“It’s not like I never thought about being mixed race. I guess it was just that, in Brooklyn, everyone was competing to be unique or surprising. By comparison, I was boring, seriously. Really boring.”

Culture shock knocks city girl Agnes “Nes” Murphy-Pujols off-kilter when she’s transplanted mid–senior year from Brooklyn to a small Southern town after her mother’s relationship with a coworker self-destructs. On top of the move, Nes is nursing a broken heart and severe homesickness, so her plan is simple: keep her head down, graduate and get out. Too bad that flies out the window on day one, when she opens her smart mouth and pits herself against the school’s reigning belle and the principal.

Her rebellious streak attracts the attention of local golden boy Doyle Rahn, who teaches Nes the ropes at Ebenezer. As her friendship with Doyle sizzles into something more, Nes discovers the town she’s learning to like has an insidious undercurrent of racism. The color of her skin was never something she thought about in Brooklyn, but after a frightening traffic stop on an isolated road, Nes starts to see signs everywhere—including at her own high school where, she learns, they hold proms. Two of them. One black, one white.

Nes and Doyle band together with a ragtag team of classmates to plan an alternate prom. But when a lit cross is left burning in Nes’s yard, the alterna-prommers realize that bucking tradition comes at a price. Maybe, though, that makes taking a stand more important than anything.

Rebels Like Us

Liz Reinhardt

LIZ REINHARDT is a perpetually homesick NJ native who migrated to the deep South a decade ago with her funny kid, motorhead husband, and growing pack of mutts. She’s a fanatical book lover with no reading prejudices and a wide range of genre loves, but her heart will always skip a beat for YA. In her spare time she likes to listen to corny jokes her kid reads to her from ice-pop sticks, watch her husband get dirty working on cars, travel whenever she can scrape together a few bucks, and gab on the phone incessantly with her bestie, writer Steph Campbell. She likes chocolate-covered raisins even if they aren’t real candy, the Oxford comma even though it’s nerdy, and airports even when her plane is delayed. Rebels Like Us, her latest YA novel, is full of hot kisses, angst, homesickness, and laughs that are almost as good as the ones that come from the stick of a melty ice pop. You can read her blog at www.elizabethreinhardt.blogspot.com, like her on Facebook or follow her on Twitter, @lizreinhardt.

To Steph who refused to answer the phone until I swore this book was done, (despite my charms, pleas, and disgusting levels of self-pity) because she knows the purest form of love is also the toughest.

The world is full of awesome best friendships—Napoleon and Pedro, Claudia and Stacey, Jessica and Hope, Frog and Toad—but “Steph and Liz” is and always will be my fave.

I love you to the best doughnut shop in Brooklyn and back, bestie.

WHO’S WHO AT EBENEZER HIGH

“Several of your teachers mentioned dress code violations. I sense that there may also be an attitude problem.”

—Ebenezer High’s Principal Armstrong

“Agnes? That cannot be her name. That name would be ugly if it were my grandmother’s.”

—Ansley Strickland, reigning belle and Rose Queen frontrunner

“I like to root for the underdog.”

—Doyle Rahn, senior class heartthrob, Southern gentleman, expert mudder and rebel

“Obviously we have a different sense of humor here than y’all do.”

—Braelynn, Ansley’s BFF and second-in-command, and Rose Court nominee

“What I did? Running for Rose Queen? It’s not breaking any rules. But it’s breaking every tradition.”

—Khabria Scott, cheerleader, nontraditional Rose Queen

candidate and rebel

“Be careful ’round here. There’s some areas that aren’t real nice.”

—Officer Reginald Hickox

“I was never good at walking away from a dare.”

—Agnes “Nes” Murphy-Pujols, high school senior, new girl and reluctant rebel

“I ain’t about to retreat.”

—Alonzo Washington, senior class clown, baseball player and rebel

“Thank you for being the kind of daughter who never stops amazing me.”

—Nes’s mom, NYC transplant, nervous rebel parent

“This old town needs to shake some of the dust off.”

—Ma’am Lovett, Ebenezer High English teacher, supporter of the rebel alliance

“It’s funny because based on the tone of your voice, I would assume you’re not seriously considering melding the two most important things in the world—romantic love and social justice.”

—Ollie Nguyen, Nes’s BFF, bassoon prodigy and NYC rebel

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

WHO’S WHO AT EBENEZER HIGH

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Copyright

ONE

Sartre said hell is other people, but he obviously never experienced a winter heat wave in the Georgia Lowcountry. Six weeks ago, my best friend and I were drinking cocoa laced with swiped rum, huddled under covers on the couch, oohing over the fat, lacy snowflakes that drifted into frozen piles on the sidewalks. Today, I’m trying to resist fainting from the broiler-like temperatures. In winter.

No wonder there are twelve churches within a five-mile radius of my new house. If this is the kind of fiery heat Georgians deal with on a regular basis, the idea of hellfire must be a terrifyingly real threat.

The sun follows me like the creepy eyes in a fun-house portrait as my sneakers sink into the melting blacktop. I hesitate and stare at my distorted reflection in the glass of the school’s double doors. I’m still attempting to decode the movers’ unintelligible boxing system—yesterday when I opened a box marked Art I found my collection of Daler-Rowney watercolor paints tossed in with an eggbeater and a dozen of my mom’s old yoga DVDs—so my antifrizz balm is still MIA. With it, my hair falls into lopsided curls. Without it, I have to deal with my current situation—a dark cloud of frizz with a life of its own. It probably didn’t help my hair’s general health that I guilted Mom into letting me get the underside stripped, bleached, and dyed bright pink before we left the city. I need a hair tie. Or to get out of the pummeling sunshine before it fries my hair beyond recognition. I seriously love my curls, but I do not love what this crazy humidity is doing to them. Before I left the house this morning I decided that, despite my life going off the rails, I looked smoking hot. Now I look like I just made a quick run to the store and back for one of my aunties on a scorching August afternoon in Santo Domingo, even though all I did was walk across the school parking lot in Georgia. In the middle of winter. The only deliverance from this heat is inside the squat monstrosity that is my new school, Ebenezer High, so I need to make a decision: go inside or die of heatstroke.

“Coño,” I mutter, and it’s like I can feel my father frowning an ocean away. Why is it the only Spanish you ever speak is slang and curses, Aggie?

I shake his words out of my head and take a long look at the place I’m going to call my academic home for the second half of this, my all-important senior year, and I have to wonder if the builders accidentally opened the schematics for a psych ward or a minimum-security prison and didn’t realize their mistake until appalled administrators and teachers showed up postconstruction.

I fill my lungs with a final gulp of suffocatingly hot air, then push into the cool building, cross a lobby showcasing dozens of glittering gold sport trophies, and I’m in a generic front office where a woman with a big smile and bigger hair inputs my information into the computer at a snail’s pace. I heard things are more relaxed south of the Mason-Dixon, but if they’re this relaxed, I may never make it out of the front office.

When my official schedule is finally approved, I’m introduced to the guidance counselor, who leads me into a hallway that smells like yesterday’s cafeteria fries, bleach, and fresh paint. I crane my neck to better take in my new school and wonder if the dingy gray-blue color they’ve chosen for the walls is also a leftover from some institutional torture chamber. I’m used to seeing art displayed on every wall and bright splashes of random colors painted in crevices too small for anything else. This sterility is strangely claustrophobic.

While I’m trying to breathe without the help of a paper bag, I wonder again why I’m even here. My brother, Jasper, told me point-blank that he thought I’d lost my mind the day I announced I was migrating South for the spring term, like some freak-of-nature bird. My father insisted we phone conference half a dozen times so that he could lecture me in Spanish on the merits of a New York City or Parisian education over an education from Georgia—which he insisted was an oxymoron. My abuela says my dad has been manso—very chill—since the day he was born, but talking about my future is the one thing that can make him quillao—super upset. Ollie, my sister from another mister, would have shared her tiny bedroom with me in a heartbeat if I’d asked, but I’d never stoop to asking. I’m well aware my passionate, motivated bestie needs every available inch of room so she can focus on her intense practice schedule and the whirlwind of spring recitals. And Mama Patria, my abuela, has room at her apartment but she lives two subway lines and a half hour bus ride away from Newington—that just wasn’t a commute I could’ve tackled twice a day, every school day, especially during the longest, coldest winter to hammer New York City in fifty years.

As far as Paris goes, I’d never admit it to my father, but my French skills have slipped—a lot—since he and Jasper moved and there was no one to ignore me until I asked for the salt or the remote or the time en français. To say my language skills have rusted would be an understatement—my French is basically a series of crumbling linguistic holes.

On top of all that there was the lingering poison-gas fog from my breakup with Lincoln—my first love and one of my best friends turned mortal enemy—which would have suffocated me slowly if I’d stayed at the private school he and I both attended. Lincoln and I started dating when we were sophomores, the year his parents started an exchange program for Maori soccer players with Newington High, and there are reminders of our coupledom sprinkled around every corner in the school where he was basically treated like royalty. I reveled in the fact that I couldn’t pass the main hall without seeing our entwined initials on the art tile we’d painted, or his gorgeous face—broad jaw, wide nose, sparkling eyes, dark skin, plush kissable lips—on the Newington VIP board in the main hall. Lincoln pulled me close and kissed me for the first time in the courtyard under Newington’s legendary oak while gold and orange leaves swirled around us. I’d never once passed that tree without running my fingers over the bark and smiling—well, I never had before.

The last months of senior year are so useless and so meaningful all at once. Everyone solidifies college choices, skips any day they possibly can, and gets disgustingly nostalgic about the people they’re going to leave behind on graduation day. The last thing I wanted was to spend months dodging the yearbook photo montages and avoiding fondly retold memories that would only reinforce what a total lie my entire relationship with Lincoln turned out to be in the end.

I have to look at my decision to flee less as losing out on the last months with my friends and more as moving on a little bit early. I’ve always had an independent streak, so I might as well run with it. It’s best if I consider my time in Georgia a kind of study-abroad semester before the adventure of college begins.

My tour guide’s bubblegum drawl interrupts the panic that threatens to tunnel me under despite my internal pep talk that this will all be okay.

“It’s wonderful to have you at Ebenezer High. We realize it will take a few days for you to get settled, but we’ll let you jump right in. The good thing is you’ve only missed one day of second semester, so you should be able to catch up easily. First day of a new semester is mostly just the syllabus breakdown anyway.” She gestures to a wooden door, and I peek through the tiny window into what looks like a lab full of students dying from a combination of boredom and heatstroke. “This here will be your first class tomorrow, Agnes. Mr. Hemley, AP physics. At this hour you’d be in the middle of your second class, which is...”

Newington was once some founding senator’s house and had windows so huge, it never even felt like I was indoors. The windows in this school remind me of the slits in medieval fortresses that archers shot arrows out of. What the hell is the modern purpose of windows that narrow? As I pass the classrooms, I see sad ribbons of sunlight, bitterly determined to brighten the gloom.

Give up, sunshine. It’s a damn lost cause.

“...this one right here.” We stop in front of another nondescript door whose tiny window reveals my fellow cell mates. “The peer guide I’ve assigned to help you through the day is in this class. She’ll give you a more thorough tour, and if there are any questions she can’t handle, feel free to stop by my office anytime. The door is always open.” Her silver fillings wink at me from the back of her mouth when she smiles. I can’t remember her name no matter how hard I shake my brain.

“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to navigate all right on my own.” I turn the schedule she handed me so that the map printed on the bottom is oriented, and bend my lips up in what I hope approximates a smile.

