but I figured the ancient Greek quote would earn me some points and besides, weren’t all teachers supposed to be opposed to defacing school property? Mr. Gildea would like it, I was sure.

I put away my schoolwork and got ready for bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about the wall. I was sure Trent was behind it, but maybe someone was helping him. Maybe Brady and Reva were working with Trent, not just covering for him, but painting, as well. I told myself to stop coming up with conspiracy theories and get some sleep, but I couldn’t seem to turn off my brain. As I was drifting off, another thought occurred to me: what if Eli was helping Trent?

3

DAD WAS ONLY PARTLY RIGHT about the graffiti leaving town. The gorillas did appear in another state, on the side of an abandoned restaurant in Beulah, Arkansas, a small town east of Little Rock. This time, two gorillas were pictured, and the thought bubble above their heads read “We love vegetarians.” It appeared three days after our school had been “decorated.” Suddenly it did not seem possible that Trent had been involved. There was just no way to drive all the way to Arkansas Wednesday after school, paint a building and be back in time for class on Thursday morning, which was exactly where Trent was.

Dad knew about it, and an online search for “gorilla graffiti” would lead someone to several articles, but most people didn’t know or didn’t care. Trent seemed happy enough to take credit for the prank at our school, and everyone seemed happy enough to give it to him. His adoring league of freshmen followers quickly squashed any rumors that he wasn’t responsible for the popular artwork. Still, something felt off to me, although I wasn’t sure what it was. I guess part of me hoped that Cleary did have a resident graffiti artist. The mural had caused a commotion and shattered our boring routine, if only for a little while.

On Friday, the gorilla mural at school changed. Someone had added to it. “This is art” was stenciled in the right-hand corner of the wall. One of the gorillas was now holding a paintbrush while another grasped a spray-paint can. Again, it looked professional. And again, it caused an uproar.

“It’s just stupid,” Tiffany Werner proclaimed during our first period debate. “I mean, they’re going to sandblast it this weekend, right? So what’s the point of adding to it? It’s a desperate cry for attention.”

I was reminded of the quote I had used in my paper defining art. I had written that it wasn’t art if it did not endure. At the time, I’d believed it. I mean, all truly great art had endured, right? How old was the Mona Lisa?

Lan raised her hand, and Mr. Gildea nodded at her. “If he wants attention, then why has the artist remained anonymous?” she asked. “What if he doesn’t want anything but for us to look at it, to enjoy it? Isn’t that what art is for?”

I knew Lan was just disagreeing with Tiffany for the sake of disagreeing with her. Lan had come to school on Tuesday wearing her favorite orchid pin, the one made with hundreds of little stones in different shades of ivory and red. Tiffany noticed it and stopped in front of Lan’s desk before class began.

“Are those real rubies?” she demanded in front of everyone.

“Of course,” Lan said, making sure to look Tiffany directly in the eye.

Tiffany just smirked. “I’ll bet,” she said before walking away. Lan was furious and since then had been looking for any reason at all to make Tiffany look bad in public. So far, she had achieved only minor success.

Brady Barber agreed with Lan’s opinion about the graffiti artist, and the debate was soon picking up speed—and volume. Mr. Gildea finally had to quiet everyone down and tell us to open our books. We were already behind, he said, but we could debate for ten minutes every morning as long as we remained civil with one another.

“Debate is probably the best learning experience you’ll ever have,” he said. “Second best, of course, will be learning about the Carthaginians. Turn to page sixteen.”

I was relieved to finally get off the topic of the school gorillas. It was getting a little crazy. The local paper had featured a picture of the mural on its front page, and of course our student newspaper dedicated two whole pages to it, interviewing nearly everyone. I’d heard that some kids were planning to protest the sandblasting, scheduled for Saturday, but figured it was just another one of Trent’s crazy ideas. He had a real knack for self-promotion.

I was still thinking about it when I arrived at work. I was expecting to find Bonnie, but Eli was there, working on his math homework.

“Bonnie’s not here?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, she left you something,” he said.

A tall cup of caramel latte sat on the counter. I smiled and took a sip. “You know, I have these five days a week, and I’m telling you, they just keep getting better.”