“Whatever you’d like, Agnes.” She shifts from one sensible pump to the other.

“Okay. Thanks again. I’m, uh, going to class now.” I point to the doorway I don’t particularly want to walk through.

What’s more awkward? Walking into a classroom full of seniors as the new girl? Or standing in the ugly hallway of your new school losing a staring contest with a guidance counselor whose name you can’t remember?

Lamest game of Would You Rather. Ever.

Coño, I have to choose, so I walk backward through the classroom door, keeping that demented smile wide until Mrs. What’s-Her-Face disappears into the shadows of the hallway.

“Good morning. You must be Agnes.” A woman with a no-nonsense voice gives me the evil teacher eye over tortoiseshell glasses that perch on the end of her broad nose. Even with her springy, salt-and-pepper curls factored into her height, she only grazes my chin. But the fact that I tower over her doesn’t stop me from squirming under her laser gaze. She has the same huggable, curvy figure and beautiful, soft, dark brown skin as my grandmother, but I cannot picture her taking a tray of warm coconetes out of the oven. I can picture her silencing a class of hooligans with one fiery look. “I’m Mrs. Lovett.”

“Good morning.” I modify my smile from demented pretend to real. I hate unnecessary authority, but I absolutely love ball-busting, no-nonsense bitches. I get the latter vibe from Lovett already.

“Ms. Ronston wanted me to let you know your peer guide will be Khabria Scott. Khabria, please raise your hand.” Mrs. Lovett’s voice snaps, and a hand pops up in response. I approve of my tour guide’s bold nails—matte black except for a shiny white ring finger nail, gold fleur-de-lis designs glittering on each one.

Because I’m nervous, I resort to a goofy, toothy smile, and feel extra dumb when Khabria folds her arms across her chest elegantly and gives me a tight-lipped, polite smile in return. She’s got this whole regal Nefertiti/Beyoncé vibe that’s intimidating and impressive all at once.

“You can take a seat second row, fourth desk back, Agnes.” Mrs. Lovett makes a mark in her roll book, and I slide into my chair while too many eyes dart my way, sizing me up because I’m so shiny and new. It’s uncomfortable but not mean.

“Hey. Hey, new girl?” A tall, good-looking guy with a bright yellow basketball jersey sitting just behind Khabria nearly falls out of his chair calling to me and waving his gorgeously muscled arms over his head. “Where you from?”

“Crown Heights.” I watch his face screw up like I answered him in Finnish. “Brooklyn.”

“Where?” He kicks the back of the Khabria’s chair as he tries to settle into a desk that clearly wasn’t designed for people over six foot six. Khabria whips her head so fast her black and strawberry braids are a blur.

She mutters, “Holy hell, you a moron, Lonzo.”

“New York City, man. C’mon, you’re makin’ us all look ignorant.” I can’t see who said it, but that deep, slow voice that rolls like a warm wave in the ocean is the most Southern voice I’ve ever heard—and I’m shocked by the fizzy glow that warms through me at the sound of it. I like it. I like it a lot.

“Why’d you move here?” The tall guy kicks my chair with the sole of his shoe to get my attention. When I turn to look at him, he grins wide, the way I smiled at Khabria before. “Too violent in your hood?”

“What?” I snort as thoughts of the last co-op meeting flit through my head. Old Mr. Madsen almost got in a fistfight with the “young hipster” who dared to adorn the communal herb garden with his found-art whirligigs, which Mr. Madsen screamed were “pretentious trash.” The meeting ended with Mr. Madsen knocking all the disposable coffee cups off the snack table and vowing to recycle the young hipster’s “eyesores” if they came anywhere near his flat-leaf parsley. “I lived in a really nice neighborhood. Not a hood.”

I mean, sure, there were the Crown Heights Riots, but that was way back in the ’90s. Ancient history.

“So why then?” Despite the twitchiness of his limbs, his dark eyes are calm.

When he repeats his question, more eyes turn to me from around the classroom. Shiny-haired cheerleaders and flexing jocks, slackers trying to pretend they aren’t dozing, nerds clutching their notebooks—two dozen faces fade in a kaleidoscope of dark and light as my vision tunnels.

Being the new girl sucks.

“Uh...”

“You hate snow?” He rubs a hand over his tight, dark curls and clicks his tongue when Khabria stomps her sneaker in frustration.

“No, you need to stop, boy. Who would hate snow?” She throws her arms out and rolls her eyes like it’s the most ridiculous concept she’s ever contemplated.

“You ever even seen snow?” He juts out his chin.

“No, but I want to. You trying to say you don’t want to ride on a sled? Or throw a snowball?”

“I heard snowballs hurt your hand.” He holds out his own hands, so big they could probably palm a basketball with zero problems. He flips them, studying his knuckles and then his palms like he’s trying to get a gauge of the damage a snowball could do.

I’m shocked silent. No snow? Ever? It’s a lot to wrap my frostbitten brain around. Despite the intense heat here, I feel like I still haven’t thawed completely from the last cold snap back home.

“Alonzo Washington, please stop harassing Agnes and come discuss the status of your term paper proposal with me immediately.”

The guy—Alonzo—leaps out of his seat and says, “Yes, ma’am,” like he’s a soldier in a very obedient army.

I’m about to go back to imagining a life devoid of snow when I hear a little alien-baby voice whisper, “Agnes? That cannot be her name. That name would be ugly if it were my grandmother’s.”

I swivel my head and face the kind of blandly vicious sneers that always seem to infect a select few in any group. My cousins in Santo Domingo would say they’re bocas de suape—mop mouths. In translation, they’re two losers who don’t know when to keep their traps shut. They’re so generically pathetic, if life was a movie, they wouldn’t even have names in the credits. They’re even wearing cheerleading uniforms. Could they be more cliché? Generic Mean Girl One is giggling like mad along with Generic Mean Girl Two. I turn full around in my seat and stare at them, ignoring my new teacher’s obvious throat clearing.

“Is there a problem, ladies?” she demands.

“My name,” I announce, still looking at the two overzealously spray-tanned, hair-tossing idiots in their cutesy matching uniforms. I love the way their cackles dry up and their perfectly made-up faces fall. “Apparently it’s hilarious.”

“Agnes.” I turn to look at my teacher, whose pursed lips and cocked eyebrows tell me she is clearly not amused. “Whatever this nonsense is about, it stops now. I don’t tolerate fools, and I don’t put up with time wasting. In fact, it’s really starting to piss me off that I wasted this much time already.”

A few people gasp or snort when she says piss, as if our innocent, nearly adult ears have never heard a single naughty word before.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” I say, sitting straight at my desk. I can take care of the Generic Mean Girl Twins later. Right now, I’m going to make it a priority not to “piss off” this woman. For all I know, this class might be the highlight of an otherwise miserable few months.

“Ma’am.” She crosses her arms over her wide chest. The idiotic giggles start again. I’m drowning fast.

“Me?” I point at myself. Mrs. Lovett’s nostrils flare very slightly.

“Me.” She points a thumb at her chest. “When you speak to me, your instructor, you refer to me as ma’am. Clear?”

“So, not ‘Mrs. Lovett’?” I swear to baby Jesus, I ask only to double-check, but I guess I’ve already walked too close to the edge of the smart-ass line, and now my classmates are hooting like I’m the Pied Piper of classroom anarchy.

“Do not test my patience today, Agnes,” Mrs. Lovett snaps. She slaps a paper packet and a copy of The Old Man and the Sea on my desk.

I leaf through the tattered pages, hold it up, and attempt one last smile that’s basically just me grasping at straws. “No friend as loyal.”

Mrs. Lovett’s lips twitch, and I curl my fingers around the old misogynistic tale of oceanic triumph and New Testament allusions, waiting to see if her lips will twitch up or...

Up. Smile. Score!

But now that I bought her love back with a cheap quote trick, I have to be on my best behavior while we scribble notes about Hemingway’s boozing and hunting and womanizing—and that means keeping my mouth firmly shut. Because, despite my best intentions, whenever I open my mouth, trouble finds me.

Also, I’m still not sure about the whole ma’am thing.

When we’re finally dismissed, Alonzo drags Khabria over to me.

“Agnes, tell this know-it-all that it hurts your hand to make a snowball.”

“Um, if you don’t wear gloves, it stings,” I admit reluctantly. I’m breaking a deep, unwritten girl code by siding with Alonzo, even on a matter this insignificant, but...

“See! I told you! Ooh, you so wrong!” Alonzo crows, shimmying his arms at his sides and strutting around Khabria in a weird, end zone type celebration dance. “My daddy told me when he was in Lamaze class with my mama they made everybody squeeze an ice cube to let them get a taste of labor pain.”

“Um, it’s uncomfortable, but I don’t think it’s anything like labor,” I cut in, but Alonzo is flapping his elbows like a chicken while Khabria sucks her teeth and sputters. I fear for Alonzo’s life if he keeps poking this very beautiful, probably lethal bear. “I mean, it’s mostly fun, not painful...” I trail off, and Khabria shakes her head.

“Ignore that fool. He actually enjoys being a dumb ass.”

It occurs to me that I could stick out my hand and introduce myself—no! Maybe that’s too weird?—but before I determine if the chance to make a new friend outweighs the incredible social awkwardness, Alonzo’s sauntered up to his group of cronies and Khabria is gliding away to join a clutch of girls wearing navy cheerleading uniforms that match hers—including both plastic airheads from earlier. Ugh, maybe I should be glad social awkwardness won out before I tried to befriend someone who hangs out with the twit twins.

I try to convince myself I dodged a social bullet, but it doesn’t feel awesome to be left hugging my books and wishing I could teleport to my next class so that I won’t have to suffer being the one and only student at Ebenezer High navigating the halls alone.

And then, suddenly, I’m not.

“Hey! Hey, Agnes!” Khabria’s tiny cheerleading skirt swishes around her long legs as she jogs down the hall after me. “I’m your peer guide today.” She tucks a loose red braid back into her updo and gives me a slightly bigger smile than when we first met.

It’s probably just a coincidence that the clutch of cheerleader clones she left down the hall erupts into squawks of laughter at that exact second.

Probably.

Panic feels like quicksand sucking at my ankles and threatening to pull me under. I half choke out my next words.

“Uh, no worries. I have this handy map.” I flutter the wrinkled paper between us like I’m waving a white flag. I surrender to social isolation—leave me alone in my misery. “I’ve been riding the subway alone since I was a little kid. I’m sure I can manage the halls of a high school.”

Khabria nabs my schedule and cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Because your next class is back that-a-way.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder as I grab the map back and try to get my bearings. I usually have a decent internal compass. I guess I’m just off-kilter today.

“Right. That way. Okay. I got turned around, I guess.”

Senior year. I’m supposed to be directing freshman to the nonexistent fourth-floor pool, not getting lost going down the main hall.

“I know it’s not the subway, but finding your way around here can be tricky. Let me give you a quick tour at least.” Khabria’s dark eyes warm with the kind of sympathy I’m used to giving, not receiving. I definitely prefer being in charge, not being led around. But I guess I don’t have much choice now.

“Okay. So...I see my next class from here. After that I have to head across this courtyard...or, wait? Is that a stairwell...?”

“C’mon.” Khabria marches me to my next classroom and bats her lashes at the cute young teacher manning the door. “Mr. Webster, this is Agnes. It’s her first day, and I’m her peer guide. Is it okay if I take her on a quick tour once the halls empty?”

Mr. Webster crosses his arms over his wide chest and sighs. “Ten minutes, Ms. Scott. Agnes will already be playing catch-up.”

“Fifteen? Please, sir?” she says, bartering with a flirty edge to her voice and biting her bottom lip for good measure.

Mr. Webster looks decidedly uncomfortable. He takes off his nerdy-cute glasses and cleans the lenses with the tail of his half-tucked dress shirt. “Fine. Go, quickly, so you can get Agnes back as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Webster,” she singsongs. We leave him frowning at his polished shoes.

Khabria whirls me down the hall, giggling the whole way, and I feel normal for a split second. When we’re at the stairwell, she tugs me close, glances over her shoulder, and dishes some seriously crazy gossip. “Webster tries to play it cool, but everyone knows he’s dating a girl who just graduated last year...and they started seeing each other before school was out.” Her eyes go wide and her perfect eyebrows rise up until they almost disappear in her hair.

“Did they get caught?”

There was a rumor about one of the teacher’s aides and a senior at Newington when I was in tenth grade. But the rumor barely had time to circulate before the aide was gone without a word. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if we found out the rumor was true, then passed that aide in the halls every day...

“No, but we all know it’s true. He was at a few high school parties over the summer, always looking like he wanted to disappear. Oh, here are the math labs, and your next classroom after you leave Webster’s class is the middle one.” She waves a hand at a cluster of rooms filled with students silently scribbling complicated geometry equations on whiteboards, then sneers. “I don’t know why he’d risk showing his face where there could be students around. I mean, it’s not like anyone told on him, but someone could’ve, and now he can’t get respect no matter how tough he tries to act because how do you respect someone with that little sense? Last year, he was one of the strictest teachers we had. This year, I think he’s just waiting on us to graduate, so one more class that went to school with his little girlfriend will be gone and out of his hair.”

Khabria’s words cut like a razor through tissue paper, and I realize she’s almost gleeful. I kind of get it. Right or wrong, there’s a certain thrill in holding power over the people who are supposed to be in authority, especially when they screw up.

“Has he ever made a pass at any of the other girls?” I ask. I try my best to avoid gossip for the most part, but there’s something weirdly comforting about it. It gives you the illusion you’re sharing a secret—even if the secret is something everyone in school is talking about.

“Nah. Apparently it was true love with him and that one girl, or whatever. Guidance office.” She points and it’s reassuring to see the familiar “mountain climber with an inspirational quote underneath” poster that must be required decor for every guidance office in the country.

“That’s crazy,” I murmur as I poke my head in and peek at the out-of-date computers and dusty college manuals. “I’d probably quit if I were him.”

“People ’round here are stubborn like that though.” She shakes her braids out with her fingers. “My gram always says people have more pride than sense. They’d rather be miserable than admit defeat. I think some people just like being miserable, period.” We stroll down a back hall. “Food science, shop, child care, music room,” she ticks off.

“I definitely get that vibe from some people.” I decide to test the waters. “No offense if they’re your friends, but those two cheerleaders in our English class seemed pretty bent on spreading misery...at least toward me.”

Khabria’s pace slows and a blush warms the deep brown skin over her perfect cheekbones. “People sometimes forget we’re supposed to be hospitable to newcomers, especially if we’re on cheer. I know the other girls came off badly today, but their bark is definitely worse than their bite. They prolly thought they were being funny or something.” She shrugs. “That whole pride thing. Don’t take anything they say to heart. Maybe it’s a side effect of being squad leaders every year since we were in peewee cheer—maybe they’re just used to ribbing on the new girl.”

“So they’ve always been the queen-bee types?” I can so imagine the Generic Mean Girls as preschoolers with pigtails and bows, lording over the snack table while they nibbled their graham crackers and sipped their juice boxes.

“Ain’t my queens,” Khabria bites out. She sighs and takes it down a notch. “Look, some people are really into cliques here. They have their friends, their jokes, their way of doing things... If you don’t like them, my best advice for you is just stay away.”

I realize I touched a nerve, and I get it. There are girls I would have counted as my best friends in middle school but haven’t spoken a word to in years—girls I’d still defend if anyone else tried to talk crap about them. People—even people you care about—can change so fast, and loyalties get complicated.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.” By now we’ve rounded back to the main hall and Mr. Webster’s class, all the initial closeness we shared over steamy gossip withered.

“Agnes, Khabria!” Mr. Webster pokes his head out the door, calls down the hall to us, and taps his watch in warning. “You’re five minutes late. Let’s hustle.”

“Thank you for showing me around.” I clutch my map in shaking fingers, off-kilter after possibly offending the first person who was actually nice to me.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need help with anything else today.” Khabria’s voice runs as cold as the water around an iceberg. She hesitates, then says, “Look, most people here are good folk. We get along, we help each other out. Don’t judge anyone too harshly based on a few minutes of knowing them.”

I watch her skirt flutter as she flounces away before I can answer, and I slip into class. My classmates text on their phones, paint their nails, and chat as Mr. Webster robotically lectures, his body language limp with defeat. I wonder if he regrets anything. I wonder if staying here at Ebenezer was him standing his ground or giving up.

If I stay here, would it be standing my ground or giving up? Bells ring, classes move, and I follow my map like a pro now that Khabria’s shown me the basic layout. For the rest of the day, I’m mostly ignored. Which is fine. I’m only enduring. Just a few months.

Just the rest of my senior ye—

It’s like I accidentally pulled the plug on a hot bubble bath. I search under the suds to plug it back up because if I don’t, every single emotion I’ve kept bottled up will drain, hot and wet and embarrassing.

No girl who grew up on the mean streets of Brooklyn (all right...fairly gentrified Crown Heights, but still) is going to cry on her first day of school in Nowhere, Georgia. I’d have to beat in my own ass. It wouldn’t be pretty.

The final bell tolls and crowds press out of doorways and into the hall on every side of me, a tsunami of bodies. I don’t care about being jostled, but it’s weird to not have a solitary soul waiting for me by a locker or gesturing for me to sneak down a back hall and beat the rush.

I sprint alone to my little Corolla—a poor consolation prize from my mother to make up for the dissolution of my pretty rad life because of her screwup—and peel out. I choke on the diesel fumes from the line of lifted pickup trucks that leads home.

Home.

That’s the word on repeat in my head when I veer the car to the side of the road and pull the damn plug, unstop everything I’ve been holding in. I’ve felt seconds away from drowning all day, and now I weep and scream like a banshee on meth in the semiprivacy of my car, letting it all drain out.

“Vete pal carajo, Georgia! Concho hijo de la gran Yegua!”

I curse this godforsaken state at the top of my lungs and beat the steering wheel. I drum my heels on the floorboards. I scream curses over and over until my voice is hoarse. And then I wipe the mascara out of my eyes, blow my nose, take one deep breath, pull back onto the road. “Coño.” Damn. There’s nothing left to say, so I glare at the obstinate sun, and go...home.

God, it would feel good to spill my guts to Mom the way we used to, Lorelai and Rory–style, but the time for sitcom mother-daughter banter is long gone. When I look back at all the times I assumed she was doing something awesome, like tutoring one of her struggling students, and realize she was, in fact, doing something skeevy, like flirting with a married dude, a bone-crushing feeling of betrayal presses onto me. It’s as if I was waiting at Luke’s with my giant mug of coffee, but my mother never showed.

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at her and forgive her for selfishly and systematically ruining my life. Ruining our life. All because of a skinny, kinky weirdo with a weasel face and my mom’s very, very poor tech skills.

Word to the wise, kids: don’t be a fat-fingered idiot when you’re sexting with your married coworker. Because you just might accidentally send a pic of your naked ass to the HR secretary instead of your paramour. And said secretary just might be your weasel-faced sex partner’s wife’s yoga buddy. And then you and your innocent daughter will be unceremoniously exiled to the sweltering marshes of Nowhere, Georgia.

TWO

In the quiet sanctuary of my temporary home, all I want to do is forget the total disaster that was the first day of what’s probably the biggest mistake of my life so far. Mom’s teaching a class and won’t be home for another two hours, so I have unsupervised time to kill.

There are very few perks that come with living in Georgia, but a big, refreshing one is the pool in the backyard. I can practically hear the pool pump hissing, “Come swim in me, Nes.”

I tear to my room and rip open a box labeled Summer Clothes, then a box labeled Vacation, then, in a desperate last-ditch effort, I peel back the tape on one labeled Random Fun Stuff. I find a pair of denim overalls I don’t remember buying, some really old family pictures from the summer we went on vacation to some hokey middle-America theme park, and three yo-yos from my brother’s obsessive yo-yo-collecting days back when he was a nerdy middle schooler (instead of a nerdy college sophomore). I get nervous because I’m not sure where else to look for my lone piece of missing swimwear. I own exactly one bikini.

There’s not an especially long swim season in New York, so one will do. But it’s January here. January. The time of post-Christmas blizzards and sticking to resolutions you made for New Year’s, if you’re all about that. And it’s now hotter than it was when we arrived this hellish December.

I may need more bikinis. In the dead of winter. Unbelievable.

Our Realtor said this was an “unusually hot one” as she fanned her sweaty face and bemoaned every house we looked in that hadn’t switched on the central air. I expect bikini shopping and sweltering heat in Santo Domingo over summer break; this is just madness.

I continue to frantically pick through the cardboard box ziggurat in my room and finally snag the stretchy material of my lone bathing suit in a box labeled Underwear. Fair enough. And I can’t even blame the movers’ crazy box identification because I packed that one myself. Just as I’m about to change, my phone rings and I realize I may have to pick up and talk intelligibly to another human being when all I want to do is dead man’s float around the pool and feel sad for myself. The groan I bite back is a knife of guilt that twists in my gut.

Ollie wants to FaceTime.

My bleary, makeup-smeared image reflects back at me on the screen, and I want to sob. Again. But then I’ll look even worse. It’s all pretty chicken-and-egg.

“Olls, I look like a gargoyle!” I screech the second she connects.

Her gorgeous face, moon round and ethereally peaches and cream, takes up the entire screen, and my throat feels all clawed down both sides because I’m not sitting in her parents’ modern, artsy apartment, gorging on the Vietnamese sizzling pancakes Ollie is a genius at whipping up and sneaking sips of rice wine from her parents’ enormous collection before we get down to our homework and daily two-person merengue party.

“Shuddup! You look like a goddess.” She gnaws on her lip. “Hey, I checked your Insta this morning...”

“Right.” I shrug. “Call me melodramatic, but it was surprisingly hard to scroll through all those pictures of everything and everyone I was leaving behind.” I take a second to steady my voice, the same way I steady my raw heart every time I flip through my winter photo folder—which is full of pictures of people and places that are a thousand miles away. “I promise I’ll get a new one going soon.”

I guess Ollie hasn’t checked Snapchat yet, or she’d be calling me out about that too. I deleted my account late last night after getting shocked by another surprise Lincoln cameo in a mutual friend’s post-winter-break video. If pictures are hard for me to look at, there’s no way I can handle seeing and hearing video footage of everything I’m missing back home... Plus Lincoln would be like a ghost haunting every Newington clip.

“You really should. Your Insta pics were goals. Plus I want to know what things look like down there. Are there all those mossy trees like in Scooby-Doo? And plantations everywhere? Are they haunted? Did your mom buy you the Mystery Machine to drive around in? Are you wearing ascots and miniskirts? Did you get a Great Dane?” Before she can yell zoinks, Ollie’s eyes dart over my shoulder and go wide with worry. “Wait. You still haven’t unpacked?”