“You keep drinking those and you’re going to become a caramel latte,” Eli muttered. He was furiously erasing a problem in his notebook. I was about to offer him some help when I heard the toilet flush.

“I thought you said Bonnie left?”

“She did.”

The bathroom door opened and Reva Abbott sauntered out. There were two things I always noticed about Reva: her heels and her nails. She wore tall, spiky heels that made a sharp clipping sound against the floor. I tried wearing high heels to school once, but my feet were killing me before the end of second period. I didn’t know how Reva did it. Also, she had the longest nails I’d ever seen on a girl. They were like talons, and she painted them in bright, unusual colors like turquoise or orange. That day they were deep purple, like an eggplant.

Reva stopped when she saw me, gave me a thin smile and turned to Eli.

“I’m leaving,” she said. Eli barely looked up from his work. Reva bent down and whispered something into his ear, her dark nails tickling the back of his neck. I turned away, flustered by the intimacy of it.

I stared out the window, watching cars and warming my hands around the steaming cup of latte. When a blue SUV sped past, I immediately thought of Kevin. He had driven a similar car. After prom we had spent some time in the backseat. Nothing too heavy, just a little making out while Black Sabbath played in the CD player. Kevin was really into classic rock.

“Sorry about that.”

I was pulled from my thoughts by Eli. When I turned around, I was surprised to see that Reva was gone. I hadn’t heard her leave.

“Oh, no problem.”

“She gave me a ride,” Eli explained.

“Right. You don’t have a car.”

I didn’t have a car, either, mainly because of my dad. He said he’d seen too much to let a teenager behind the wheel. “When you’re eighteen, we’ll talk,” he’d promised. When I complained to Mom that it was completely unfair, she sided with Dad. “We just need to know that you can be responsible,” she said, which was infuriating, because when had I ever not been responsible? I did well in school, went to work and came home every night for dinner. Most parents would consider me their dream child. My parents saw me as one tenuous step away from a tragic life of wild teenage debauchery.

“This summer,” Eli said. “That is, my parents said they’d get me a car if I pass math.” He ripped a page from his notebook and wadded it into a sharp ball. “So maybe I won’t be getting a car,” he said with a bitter laugh.

“What are you working on?”

“Precalculus.”

“You are so lucky you know me,” I joked as I sat down next to him. “Because I just happen to be a precalc expert.”

“Lucky me,” Eli agreed, although he sounded less than enthusiastic. A car pulled up to the window and Eli automatically got up while I read over his book. After he had finished with the order, Eli slumped into the chair and sighed. “It’s no use,” he informed me. “I can’t learn this stuff. Trust me. My brain cannot process numbers.”

I wondered if Eli’s dark mood was due more to Reva’s brief visit than from problems with precalculus. I sensed there were problems between them. Eli always seemed to pull away from her, to be uncomfortable with her, in a way. Or maybe he was just embarrassed by public displays of affection. He was one of those guys, I thought, that liked to stay in the background, someone who didn’t like or need the glow of the spotlight.

Reva, on the other hand, was more outspoken. She wore heavy red lipstick and always smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. On the rare occasions I had heard her laugh, she was loud. I got the impression that she wanted people to look in her direction and see her with one arm draped across Eli.

I wasn’t sure why Reva disliked me, but Lan had a theory. “She’s the possessive type. She’s suspicious of any girl within a mile of him, and you work next to him every day.”

“So? It doesn’t mean I want to date him,” I argued.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lan had replied. “You’re a threat.”

It was laughable to me that anyone would see me as a threat, but I knew Lan had a point. I thought about this as I leaned over to help Eli with a calculus problem. He smelled very clean, like soap and mint mouthwash. I suddenly felt self-conscious and hoped that I smelled okay, too.

We went through Eli’s assignment slowly, getting up every few minutes to serve a customer. Eli struggled with some of the problems, and I tried to break it down for him as best I could. I was very aware of his breathing, which made it difficult for me to concentrate. At one point, I realized that we were breathing in rhythm with one another, and it was all I could think about.

It took us about an hour to get through his homework, but he seemed a little more positive once we finished.

“Thanks,” he said as he put away his book. “That helped. Maybe I can pass this class.”