“It’s ‘asylum chic.’ Like it?” She shakes her head and sighs, so I confess. “Truth? It’s a reminder that I won’t actually have to live here forever.”

I wave a hand at the mattress on the floor, covers and pillows piled on it. That, my docking station, and a few choice boxes with the flaps permanently open make up my entire bedroom decor. The movers put all my boxes in my room for me, but I declined when they offered to put my bed frame together. That felt too permanent. Mom made several passive-aggressive comments about how she wouldn’t have bothered to pay an arm and a leg to move all my furniture if I wasn’t even going to set it up, but I stared at the ceiling until she left me to my misery. She was excited to finally have a space bigger than a couple hundred square feet to decorate, and she didn’t get why I wasn’t revved up to be in a new room that’s almost triple the square footage of my old room.

Because I miss my tiny, cramped, perfect old room.

“I miss your old room,” Ollie admits, echoing my internal thoughts with her freakish bestie ESP. Her shoulders slump, and my heart follows their lead.

“It’s okay.” No one brings out my reluctant optimist like Ollie. I hate seeing her down, so I put on a good game face no matter how crappy I feel. “Mom and Dad had been planning to sell our place when I moved to college anyway, and it went for way over asking price, like, the first week it was on the market. They were pretty psyched about it, and I...I’m trying to accept my fate at this point. You know I’m a ‘rip off the Band-Aid’ type when it comes to dealing with emotional stuff.”

“Um, yeah you are!” she laughs. Then gets dead serious. Lecture-time serious. “Speaking of college...”

“I got all my applications in by the deadlines, I swear to God.” I don’t tell my best friend that I hit Send on my SUNY application literally two minutes before midnight on the last possible day. And I don’t elaborate on the fact that I never took my brother up on his offer to proofread my personal essay. I didn’t have the patience to be ridiculed on my native-tongue grammatical failures by my own trilingual flesh and blood.

“You’ll tell me when you hear back?”

“Of course.” I cross my heart with the hand that’s still clutching my bikini, and Ollie freaks out.

“Are you going swimming?” The screen goes down for a second and her shocked voice floats through the speaker. “WeatherBug says it’s eighty-five in Savannah. How is that possible?”

Her face pops back on the screen, and I roll my eyes. “Because Savannah is actually an outer ring of hell. Don’t be jealous. I spent all day with sweaty pit stains. It’s gross.”

“It’s actually not frigid here. Like we could have watched those hot Puerto Rican guys play basketball from your fire escape if we’d had a blanket. Or three.”

“Are you trying to drive me to suicide?” My voice wobbles like the ankles of a first-time ice-skater.

“Sweetie.” Ollie says it on the longest sigh. I know exactly what direction her lecture is going to take, because she’s given it to me a few dozen times before. “Why didn’t you stay here in the city? With me? My parents love you. Or with your abuela. Even if she would have welded one of those chastity belts on you...it maybe would have been better than getting trapped in Georgia. Right?”

“It’s not chastity-belt bad here.”

“No...?”

I think about how I can go to an Episcopal, Baptist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Nazarene, or Seventh Day Adventist church if I walk five blocks from my house, but an Americano is an unknown species around here. I haven’t found a single decent coffee shop.

“You have a point...”

“You could come back.” She makes her voice small, like she’s trying to disguise the hope so that I won’t even notice it. Fat chance.

Not only do I notice it, big and comfy and bright as it is—it makes me ache.

“I know.” I do. I made a huge, complicated pro-and-con list on butcher paper in my room and stayed up for a full twenty-four hours contemplating it the night before I made my final decision. “But she’s still...”

“Your mom.” Ollie nods.

“Yup.” The word swings like a wrecking ball.

She chews on her lip and gives me space to be angry. I’ve needed the geographical equivalent of Russia and most of China in terms of anger space. But all that roaming anger is getting narcissistic.

“And he’s still...” She lets the words hang.

“Olls,” I beg, but she’s relentless in her quest to make me face my emotions.

“He was your first love, Nes. And he broke your heart. He’s a dog, but you can’t beat yourself up because you miss him. You need to let yourself feel everything. Don’t clam up.”

The tears coat my eyes like a hot, glistening windshield. When they plop out and make their pathetic slide down my cheeks, I know Ollie won’t say, “Don’t cry.” I tend to squeeze my emotions into a bitty ball I can ignore. Ollie is a “cry it out” advocate.

“I do miss him.” It’s hard to be honest when honesty makes me feel so weak and stupid.

“That’s okay.” The sound of her voice is a balm to my frayed emotions.

“I mean, he was my best friend other than you. I can’t think about him without remembering how good the good times were—it’s bizarre how it changed so slowly. How did he go from being the guy who could always make me laugh to the guy who pulverized my heart?”

“I know,” she says.

“I was scared, really scared to leave home and Newington and you,” I say as I lick a few salty tears off my cracked lips. “But I was more scared of staying and facing him every day, because what he did to me is unacceptable—but sometimes I forget because I’m busy remembering how sweet he can be. How can he be such a snake in the grass and legitimately one of the most interesting, caring people I’ve ever met? He messed up so badly, but I know he still cares about me. That’s dangerous.” I take a deep breath and look at Ollie’s face, just a screen away. “I was scared of falling for him again after everything he put me through. Because a little part of me is always going to love the goofy, smart, sweet guy I fell in love with two years ago.”

“Oh, Nes.” I know Ollie would hug me if we were together, and I want to cash in on that hug more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

“I’m a coward.” I close my eyes.

“Stop it. Right now. You’re the bravest person I know. I love you.”

“I love you, Olls. And I’m going to be okay, promise. I’m letting all the gross feelings come out, just in little drips and drabs. Did I produce enough tears for you today? Can I go back to pretending I’m hard-hearted and cool?” I joke. Or half joke.

I know Ollie still wants a full rundown of my first day of school, but I don’t have any energy to tell her about all the crazy crap that kind of threw me for a loop today. It’s childish, but I want to pretend I started the second semester of our senior year at Newington Academy with her. We met in the friendly halls of our Quaker school when we were in second grade and she yelled that she loved my glittery stockings and I yelled that I loved her heart necklace and our teachers shushed us as we tried to yell more compliments back and forth. We found each other at recess, and we’ve been madly, completely best friends in love since then.

“I miss you like butter misses popcorn,” she mourns, and the sight of her tears firms up my backbone.

“Stop crying! Did Parson give you permission to run your bead-and-bracelet biz in the front hall?” I change the subject fast, and it works. Sort of.

“Yes! The middle school girls were all primped out in their Christmas/Hanukkah duds... Nes, they’re crimping their hair! Why didn’t I ask Santa for a crimper too? I both want to scorn them and buy a crimper with all the fat moneys I’m making weaving little unicorn beads into their hair. Advice?” She wipes the tears away with the tip of her fingers.

“No scorn. They’re littles. Remember how much the scorn of the cool upper-class girls hurt our souls back when we were tiny? Also, no crimper. If you want your hair to look like Bride of Frankenstein’s, just braid it when it’s damp.” I tap my finger on the screen, over her face. She opens her mouth like she’s going to bite it.

Our laughs are sadder than I want them to be.

“And, I almost forgot to tell you... No, I’m going to make you guess. Guess how else my life is turning to crap,” Ollie orders.

Her words stab more than a little. I know I’m one of the main reasons the tail end of her senior year is going to look nothing like what we’d been planning since elementary school.

“Thao is moving back across the hall.” She rolls her neck the way she always does after a grueling bassoon session to get the tension out.

“And I’m not even there to help you booby-trap your house like we did in fifth grade! What kind of crap friend am I?” I laugh around the next words because the idea of Thao being anything but a nose-picking cretin is hilarious. “Maybe he’s changed since you last saw him? Or maybe your parents won’t make you two hang out every time they get together. I mean, you’re not little kids anymore. You have a life. Thao probably does too. If you count sneak-attack farting on people a life...”

“That’s right.” Ollie nods enthusiastically. “I do have a life. A life that does not involve disgusting boys who think it’s cool to squirt milk out of their eyeballs.”

I gag at the memory. “I’m telling you, I became lactose intolerant right after that.”

We both crack up remembering gross Thao.

“You know I want to talk to you for a jillion hours, but Darcy gave us a paper assignment. Already. I can’t believe him. Will you be able to talk later?” She eyes the phone hopefully.

Darcy. My favorite teacher. Ollie’s too. She’s pissed because she can’t charm him out of giving actual work-based assignments instead of the fluffy busywork so many other teachers tend to assign during the last half of senior year. Well, giving her actual, work-based assignments. I live in a Darcy-free world now. All I have is Ma’am Lovett.

“Love you, doll. We can chat all night if you call later.” I don’t cry when I disconnect with Ollie, I don’t cry when I look around at the institutionally bare walls of my room, and I don’t cry when I struggle to get into my complicated, strappy bikini, which is as frustrating as playing Chinese jump rope.

I walk through the echoey house. It’s got all the mundane architecture and lack of character you can expect from a last-minute rental in suburban Georgia. The tiny amount of furniture we brought from New York didn’t begin to fill this place, so Mom set up an order from the local furniture store. Even with a truckload of brand-new couches, coffee tables, rugs, and paintings, it’s surprisingly hard to fill three thousand square feet of house with stuff when you’re used to living in an apartment one-sixth that size.

Even though I know I could never call this place home, I wonder who might someday. And I feel bad for them. Though the future owners do get a pool. That’s pretty rad, to just walk out of your house and—blam—there’s a pool.

That you can swim in.

In January.

I guess this place isn’t all bad.

It still blows my mind, because private pools are like unicorns where I come from. Mom tried to use the pool as incentive to get me to like the idea of coming here. Because leaving a city full of culture and art and beauty and ferocious ambition can so be made better with a concrete hole filled with chlorinated water.

I expect the backyard to be serenely empty when I turn the corner, and nearly have a heart attack when I run into a random stranger holding a hose.

“What are you doing in my backyard?” I yell, taking an aggressive stance and gripping my phone hard in case I need to chuck it at his head. Or call 911. I scan the yard for weapons and notice a pool skimmer the cleaning service left on the patio. Maybe I could smack this guy into the water if he tries anything funny?

“’Scuse me. So sorry. I didn’t realize the renters already moved in.”

The voice drawls rough, quiet...familiar. Where have I heard it before? The half-naked male attached to it is practically ripping new armholes in his T-shirt in an attempt to cover up.

I relax my stance and realize he’s not some hulking intruder, but a freaked-out guy about my age, and the T-shirt he’s putting on backward reads Rahn Lawn Care and Maintenance.

“Most days my grandpa and cousin’d be out here during the day, so as not to disturb y’all. I jest head out to the places where there’s no renters in yet. Your house was on my list. Sorry ’bout the inconvenience, ma’am. And about working with my shirt off. Rahn Lawn Care and Maintenance strives to provide professional service, and I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, ma’am.”

He sounds like he’s reciting lines from the HR handbook I had to sign when I worked at the local Y last summer.

“I promise I won’t report you to your boss if you promise to stop calling me ma’am.” When my joke leaves him looking extra terrified, I snort, pull out my sunscreen—SPF 50—and plop onto the nearest lounge chair. “Dude, chill. Seriously, it’s cool. I took my first life-drawing class when I was twelve. Trust me, I’ve seen my fair share of naked guys. I’m not a prude.”