“Of course you can,” I said, then felt immediately stupid. I hoped I didn’t sound like his mother.

A car pulled up, its bass pumping so hard that the windows rattled.

“You guys sell burgers?” someone yelled. I was about to snap that no, we certainly did not sell fast food when Eli leaned out the window to slap hands with the driver. It was Trent Adams. Eli told him to come on in, so Trent parked his car and came around to the back.

If you saw Trent walking down the street you might assume that he played basketball. He was long and skinny and kept his dark blond hair buzzed. I could see why Lan, like half the girls at our school, found him so attractive.

“Hey, Kate,” Trent said. He looked around for a place to sit, decided that the room was too small and leaned against the wall instead.

“Hi, Trent. You want something to drink?”

“Kate makes an awesome latte,” Eli said.

Trent shook his head. “No. Thanks, though.” He looked at Eli. “You ready for tonight?”

Eli stiffened. I thought I saw him tilt his head toward me. Trent glanced in my direction. “So, Kate,” he said, switching topics completely. “Brady tells me your history class has gotten kind of interesting.”

My very first thought was that he was referring to our unit on the Carthaginians and was making a joke. Then I realized that he meant the morning debates.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a Tiffany versus Brady type thing,” I said.

“I heard Lan was taking on Her Majesty, as well.”

I knew Lan would be thrilled when I talked to her later on and told her that Trent had actually mentioned her in conversation. I smiled. “Lan takes on a lot of things,” I said. We laughed, even though I wasn’t quite sure what I’d said that was so funny. I felt a little uncomfortable around Trent, like I had to try and impress him. I wanted him to think I was okay, but I didn’t know why I needed his approval.

“Hey, Kate, we’ll lock up tonight, okay?” Eli’s back was to me as he stacked cups that didn’t really need stacking.

“Oh. Okay, sure.” I was confused. Eli seemed suddenly cold. He wasn’t looking at me and I wondered if I’d said something to upset him.

“Nice seein’ you, Kate,” Trent said.

I took this as my cue to leave and gathered up my bag and pulled on my jacket. I left without saying goodbye to Eli and waited outside for my dad to arrive. I didn’t have to wait long, but the entire time all I could think of was how I had been kicked out of the one place where I always felt I belonged.

EDEN ALDER WAS HAVING a heart attack. At least, that’s what she told us on Monday at lunch. As editor of the Cleary Chronicle, our school newspaper, Eden had a “gut-wrenching” decision to make about the front page of the next issue: should she give lead-article status to the late-night protest over the “school mural” (as it was now being called) or Tiffany Werner’s birthday party?

The choice seemed simple to me, but Eden was in full-out panic mode. She had three hours until deadline and her staff was in an uproar. Half wanted the protest to be featured front and center while the other half argued that it was old news and had already been covered in the local papers. Tiffany’s party, however, was fresh news and of much more interest to the average Cleary High School student.

Lan and I listened to Eden as we ate our lunches. I, for one, was glad to be discussing something other than Trent Adams. I had spent the weekend at Lan’s house, and all she wanted to talk about was her current crush.

“How did his voice sound when he said my name?” she asked as she made banana spring rolls. Ever since the ninth grade Lan had made it her mission in life to get me to try new foods. At her insistence, I had sampled sweet mung bean soup and carp cooked in coconut milk and thang long fish cakes. If it were up to me, I’d live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but I appreciated Lan’s efforts to expand my culinary horizons. Every once in a while, she made something that I loved, but most of the time I couldn’t figure out what animal I was eating and wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.

“His voice? It sounded the way it always sounds,” I had replied.

Lan looked like she was concentrating hard on a complex chemical equation. “I need more information,” she said. “Help me out here.”

In the end, I retold the story of Trent’s brief visit to Something’s Brewing about a hundred times, never altering a detail. I didn’t talk about how it made me feel to have Eli give me the cold shoulder. Lan wasn’t really interested in that, anyway. She wanted to talk about Trent again at school that morning, and of course rehash it at lunch, but Eden’s dilemma had taken center stage, much to my relief.

Eden sat with her head in her hands, moaning about the tough decisions she was forced to make while Lan and I tried to offer our sympathy.