He manages to yank the T-shirt—neck all stretched from his crazy flailing—right side around and get both arms through the sleeve holes. “Uh, cool. I’m Doyle Rahn. Pleased to meet ya.” He holds out a hand.

I shake it, and dirt from his fingers muddies my sunscreen. “Doyle? I’ve never met anyone with that name before. I like it. I’m Agnes. Agnes Murphy-Pujols.”

“Pujols?” His wide, white grin contains just the slightest twisted tooth here and there, and it sends an electric pulse through me. Unexpected, but definitely nice. “Like Albert Pujols?”

“I don’t have any Alberts in my family.” I squint up at him, his head haloed in the sun. He has blond hair that’s just this side of being strawberry, and freckles that have almost melted into a tan.

“Too bad. He’s pretty much the best pure hitter of all time.” Doyle squats down next to what I guess is supposed to be one of the many “shade trees” the real-estate woman kept squawking about. I hate when people say one thing when they mean another. Like, if you mean shriveled, leafless sticks, don’t say shade trees.

“Ah. Baseball. My father is a Caribbean studies professor who lives in France, and my brother is hard-core into soccer. Like, he insists on calling it football when he’s in the States even though he knows it’s confusing.” I think on that for a second. “Huh. I wonder if he does that because it’s confusing. Jasper’s a weird guy like that. Anyway, not much baseball watching going down at my place. But my dad’s where the Pujols part of my name is from, and the DR is pretty famous for baseball players, so, who knows? Maybe I should pay more attention to baseball.” Doyle’s examining the dried-out stick so intensely, I swear he’s doing it to avoid examining me.

“You should. Watch baseball, that is. Actually, you should play baseball. We get a killer game goin’ most Friday nights in the far field back there. You could come ’round if you like. Your brother too.” He nods over his shoulder, and, even with my amazing internal compass, I have no clue where “back there” could be. Someone’s backyard? The empty woods that line the neighborhood? The community office lawn?

“Actually, my brother lives in Paris with my dad,” I blab. It’s weird how sweet it is to talk to a normal person about normal things in my life. Like what a jerk my irritating brother, who I miss a ton, can be. “My brother is one of those guys who ties a silk scarf around his neck like Freddie from Scooby-Doo because he thinks it’s fashionable. He enjoys eating animal organs and watching really depressing documentaries—basically he’s more Parisian than most French citizens.”

“Yeah?” Doyle’s gaze settles on me with a laid-back comfort. Like he could look all day.

I flap my hand in front of my face like a makeshift fan. Was there some kind of sudden solar flare?

“Yeah.” I reach back and lift my hair, damp with sweat, off my neck.

“You ain’t wantin’ to move to Paris too?”

I cackle. “Nope. No way.” I should stop while I’m ahead, but this guy is listening to me. Complete attention. Damn that’s highly attractive. The most explosive arguments Lincoln and I got into before we broke up had to do with the way he seemed to look right through me, the way I felt like I had to fight for every scrap of attention he tossed my way. It really hurt because we’d been friends before we dated, so it wasn’t like I was just losing my boyfriend. I was losing one of my best friends. But Doyle is one hundred percent invested in what I’m saying, so I ramble some more. “First of all my French is awful. Second, the French are, how should I say it...? Les Français sont bites.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“I just said, ‘French people are dicks.’”

The laugh catapults out of his throat so fast, he half chokes on it. It’s nerdy to laugh at your own joke, but I do it anyway. There’s been an alarming lack of laughter in my life lately.

“So, what about you? Do you have any siblings who irritate the crap out of you?”

When he chuckles, the skin over my ribs tingles like I’m being tickled. “I sure do. I got an older brother who’s a marine. Proud as hell of him, but it ain’t exactly easy living with a decorated combat vet.” He dips the tips of his fingers into the soil at the tree’s roots and stirs it into a shallow pattern of spiraling furrows that make me think of those Buddhist sand gardens.

“Does he have PTSD?” I’m not sure if I’m being direct or nosy. I hope I’m not overstepping. Ollie and I did a Civics project on PTSD at Newington, so I know the facts but have no real experience with the horrors of it.

“PTSD? Nah.” Doyle scoops up a tiny mound of dirt and sprinkles it back on the roots. “Lee’s one of them guys who was born a natural soldier. He’s a leader, he handles stress real well, he’s always got a plan, thinks on his feet. One time we got lost out hiking in the woods overnight when Lee was only ’bout ten or so. I was jest a little kid. Lee built a lean-to, caught us some fish to eat, made a fire... He near burned down half a nature preserve, but that’s what led the rescue crew to us. I was crying so hard when they found us, but my brother was cool as can be. He got a medal from the sheriff, and, man, it blew his head up so big. He was... What’s the word? A bite?”

I love the way his accent coils softly around the rude French word. “Brothers are annoying as hell, but Lee sounds like a great guy to have around in an emergency. My brother would have known every statistic about how close we were to death and had a panic attack.”

Doyle’s eyebrows, lips, and dimples all lift up when he smiles. I’ve never seen a smile change a whole face that way. “Problem is, Lee got used to being the boss, and he forgets I’m his brother and a civilian, not some jarhead in his platoon. But my grandparents won’t hear it when it comes to him. They tell me to grab Lee’s laundry, and if I decline, my granddad says, ‘Your brother puts his life on the line for this great nation. You show some respect and pick up his dirty socks.’ I don’t sass my granddad anyway, but that’s some hard logic to argue.”

“So you live with your grandparents?” My guard must be way, way down because I swear I planned to keep that thought in my head, but there it is, sprung from the trap that is my flapping mouth. Maybe I’m relaxing after so many months of watching what I said around Lincoln. “I’m just asking because I considered going to live with my abuela in New York.”

“Huh. Yeah, I’ve lived with them since I was in elementary school.” He leaves it at that, and some instinct tells me not to push. “How ’bout you? Were you just so ready to come down here and soak up all this sunshine?” He holds his hands out at his sides like he personally ordered the blazing heat that surrounds us.

“Ha! No. The snow and ice of the north match my cold heart.” I bat my lashes and am pleasantly shocked when his grin widens even more. “Her place was a super long commute from my school.” I hesitate before I say more, but there’s something about his face that I trust. For once I don’t shut down and pull back. “She’s also scary strict. Like, super Catholic, gets up at dawn to hit the rosary, full rotation, every morning, Bible class at her place every week, having Father Domingo over for dinner every Sunday night... Just not the end of senior year I was looking for.”

“So you didn’t want to sign up for the convent experience?” The laugh that starts from his mouth doubles back on itself. “I meant... ’Cause your grandmother is a Catholic... Not the whole vow of chastity thing,” he says in a garbled rush.

I get the feeling Doyle’s as uncomfortable tripping over his words as I am opening up.

“No worries, I get it. And, yeah, the cloistered life isn’t for me. At all.” The deep pink blush that’s building under his stubble is adorable. “So it’s just you and Lee and your grandparents?”

I’m employing polite conversation diversion to steer us into less embarrassing territory, but something in the question makes Doyle’s features harden.

“And my little brother, Malachi. He’s at Ebenezer too, but you prolly won’t see him around. He stays back in the computer lab with his friends all day every day. Think he might be allergic to sunshine and fresh air.” The best way to describe Doyle’s expression is perplexed. It’s probably the same way my face looks when Jasper tells me he’d rather watch a documentary on spelling bees than the latest Marvel movie.

“So three guys in one house—wait, no, four if you count your grandpa—”

“Actually, it’s five.” When I greet that number with shocked silence, he explains, “Brookes, my cousin—his mama got remarried and he and his stepfather don’t see eye to eye. And his stepfather gets mean when people don’t see things his way. I guess my grandparents’ place is kinda a home for wayward Rahn children. We all figured, what was one more bunk bed, plus Lee’s only around when he’s on leave, so it’s a lotta...”

He waves his hands around like he’s looking for the words to fill in the blank.

“Dirty boxers? Farts? Package adjusting?” I rapid-fire guess.

For a second Doyle stares at me, eyes and mouth wide-open. Then he starts to laugh, hard, and I join him. We both laugh until we’re buckled over.

“Geez, I was gonna say, ‘it’s a lotta testosterone,’ but I guess you got the point across your way jest fine.” He balances easily on the balls of his feet despite his clunky boots. “People ’round here hardly ever come out and say the first thing that pops in their heads.”

I wince. One of the last fights we had, Lincoln told me, You know you don’t have to say every thought that goes through your head out loud, Nes. You need a way bigger filter between your brain and your mouth. I guess that’s the consensus, then.

“Yep, I’ve heard that before.” He tenses up at my tone like he felt a chill in the air. “My big mouth gets me in a lot of trouble. Probably best if you steer clear.”

“I never did have patience for people who play it safe.”

The ice wall I was rapidly constructing around myself thaws.

“Fair enough. But now you can never say I didn’t warn you.”

“Most’ve my favorite things come with a warning.” He clears his throat. “So, we’re short a second baseman since Marnie Jepson moved, and we need someone like yourself. Someone who can call a whole country dicks in their own tongue. Whatta you say? You got a mitt?”

“Nope.” And I plan to leave the discussion right there. Because, seriously? Baseball? It’s very sporty middle school, and so not my thing. But I like the sloppy-slow way Doyle talks—I wonder if he plays ball the same way he speaks. And once I start wondering about something, I have to go with it until I know for sure. Damn my curiosity. If I were a cat, I’d be dead nine times over. “You have an extra mitt?”

He nods and smiles down at a jug of blue stuff he’s now pouring on the roots of the “tree.”

“I do. Wouldya like me to bring it over Friday night?”

For one cold thump of my heart, I think I shouldn’t take this guy up on what might be a date. The last guy I dated messed with my head so badly, I wound up fleeing the state. Then I get annoyed with myself. Sure, Doyle is super attractive, but I’m a girl who’s learned the hard way how to be careful with my heart. This is one single game of baseball, not a promise ring. And I’d like to have some fun with a guy—no, a person—who clearly likes me for myself, not some censored version of me.

I need a friend, and Doyle seems like he might be a really good option.

On top of that, this is all very 1950s’ date-night adorable. “You know what? I would like you to.”

He looks right at me, no smile, no niceties. Just a bald, hungry look. “Cool.”

My guts pull in all different directions. “So, are you, like, the ambassador of Southern hospitality or something? Because you’re the first nice Southern person I’ve met.”

“What? You didn’t like Lovett?” His long fingers cap the jug, and my arms and legs inexplicably tingle.

“You’re in my English class?” It finally clicks, why I recognize his voice. “You schooled that guy, Alonzo, in geography.”

Doyle rolls his eyes. “Hell, a preschool baby could school that ding-dong. He’s a good guy though. Friendly.” He screws his mouth to one side. “I know some people can be chillier than a Yankee winter ’round here.” The way he chuckles when I almost sputter lets me know he’s teasing me. “Not a whole lotta tolerance for anyone who don’t fit in right away.”

I’m not usually embarrassed by much, but I still feel like an idiot over the spectacle I made fumbling through that class. But Doyle seems like a good ambassador for all things Southern, so I straight ask him about something that’s still bugging me.

“What’s with the ‘ma’am’ thing?”

He squats back on his heels and cocks his head, owl-like. “You know... You say ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ when you speak to your teachers—to any adults. I thought you were jest raggin’ on Lovett. She’s all bark, I guarantee you. And she likes smart-asses better than kiss-asses, so you’re gonna do fine.”

“I never called any of my teachers ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ back home.” I blow out a breath. “I thought that was military-school crap. Is that the rule, like, hard-and-fast? For every teacher?”

He nods again and pulls off his ratty ball cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead. His eyes are so blue, they’re almost a light purple. Adorable.

“Every adult. If you don’t want them to think you’re a total punk. You lived in New York City all yer life?”

“Yep. Brooklyn, specifically. A haven for punks of all varieties.” I smile when his face goes slack. “Is New York City, like, the scariest place in the world to everyone here? Because every single person makes that exact face when I talk about Brooklyn.”

He puts the ball cap back on, shadowing those pretty eyes, and picks up the jug. “Jest exotic as hell. Most people ’round here’ve never left the Lowcountry. And don’t want to.”

“Yeah. I get that vibe.” I probably shouldn’t bring up the fact that, when I’m not at home with Mom, I’m at my father’s apartment in Paris or my cousin’s house in the Santo Domingo in conversation here. People might have heart palpitations and pass out.

“Not me though.” His adamant declaration interrupts my stereotyping thoughts.

“No?” I’m instantly more curious about Doyle now that I know he might want to escape this place. It’s like finding another inmate to help you chip a hole through the concrete walls of your cell.

“My grandparents took me with them to Maui last year. My granddaddy was stationed there when he was a marine, and he really loved it, so they took me and my brothers. It was pretty amazing. Speaking of them, I better get going. My grandmother will beat my ass if I’m late for supper.” He stands up and brushes the dirt off the knees of his Dickies, and I feel a tug of regret.

Because I like talking to him. My FaceTime sessions with Ollie are always great, but I’ve been hungering for real-life human interactions, and Doyle’s already twisted my expectations a few times. I like the way he’s surprised me.

“See you in class tomorrow.” I turn over and notice that he gives my cherry-red bikini a second and maybe a third look. I tip my sunglasses down and smile at him. “Aloha, Doyle.”

His laugh is equal parts sheepish and pleased. “Aloha, Agnes.”

“Nes.” It jumps out of my mouth before I’m ready for it.

Nes is what my friends call me. My standards are dipping low if I consider Doyle a friend after only a couple minutes of conversation. But I guess desperate times and all that...

“Aloha, Nes.” He hesitates, then points to the tree. “Do me a favor? Water her when the sun dips? Jest a trickle outta the water hose for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to get a good soak going.”

I slowly raise one eyebrow. “Doyle? I hate to break it to you, but that tree is dead. It’s kindling. A lost cause. Have some mercy and let it die a dignified death.”

His fingertips caress a clump of light green baby leaves barely clinging to life. “I like to root for the underdog. See you tomorrow in class.”

Ah right. Before the awkwardness of baseball, there will be the awkwardness of school. Lovely.

I make a point to not watch Doyle’s tall, rangy self saunter away from me.

I come so close to succeeding...

At the last second, I drink him in, then flip over and drag my phone close. My idiotic traitor brain actually thinks about calling Lincoln.

The boy who’s been my best guy friend since we were twelve.

The boy who gave me my first kiss under an old oak tree.

The boy who broke my heart when we were seventeen.

Or the boy who only loaned me his heart so he could take it back eventually, while I gave him mine on a silver platter, free and clear so he could shred it into tiny pieces. Dumb. So dumb.

I toss my phone to the side and throw an arm over my eyes, wondering whose bed Lincoln will be in while I’m standing on second base this Friday. Guilt shoots through me when I remember Mom planned on the two of us going to Savannah on Friday after I got home from school so we could stroll through the art museums downtown and maybe check out the local performing arts college’s production of Grease. I’m torn between wanting to hang out with my mother doing things we love together like we used to and holding tight to a lot of pissed-off anger over the way she screwed things up for us. The betrayal that still cuts deep won’t magically disappear just because we’re both excited to see some Helen Levitt photographs and bop along to “Greased Lightnin’.” Everything is too complicated.

Except baseball.

Playing baseball is definitely easier than dealing with the whole sordid mess of a relationship I currently have with my mother. I roll back onto my stomach, and baseball and cheating and Hawaii and Sandra Dee all invade my dreams as I fall asleep in the oven-hot afternoon of my strange new life.

THREE

“Agnes!” Mom’s on the patio in her favorite pencil skirt and silk blouse, her uniform for lecture days. “You’re a lobster!”

“Wha—” I wipe the drool off the side of my face and try to push myself up, but my skin feels tight and puckered. “Coño! I actually used sunscreen, I swear.”

“Honey, you’re half-Irish. Sunscreen is nothing but a cruel joke.” She runs her fingers over my tender skin. “Come in. I have aloe. And I picked up Chinese on the way home.”

How many times have I had to explain to my more clueless pale friends that dark-skinned people can and do burn? What’s that saying about heeding your own advice...?

“I don’t get it. Why do my genes put me through this trial by fire every summer? Jasper can be out in the sun for hours and this never happens to him,” I growl, limping in and sitting on a stool at the counter. Maybe my skin is reacting so badly because it wasn’t expecting this kind of sun exposure in January. I say a silent prayer it won’t be blotchy and peely tomorrow.

My mother pushes a carton of cooling Buddha’s delight my way. We’ve already eaten at the one and only Chinese food place in a thirty-mile radius so often, they can recite our phone number from memory based on the sound of our voices when we call to order.

“You aren’t in New York anymore, Aggie. As far as your brother’s ability to endure the sun goes, I actually wish Jasper was more careful with sunscreen. Just because he can be out for hours without it doesn’t mean he should. Skin cancer is nothing to play around with.” My mother dabs aloe on my skin, and I suck air through my teeth to manage the pain that stings through the cool. “Plus you freckle.”

I know the go-to image of an Irish lass centers on a redhead with alabaster skin and cinnamon freckles in a wool sweater standing by the Cliffs of Moher, but...

“Right. I’m Irish,” I say through a mouthful of overcooked vegetables I just slurped off my chopsticks.

“But my family is bone-white pale, not freckly. I think your freckles are from your Dominican half.” I look down at my mother’s pale fingers tangled with my dark ones. I love that we have the same oval-shaped nails and double-jointed thumbs. I love what I inherited from her, and I love what’s different about us. And that makes me miss how close we used to be. How close my whole family used to be.

When I was a kid I used to spill out my colored pencils and hold them close to my family members so that I could get the color of their skin just right in my drawings. After a long, dark New York winter, mine would mellow to a dark golden tawny, a few shades darker than my mother’s at the end of summer. By contrast, after a summer spent at our communal family beach house in Santo Domingo, my skin would be a light sepia with a spattering of umber freckles. I’d admire myself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom I shared with half a dozen of my girl cousins, each one of us a different shade of gorgeous and proud to announce it. One of the first slang phrases I picked up in the DR as a kid was hevi nais, which my cousins said about anything and everything—cute new outfits, beautiful hairstyles, too-tall sandals, our sun-warmed skin. It basically means “very nice,” and it’s the kind of casually confident phrase that still makes me feel beautiful and strong in my own skin. I loved the fact that while everyone else in school had their twenty-four pack of Crayola colored pencils, I had my set of seventy-two Prismacolor Premiers with a range of russets and taupes and ochers for my family pictures.

“Can’t a girl define her own cultural heritage?” I snap, annoyed that nothing feels easy with my mother anymore. Not even a conversation about something as simple as freckles.

“Oh, there’s no denying you got plenty of my genes. Even if the freckles are open for debate, you have an Irish temper just like your mother.” I want so badly to smile back at her, but my heart is a cold, congealed pile of old tofu. “You and Jasper might look more like Dad at first glance, but there’s a lot of me mixed in there too.”

“Huh, I’m kind of surprised you even remember how Jasper looks,” I bite out. “We barely see him or Dad anymore.”

“Ag, we were just in Paris this autumn—”

“About that.” I interrupt before she can go into professor mode. My mother is a champ at talking for forty minutes straight at a clip and barely pausing for breath. “I thought you and Dad were making up or something. But you and that guy you worked with had...whatever gross mess going on, and you kept it up after we got home. I still don’t get it.”

Am I accusing my mother of cheating on my father? That makes no sense. They’ve been divorced for years...but the boundaries of their relationship weren’t always crystal clear. I know more about their up-and-down, back-and-forth, off-and-on relationship than I should because our apartment was tiny with very thin walls. Sure, I could have been thoughtful and put on headphones or something when Mom called her best friend, but sometimes I got tired of being surprised by my mercurial parents and their chaotic relationship.

“Okay, this is not a conversation I can have with you right now. Or probably ever, if you want the truth. I know you’re not a baby anymore, but that doesn’t mean you’re privy to every detail about my marriage to your father, okay? Frankly, it’s complicated and it’s private, how your father and I—”

“What? Screwed up your marriage and all our lives in the process?”

My words skid to a stop like a dog that finally caught the car she’d been chasing for miles and has no freaking clue what to do with it.

The tendons in Mom’s neck bulge when she swallows. She squirts more aloe on her fingers and rearranges her features until they’re her best estimation of calm. I prime myself for her raging Irish temper, but she talks in this infuriatingly measured way.

“Agnes, I know you’re angry. I know you blame me. I know you want answers that will help this make sense, but you’re old enough to know that there aren’t always easy answers in life. There are things you can’t understand—”

“I bet I could.” My knees knock under the counter because the little I do know has made me so angry. What if I find out more? What if things between us get even worse? “We used to talk. You used to let me know what was going on with you.”

“It hasn’t always been easy to know when to tell you things.” Mom takes a deep calming breath, one her yoga gurus would be proud of. “Have you spoken to your father?”

“I missed his call from before. I’ll call him later.” I’ll try anyway. I love my father, but our phone calls are always awkward and stilted. We communicate mostly through text, and that’s basically comprised of sending each other funny memes or links to interesting NPR articles. Not exactly deep, but it works for us. “Why are you asking?” She’s avoiding eye contact like it’s her job.

“You...you just need to talk to him. That’s all.” Her words are like a judge’s gavel hitting the bench.

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“There are some things that aren’t open for discussion.” The words are quiet but firm. “I try to respect your privacy, baby. But you have to understand that I need that back from you, even when it’s hard.”

“When respecting my privacy means you lose everything you care about, get back to me, okay?” I shift back and bump my shoulder on the wall behind me and bite back a scream.

“Let me see,” Mom offers, sounding worried again.

I’m torn between wanting to soak up that worry and wanting to throw it back in her face.

“I’m good.” I bite the words out and turn my shoulder, so she’s left with a goopy blob of aloe dripping down her fingers.

“Sweetie, you’re in pain. Let me at least spread this last bit—”

“I said I’m good,” I growl, sliding off the stool, a carton of cooling Chinese food crushed in my fingers. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and call out, “I’m going to eat in my room!” Any residual guilt I had about ditching Mom this Friday has evaporated completely.

“Agnes? Agnes! Please come here!” Her words shake, but she stands perfectly still behind the counter.

I stalk down the hall and slam the door to my room. I instantly hate being holed up in this still-unfamiliar space, alone.

When my mother’s sordid tale first started making the rounds in her gossipy department after we got home from our annual Thanksgiving in Paris, it was just a rumble under the surface. TAs would stop whispering when I walked into the office, and I’d hear only my mother’s name and the snapped-off end of a sentence that was definitely filled with dirt. When I went to the bookstore to grab an order for my mother, the snide clerk gave me major side-eye and suggested Madame Bovary as an add-on to the pile. I didn’t get his passive-aggressive dig until a week later, when I realized it wasn’t only the stress of grading fall semester research papers that had her so tense.