“I mean, it’s only the most important decision of my life!” Eden wailed. I glanced at Lan, who was picking at a salad. Eden had a tendency to exaggerate—not exactly a good quality in a journalist.

“I think it’s pretty clear,” I said. “The protest is much more interesting. It affected more students directly.”

“But that’s just it,” Eden said. “Only three boys were arrested, and they were released with a warning two hours later. No big deal. But the party? That affects hundreds of students.”

Tiffany Werner had announced on Friday that she was, indeed, throwing a party.

A big party.

To quote Tiffany exactly, “The biggest party this town has ever seen.” Her parents had rented out the country club, hired a band and booked caterers to celebrate Tiffany’s sixteenth birthday, which was, for some reason, a huge event. Monumental, people said. As if girls didn’t turn sixteen every day of the year and therefore it was a rare milestone that required a celebration ten times bigger than most people’s weddings.

There were a few people on the Cleary Chronicle staff who argued that Tiffany’s party would cause issues to fly off the shelves, or in the case of the Cleary Chronicle, to be plucked off the tables set up outside the cafeteria.

Tiffany’s story held a hint of mystery: two hundred and fifty students would be invited, but no one had yet received an invitation. The protest story had a bit of violence: a few kids had thrown bottles and were escorted “downtown,” where they had to wait in a holding cell until their parents came to pick them up. My dad had been there, cuffing freshmen and putting them in the backseat of his car. I didn’t ask for specifics and he didn’t offer any, but it was all over school and people were giving me some distance when I walked down the hallways as if I had something to do with it.

“But, Eden,” I argued, “you’re always saying that the school paper is like a time capsule. When people look back on this issue in ten years, what do you think they’ll find more important? A student protest or a birthday party?”

“The protest,” Lan said. She knew there was no way she was getting an invitation to Tiffany’s party, and I think she wanted to diminish its social importance as much as possible.

Eden seemed to consider this. She pushed her disheveled hair off her face and sat up straighter. “Okay,” she said, taking a deep, dramatic breath. “You’re right. Okay. I know what I have to do.”

Austin McDaniel, Eden’s assistant editor, came running up to our table a moment later. He plopped down in the chair next to her, out of breath. “Never. Believe. What. Happened,” he gasped, his face red.

Eden went pale. “No. Austin, I absolutely cannot handle anything else right now.”

Austin shook his head. “Huge. News.”

Lan passed her bottled water down the table. “Here. Calm down.”

Austin took a long drink. “Tiffany’s party,” he said as his breathing returned to normal. “It has to go on the front page.”

Eden sighed. “And why is that?”

Austin smiled. “Because it’s going to be on TV.”

THE SCHOOL WAS IN A KIND of pandemonium. The biggest party of the year was going to be taped for an MTV special. Anyone who had felt even a mild interest in attending was now foaming at the mouth, desperate for one of the exclusive invitations. Rumors flared up: no freshmen would be invited, all guests would be required to wear special wristbands, Tiffany’s parents were spending hundreds of thousands of dollars. For her part, Tiffany stayed quiet, simply smiling demurely and twirling her hair whenever anyone asked her about it.

Of course, the party was featured on the front page of Wednesday’s issue of the Cleary Chronicle while the student protest was demoted to the bottom corner. I was reading the protest article at Something’s Brewing when Eli showed up for work. I didn’t hear him enter at first, but then he cleared his throat and I looked up, startled.

“Sorry. Did you say something?” I asked. Eli had called in sick on Friday, so I spent my shift with Bonnie, who was trying to convince me to give crocheting a try. I already knew from my failed attempt at knitting that I was all thumbs with a pair of fat needles and a ball of yarn. I tried, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.

“I was wondering if you could make me a drink?”

“Sure, just give me a minute.”

I had read the article three times already, but I wanted to read it again.

“It says here that the protest was ‘mildly successful,’” I read aloud. “What does that mean, exactly?”

I gave the paper to Eli and turned to the espresso machine so I could make him my patented Katie Bar Latte. I wanted to pretend that nothing unusual had happened the previous Thursday, that he had not hurt my feelings in any way when he asked me to leave.