There were mysterious hung-up phone calls at all hours of the night. Staff meetings she came home from in tears. I found her laptop open with an updated résumé on the screen, and her friend from college had sent an email titled Unexpected Spring Semester Opening... You Are a Shoo-In! So the clues were blaring in my face like a full-blast neon sign for weeks, but I was dealing with my own drama.

Apparently Lincoln interpreted I’m going to see my family in Paris for a week as Do whatever you want with as many girls as you can while I’m away, and one of those girls contacted me as soon as she realized the guy she was falling for was already someone’s boyfriend. A few hours before the call, Ollie had brought over dozens of nail polishes and painted intricate designs on my fingernails and toenails, then Lincoln’s, then her own, then we rubbed every bit of it off and started all over again, the smell of nail polish remover burning our throats. My last coat wasn’t even dry when the girl’s voice cracked across the line. There’s something you need to know about your boyfriend.

Lincoln.

Was it irony that, while I was loathing my mother for leaving some poor yoga-loving blogger home wrecked, my own boyfriend was screwing half the girls’ tennis team?

He cried—actually he sobbed—when I confronted him and then, exactly three weeks later, whoosh, my mom threw our life into chaos with her announcement that she’d been Skype interviewed for a fantastic spring semester position in Georgia and she got the job. We were moving. Everything went really fast after that. Our apartment was almost empty in the weeks leading up to Christmas, and we had a tree so pathetic, it made Charlie Brown’s look like the one at the Rockefeller Center. While the rest of the world was celebrating peace on earth and goodwill toward humankind, it was dawning on me that I’d really have to say goodbye to the only home I’d ever known and my best friend, beloved school, and Mama Patria. It wasn’t so much that my mother forced me to go—it’s that I had no other choice. Saying goodbye to the people I loved wasn’t easy, but I took some comfort, knowing I’d dodged a big, emotionally draining bullet by not going back. I didn’t have to figure out what to do or say the next time I ran into Lincoln because instead I’d put nearly a thousand miles between us.

So I made my decision and left Brooklyn, but I never really got to resolve...anything. About Lincoln, about life, about Mom’s actions and her lies, about school and what I wanted from any of it. That’s partially why I’m still directing so much fury at Mom. She messed up. So did Lincoln. But I have only her here, so she gets the brunt of all my swirling hate.

FaceTime beeps through on my phone. My pride has taken enough of a beating that it sits back and lets me sob openly to Ollie this time.

“Babydoll,” she cries when she sees my face, already streaked with a few tears. “Grab Mr. Kittenface.” She crosses her arms and waits for me to grab my old, sweet-faced teddy. “Hug him so tight.” I do, laughing wetly at myself and us. “That’s my girl. That’s how hard I’d be hugging you if I were there. Tell me. Everything.”

I nestle Mr. Kittenface in my lap, tugging on his ears while I blubber about Ma’am Lovett, the Southern kids whose shoulders are as icy cold as their climate is tropical, my mom fury, my Lincoln fury... I let it all stew and bubble until we’re both crying.

“Whew. Holy shit.” Ollie unleashes a shuddering sigh. “What a day. You’re wrecking me, you know that, right? And you have every right to cry over every one of those things, but please never, ever speak that asshole Lincoln’s name again.”

I whimper. “Remember when—”

“No.” She pulls the phone close to her face, so she’s one gorgeous, blurry eyeball and a perfect swoop of winged liner. “No, no, no. We’re not going down the LiNeOl road again.”

LiNeOl. Ollie’s nickname for the three of us since we were assigned to the same science group in eighth grade. After years of being our friend around school, I was scared dating him would be a disaster for everyone, but Lincoln was that amazing boyfriend who jumped from friends to more and never let it get weird. He never treated Ollie like a third wheel. He knew her favorite candy was Nerds when we went to the movies and got her purple tulips on Valentine’s Day when she didn’t have a boyfriend.

Ollie used to say she wanted to find the Lincoln to her Nes.

He had sex with five other girls. That I know of.

Five that he confessed to. And there had to be some times when he came back from one of their beds and climbed into mine, whispering about how much he wanted me, how beautiful I was, how we were so perfect together. He threaded his fingers through mine and pressed himself deep inside me, listening to me moan after he’d probably done the same things, heard the same things from another girl’s mouth in another girl’s bed.

Did I ignore the smell of other girls’ perfume and the vague explanations of where he’d been that made no sense? Was I as dumb as the wife of the weasel my mother was having a torrid affair with?

“I...I just never got to really figure it all out. He’s called. I haven’t answered. Yet. But sometimes...I want to,” I confess, hanging my head in shame. I’d never confess that to anyone but Ollie.

She blows out a long breath. “I know. He asks about you. Constantly. But listen to me—the truth is, he is sad he lost you. He is. Because he’s not a complete idiot. But he used you, Nes. He disrespected you. And I will never, ever forgive him. He lied to both of us, and we can’t trust him. Ever. Again.” She tucks her shiny black hair behind her ears and gives me a hard, dark-eyed stare. “You are gorgeous, inside and out, and you deserve so much better. You hear me? He was your first, Nes. Not your only.”

She looks so sad, like she thinks I’ll get off the phone with her and call him. So I confess something else, something so new, I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. “I did get asked on kind of a date today.”

“What?” she screams, almost dropping the phone. I watch her orange walls and Karen Geoghegan poster swirl in the background. “Are you kidding me? Tell! Tell me every damn detail now!”

I grab hard on the tail of her laugh and fly with that happiness. I don’t skimp on details, and Doyle is even more attractive in my retelling. If that’s possible.

“That’s retro hot!” she gushes. “Baseball date? So adorable. I’m happy. I wish I could come and bat or umpire or whatever.”

Her words cause a patch of thorns to bloom in my throat. I miss her so much. “Me too, Olls. Me too.”

“Hey.” She changes the subject before we get murky with sadness. “Just...don’t compare him to Lincoln, okay? I know he was your first love and all. But Lincoln only seemed perfect—he was actually a huge, gaping asshole. Remember that,” she warns.

I do. I will. I promise her three times, and I’m still not sure she believes me.

Later, after Ollie and I have gabbed late into the night and my Chinese food has congealed into a cold lump of tofu and water chestnuts, I creep out to the living room. Mom isn’t sleeping on the couch with an empty bottle of wine rolling on the floor like she’s been doing about once a week lately, so that’s good. Her bedroom door is shut though, and I half want to go in and sit on the edge of her mattress so we can chat like we used to. There are four episodes of the stupid medical romance she and I are obsessed with rotting on the DVR, but neither one of us has invited the other to watch.

The last episode we watched together was the night before she got a barrage of intense and threatening emails, phone calls, and even a delivered package from the scorned wife, who was close friends with half the office staff my mother depended on to keep her department in line. My mom had a few options: stay and push back against a possibly unhinged woman whose husband she’d slept with, in hopes said furious woman would stop the harassment and not deliver any more “anonymous” boxes of shit (yes, literal shit, hopefully animal) to our apartment; endure “lost” memos, meetings that the scheduler “forgot” to mention, and general iciness from the office staff who were solidly loyal to the guy’s wife; or hightail it outta Dodge.

Only a moron would have gone for anything other than door number three. Mom gave her notice the morning after I found an obviously fake “STD Home Testing Kit” left on our mat, which I assumed was a lame prank that wound up at the wrong address.

I press a hand on her door and slide it to the doorknob, then stop and pad away. I should go to bed, but I head outside instead and drag the hose over to the sad little twig dying in our backyard. I turn the hose on and sit with my feet in the pool, swatting mosquitoes and looking at the fat pearly moon while the water gurgles. For the first night in years, I distract myself by thinking about a boy who’s not Lincoln, and it feels like fraud. And maybe a little like hope.

FOUR

While Ma’am Lovett scrawls Bible verses that correspond to the old man’s fishing trip in dusty chalk on the old blackboard before the bell, I palm a guava, working up the nerve to let it wobble in the center of her desk.

“Agnes?” She puckers her lips at the bobbling fruit.

“We were out of apples.” I wave to her with my book, and she dusts the chalk off her hands and takes the guava.

She presses it to her nose and inhales deeply, eyes closed, lips pursed. “Heaven.”

“Well, I have been called an angel. Now and then.”

Ma’am Lovett shakes her head somewhat lovingly before she goes back to the blackboard. The Generic Mean Girls from yesterday snort and whisper on cue, like they’re literally working off some D-list high school movie script on how to be total sociopaths, and then there’s a laugh that sounds sweet and warm, like taffy left in the pocket of your shorts at the shore.

I flounce to my chair, my heart so light, I warn myself to pull away before I wind up like Icarus, too close to the sun and falling hard.

“Doyle Rahn. Fancy meeting you here.” I smile at the familiar face sitting one row over, two seats back, and get an eyeful of daggers from every girl in between us.

Doyle either doesn’t know he’s the object of all the girls’ wanton desire or he’s so used to it, he doesn’t notice anymore. Because the smile he tosses back is all for me. It’s so magnetic, I wonder how I missed it yesterday.

“Guava, huh? Your yard would be perfect for a guava tree, y’know.” He props his feet up on the crossbar under the desk. He’s wearing these brown boots that are crusted with dirt, no laces, clunky and ruggedly attractive all at once.

Lincoln would have never been caught dead in dirty footwear.

“I watered that stick last night. Only because I don’t kick a man when he’s down, and that sad excuse for a plant is so down.” I ball up a piece of notebook paper, double-check to make sure Lovett’s back is turned, and anchor it on the pad of my thumb, then let my index finger trigger it right over some pouty girl’s head.

Doyle catches it neatly without taking his eyes off my face. “It’s gonna grow. It’s gonna get so big, you’ll be able to climb up in the branches. Maybe kiss. You know, like the song.” The tips of his ears burn red, and I realize he’s flirting. With me. And I’m game to flirt right back.

One half of the Day-Glo spray-tan twins huffs loudly. I notice her sending Doyle extra eyelash bats across the desks, which he doesn’t pay a single second’s attention to. It’s always sweet when karma pops up out of nowhere and slams a dumb ass upside the head.

“Like Doyle and Nes sitting in a tree?” I laugh, then shake my head. “Uh-uh. Trust me, that version of the song does not exist. And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

“I was raised with manners.” His steady words scratch in my ears. “But I was also born with eyes.”

“Smooth.” I pull the word long so he won’t hear my voice hitch around it. “Anyway, I don’t plan on being around long enough for that sad little almost tree to hold up a hummingbird’s nest, let alone two teenagers. I’m on a countdown to get out of here.”

“Good riddance,” Queen Bee Mean Girl mumbles.

I whip around. “Hello? Passive-aggressive?” She looks up at me with furiously shocked eyes. “Before you mutter anything else under your breath, let me introduce myself. I’m Agnes. Oh, but you know that because you made fun of my name before you even met me. The thing is, I prefer my fights in the open. So if you have something to say, don’t mutter under your breath. It just irritates me and makes you look scared.” The indignation on her face causes a pulse of happiness to ripple through me. “Do you have a name?”

I hear Alonzo snicker. “Hoo, burn. That had to sting.”

“Ansley Strickland,” she says through gritted teeth. “My daddy always says Yanks like to talk a big game. Don’t think you intimidate me. You think you’re hot shit, Agnes, but my family owns half this county. You better back on up, bitch.”