“It says that the protesters were able to delay removal of the mural. I guess that’s successful.”

“Mildly successful,” I said as I steamed the milk.

“Of course, if they were trying to make headlines, they were very unsuccessful,” Eli commented. “This party has everyone going mental.”

I stirred three kinds of syrup into Eli’s latte. “Personally, I would have liked more information about the gorillas.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

I handed Eli his drink. “Like, did they ever catch this guy? Has he struck again? Why gorillas? What’s the whole point?” I had searched online to find the answers myself, but since the last gorilla had been spotted in Beulah a week earlier, there hadn’t been anything new.

“Sounds like you’re heading up an investigation,” Eli joked. “Are you helping out your dad or something?”

“I do not work for my dad!” I shouted.

Eli looked at me like I’d just slapped him, which I suddenly had the urge to do.

“Sorry,” I said, lowering my voice. “It’s just that people seem to think that I snitch, which I don’t.”

“Okay,” said Eli.

I didn’t feel like he really believed me. “My dad and I have a deal—he doesn’t ask and I don’t tell.”

“I get it.”

I was embarrassed. Eli hadn’t done anything intentionally cruel, and here I was, going off on him as if he’d insulted my family.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” I said finally. “My dad’s job is kind of a sore spot with me.”

Eli smiled. “It’s okay, really. I understand. It’s my fault for making a bad joke.”

A minivan pulled up to the window. The driver was a haggard-looking woman and the backseat was full of shrieking kids. “Do you have anything non-caffeinated?” she asked wearily. Eli was already pulling fruit juice out of the fridge as I typed in the order. We prepared five cups of apple juice for the kids and a double espresso for the mom in record time and handed the woman her drinks along with a full stack of napkins.

“Looks like she’s having a rough day,” Eli commented. I could tell he was trying to lighten the mood and change the subject, and I decided to let him. “So, we were talking about the gorillas, right?”

I smiled. “Sure.”

“And you were about to tell me what you really thought of them.”

“Was I?” It was flattering, I thought, that Eli seemed to really want to know my opinion. The truth was, I wasn’t sure what my opinion was. Listening to the morning debates at school, I knew I didn’t agree completely with Tiffany, although I could see she had a point. I liked Brady’s ideas more, but I couldn’t say why.

“You know,” I said finally, “I don’t have much of an opinion about the gorillas. But I do have an opinion about the person who’s making them.”

“Really?” Eli leaned back against the counter. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, well, I was thinking about how someone decides to create something. I don’t understand why he did it, but obviously there’s thought and talent behind it, and it takes a kind of courage to do that, to just put something out there for everyone to judge.”

“So you think he—or she—is courageous?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” I waited for more of a response from Eli. I wasn’t used to blurting out my thoughts like that, and part of me worried that he’d laugh at me, but all he ended up saying was “Interesting.”

A car pulled up, we filled the order and things were quiet for a few minutes until I broke the silence between us.

“Eli, do you think everyone is naturally creative?” It was something I’d been thinking about a lot lately. Everyone seemed to have something outside themselves that made them happy. Mom had her cakes and Lan had her orchids. I watched the other students at school, all of whom seemed to have something they loved, whether it was sports or music or movies. Even Tiffany Werner, with all of her pretentious flaws, had a passion for jewelry. Lately, I’d begun to feel like I was missing out on something. I didn’t have anything, really, that I felt passionate about. I liked different things, but I didn’t really love any one hobby or activity or distraction.

“I don’t know if everyone has a creative outlet,” Eli said, looking thoughtful. “But I think everyone should have something they love to do. I don’t know if it has to be creative, though.”

“Like sports?” I asked.

“Yeah. I mean, playing football isn’t considered creative, really, but it does involve thought and feeling and dedication. That’s an outlet of expression, right?”

“Right.”

“Why do you ask?” He stood up in preparation for a car that had pulled into the parking lot. The driver was examining the menu posted just before the drive-through window.

“I dunno. It was just something I was thinking about. I don’t really have anything like that.”

“You make a great latte.”

“Pouring liquid into a cup is not a talent,” I muttered.

“There’s got to be something you love.”

I thought about all of the things I had tried to do in my life. There was ballet, but I wasn’t graceful enough and it killed my toes. I took a ceramics course with Lan once, but painting chubby little animals didn’t excite me. I tried music, but everyone told me I was tone-deaf. I couldn’t draw a circle to save my life and any time I tried to help Mom decorate a cake I just made a huge mess.

“There’s nothing I’m really good at,” I said finally.

“Except precalculus,” Eli said. “You really helped me out, you know?”

“Then why did you—” I stopped. Maybe I didn’t want to know why he had changed around Trent. Maybe he didn’t want to be associated with me, the sheriff’s daughter. Maybe it was better to let it go and not think about it.

“Why did I what?” Eli looked puzzled. I had a hard time looking away from him. His eyes were the color of dark, polished wood.

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

I sighed. How do you ask a question when you don’t want to know the answer? I tried to think of something clever, then blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.

“Lan likes Trent.”

I immediately regretted my revelation. Lan would kill me if she knew. Eli looked both confused and shocked.

“Lan likes Trent?” he repeated.

“Please don’t say anything to him,” I begged.

Eli raised an eyebrow. “That could be a problem.”

4

ON FRIDAY I DISCOVERED a shiny silver envelope in my locker, the corner edge peeking out from the grate where it had been slipped. My name looked like it had been laser-printed in a fancy font on the envelope. “Katherine Morgan” it read. On closer inspection, I realized that it was calligraphy, written by hand in deep blue ink.

I felt a surge of excitement, despite the fact that my name was wrong. It was an invitation to Tiffany’s birthday party. I had just assumed there was no way I would be invited. She was still at war with my best friend, which I thought pretty much killed any chance I had of going. Tiffany and I had worked as lab partners during our sophomore year, but she barely spoke to me the entire semester except to inform me that she would not be cutting into dead frogs. Maybe the fact that I had completed the dissection lab by myself counted for something and she was paying me back with an invitation.

I grabbed the silver envelope and the books I needed for class, slammed my locker shut and hurried off to first period history.

“Guess what was in my locker this morning?” I said to Lan as I slid into my seat.

“Guess what was in everyone’s locker this morning,” Lan grumbled.

“You were invited? That’s great!” I exclaimed happily.

“Look again. It’s not what you think.”

I carefully opened the envelope. The metallic pearl-colored paper was heavy in my hand, the exact opposite of the delicate cream-colored stationery folded inside. I read over the paper several times and then looked at Lan in confusion.

“It’s an invitation to the invitation?”

Lan nodded. “She wants the entire school to show up in the parking lot next Tuesday just to see if they’ve been invited to her little soiree.”

“What makes her think anyone’s that desperate?”

“Well, the camera crew will be there, so I’m pretty sure she’ll get a crowd.”

I rolled my eyes and shoved the pseudoinvitation into my backpack. I looked around the room and saw other people examining their own silver envelopes, furrowing their brows and trying to make sense of them.

I hadn’t told Lan yet that I had revealed her crush to Eli. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. Eli had sworn he wouldn’t say anything to Trent, but he’d also said there was a problem.

“The thing is, Brady kind of likes Lan,” he’d admitted.

“I thought Brady was dating a sophomore.”

“He was. They broke up.”

According to Eli, Trent would never date a girl if one of his friends liked her. It was some kind of loyalty code among guys. I told Eli I would try my best to get Lan to see the better qualities of Brady, but I wasn’t making any promises.

“She really likes Trent,” I said. “A lot.”

“Well, Brady really likes her. A lot.”

I decided that we needed to do whatever we could to make our friends happy, but Eli wanted to stay out of the way and let fate take its course.

“But what if fate needs a little nudge?” I asked.

“Fate never needs a nudge,” Eli responded. “It only needs time.”

I was still thinking about what Eli had said—Fate only needs time—when Tiffany stormed into class. She didn’t look as happy as I would have expected the most incredibly popular girl at school to appear. In fact, she looked downright mad.

“Principal Carter is a complete moron,” she announced to the class as she slammed her purse onto her desk. Mr. Gildea hadn’t arrived yet, which was a good thing because there was no way he would tolerate her bashing the principal in his class, even if the complaint was remotely true.

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