“Ignore her, Agnes. Ansley thinks she owns this school.” Alonzo rolls his eyes so hard, all I can see is the bright, ghostly whites.

“Of course you think she’s funny, Lonzo. Just because someone runs their mouth don’t mean they’re tough.” She grabs the end of her ponytail and twists the shiny blond hair around her finger like a tourniquet.

“Look, maybe you two got off on the wrong foot.” Khabria sounds like she should be narrating a meditation tape. “Agnes is new here. The Rose Court is supposed to be about welcoming people to Ebenezer.”

Maybe it was all getting off on the wrong feet, and not the fact that Ansley is a heinous excuse for a human being.

“I don’t have a clue what the Rose Princess is supposed to do, Khabria, but the Rose Queen upholds the traditions of this school.” She flicks her now-curled ponytail back over her shoulder, and I watch Khabria’s eyes go wild like her pupils are the swirling centers of twin hurricanes.

Nope. Definitely Ansley being heinous after all.

“You ain’t the winner of that crown yet, Ansley,” Doyle drawls. “You keep acting like you’re too good for us peasants, you might have a Marie Antoinette moment on your hands.”

“What are you even going on about, Doyle?” Ansley snaps. “You know, you’re only embarrassing yourself showing off like that. You’re the one acting like he’s too good for the rest of us, goin’ on about Marie Whoever like anyone even knows what you’re even tryin’ to say.”

“Ah, hell no,” Alonzo hoots. “Jest c’mon and admit you’re the only one who doesn’t know what happened to Marie Antoinette, Ansley. Admit it. Everyone knows you failed European history so bad, even your daddy couldn’t help you outta that mess.”

“Shut up, Alonzo,” she hisses, but her blush is pretty convincing evidence that Alonzo’s dropped the guillotine right on the neck.

“How does a guy who doesn’t know where Brooklyn is know all these details about European history?” Khabria crosses her arms and shakes her head.

“Well, if some queen gets her head cut off by a bunch of pissed-off poor folk in Brooklyn, I guess I’ll take notes,” Lonzo shoots back.

“Really? That’s what you think about me, Doyle?” Ansley’s face has deepened from pink to maroon. “I know you’re pissed about what happened between us, but you really think I deserve to have my head chopped off?”

“I meant it as a metaphor.” Doyle leans forward and lowers his voice. “And I’m not pissed about...that anymore.”

But Ansley is twisted in her seat, shredding her notebook paper into confetti. “So now you talk in metaphors? I remember the days when you just said what you meant. Funny you think I’m the one acting like e’rybody else is beneath me.”

Before the stew of crazy comments can go any further, the late bell buzzes and we all swing around to face forward. Ma’am Lovett seems to sense something more than idle before-the-bell chatter was brewing, but she only gives us her no-nonsense face, and we respond to that look like a class of guava-bearing angels and stay on our best behavior. By the time the bell rings, my hand is cramped from all my Hemingway notes, and my brain feels buzzy.

As I rise from my desk, Doyle ambles over, wedges a hip close to mine, and leads me out the door. Up close, the way he smells makes me feel, I think, the way guavas make Ma’am Lovett feel. I bend my head so that my nose is close to his shoulder, and his scent is warm and rich, like hay in the sun, but with something crisp on the edge. I’d have guessed aftershave, but a blond prickle of five o’clock shadow covers his jaw.

“You’re new here, so you couldn’t know, butcha prolly don’t want to mess with Ansley,” Doyle says as we walk. He has one arm circled around my waist, held a few inches back. If either one of us moved closer, his hand would close over my hip and he’d lock me tight to his side.

But he doesn’t, and I sure as hell won’t.

“Thank you very, very much, but I think I’m well equipped to handle my own nemesis.” I level him with a hard look and dare him to challenge my badassery. He cannot seriously think Ansley could take me in any form of a fair fight. She doesn’t even know the basics of the French Revolution.

“She can be real spiteful is all. And she was—” He interrupts himself and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “The thing is—”

When he doesn’t finish his thought, I sigh and angle through the crowds, almost losing him over and over. He closes one hand around my elbow before I can go into my next class. I lean against the cinder block wall and roll my eyes when he pulls close. “Listen, I appreciate the concern and all, but I have no interest in listening to some big speech about Ansley or her little idiot friend—”

“Braelynn.”

“Okay. Ansley and Braelynn don’t intimidate me. I seriously don’t care who anyone’s daddy is or how much pull anyone thinks they have. Honestly, I think it’s pathetic.” I tug my arm out of his grasp.

“I know you don’t. And I admire that about you. But Ansley really does have major pull ’round here, and if she has you in her sights—”

“Agnes?” Mr. Webster sticks his head into the hall.

“Yes?”

“Sir.” Doyle whispers it as a soft reminder for me.

I bristle, but he puts his hand back on my arm, and his touch steadies me. Which is infuriating. “Yes, sir?”

Mr. Webster sighs and pinches the bridge of his handsome nose. “They’d like to see you in Principal Armstrong’s office.”

Doyle’s mouth pulls tight. “Damn,” he mutters when the teacher ducks back into the classroom.

“I’m new here. It’s probably a schedule thing,” I say with way more confidence than I actually feel. “C’mon, you really think Ansley already ran to tattle on me to the principal?”

“Yeah, I do.” Pissed is a strangely hot look on Doyle. I thought he was working it with the sexy smiles, but scowls? He’s got this whole angry, tortured-youth vibe twisted around a sweet core that does it for me.

O’frescome, what is this guy doing to me?

“So, you’re telling me that her family is so almighty, they’ve even got the high school principal in their pocket?” I tease.

But my joke obviously sucks, because Doyle grabs my hand and marches me to the main office.

“I just registered the other day. I’m perfectly capable of finding the front office on my own.”

“There’s something you don’t get, Nes.”

“More Ansley intrigue? You guys need to get a new obsession. I don’t think—”

“The principal is her uncle,” he finally grits out.

“Oh.” My steps drop heavier. Slower.

“And she and I—”

“You and Ansley?”

“Yeah. We, uh...”

“You two...?”

“Um...yep.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

It all snaps into hyperfocus and my stomach churns.

I break the link our hands made and swing the office door open.

“Nes! Wait a sec,” Doyle pleads.

“You’re going to be massively late for class. And then your ex-girlfriend will run and tell her uncle, and we’ll both be in detention together.” I shrug at him, every muscle in my back and neck tight. “Just when I think this place might not be so bad, it gets sucky on a whole new level. Shoo, Doyle. I’ve got unjust punishment to deal with.”

He thumps back a few steps, then jogs away, heavy on his boots.

I straighten and face the glass doors that lead to my possible doom. It’s not like I’m unused to principals’ offices. I love learning, but the rigidness of school grates on me. It was a problem even in my free-spirited Quaker school.

My easygoing Dominican father gave me his killer dance moves and quick smile, but I inherited my socially blunt mother’s explosive Irish temper. I plod to the line of plastic chairs—the hallmark of the naughty corner outside every principal’s office from Brooklyn to Backassward, Georgia—and announce my presence to a secretary, who shakes her head like she already knows my verdict.

Clearly guilty. Guillotine for me.

“Agnes Pujols?” a voice of manly authority bellows.

“Agnes Murphy-Pujols,” I correct before looking up at the voice’s owner.

“Excuse me?” A balding man at least seven feet tall with the crooked nose of a hawk glares down at me.

“My last name. It’s hyphenated. Murphy-Pujols.” We exchange a long, bristling stare, and I remember Doyle’s whisper outside Mr. Webster’s classroom. “Sir.”

“Come into my office, Ms. Murphy-Pujols.” My principal holds out his arm like he’s some overlord, el Matatan, inviting me in for war talks.

I force one foot in front of the other and realize, with a sinking heart, that I’m treading toward my scholastic doom. I’m not afraid to admit I’m scared. I went to a Quaker school for my entire life. Quakers are people known for friendship and brotherly love. I’m now walking into a disciplinary office in a state that was founded as a penal colony.

Coño, this doesn’t bode well.

FIVE

He busies himself with a thousand minute tasks while I sit and stare, the most basic technique in the campaign of intimidation meant to subdue me. I’m used to authority figures looking over their glasses, sighing, and telling me how disappointed they are. Armstrong is introducing a whole new set of tactics, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.

I just need to remember my sirs.

“Agnes, this is your...second day at Ebenezer High.” His mouth sours.

“Yes...sir,” I say, even if it makes the hair on my arms stand on end to say it.

“And I assume you got the student handbook when you registered.” He folds his hands, desperate prayer-style. On his left ring finger he wears a plain gold wedding band. On his right he wears what looks like a huge class ring, with a sparkling ruby and a screaming eagle etched into the gold.

“Sure did, sir.” I keep my voice chipper enough to set his teeth on edge. I got the fat packet in the mail, pulled out the few necessary papers, and forgot the rest.

“Then you know we have rules here at Ebenezer. I know you don’t come from around here, so you may not realize that we take pride in being the best high school in the area.” His smile is smug.

I put a tight lid on the snort that nearly bursts out of my nose. Best high school in this area isn’t saying much. The abysmal testing rates were one of the things I threw in Mom’s face. She begged me to consider private schools, but I figured if I was going to have my life fall apart for a few months, I’d do it without the additional torture of a tartan skirt and knee-highs, thank you very much.

“No, I’m not from around here,” I agree, zero hesitation. “And I understand that there are rules, but where I come from I guess we’re a little more direct. So when I said what I did to Ansley—”

“Ansley Strickland has nothing to do with this situation, Agnes,” Mr. Armstrong cuts in too quickly, his tone testy. I clap my mouth shut while he lies to my face. “Several of your teachers mentioned dress-code violations. I sense that there may also be an attitude problem.”

“Dress code?” I echo.

Which teachers? Why didn’t they tell me? My brain whirs, searching for answers, and then it all snaps together. This is like some John Grisham novel where they can’t get the guys on murder, so they finger them for a million counts of petty mail fraud.

He can’t let me know Ansley tattled, so he’s going to invent other trumped-up charges.

“First of all, there’s the problem of your piercing. The rule book clearly states two holes in each ear is the maximum allowed, and any other piercings are prohibited.” He glares at the tiny diamond stud I’ve had on the side of my nose since I was a sophomore. I got it the day Ollie got her Monroe piercing and the studs we chose wound up so small, it was a pretty underwhelming rebellion. “It’s also been reported you have a tattoo.” In front of him is a paper that maps out a never-ending bulleted list.

“My tattoo?” I squawk the words like a repeating parrot, even though I clearly heard Captain Buzzkill the first time.

I do have a tattoo... A red A in fancy cursive, my own scarlet letter. On the back of my neck. Considering my bob grew out and my thick, curly hair now reaches my shoulders, no one would have seen that tattoo.

Except that I do tend to pull my hair up when I’m busy with classwork. Like Hemingway notes. But a person would have to be sitting behind me to notice.

Huh, isn’t it funny that Ansley happens to sit right behind me?

“That tattoo is covered by my hair—” I begin to object, totally losing my cool, but my new principal’s face is bland as he interrupts me.

“I’m glad you mentioned your hair. I hope that color is some kind of washout, Agnes—”

“This color cost a small fortune and was put in by one of the hair technicians who worked on What Not to Wear—”

“Speaking of ‘what not to wear,’ as a young lady trying to make positive first impressions in a new school, you may want to reconsider your wardrobe choices.”

I yanked on this particular T-shirt this morning because my sunburn made my back and shoulders a tight, itchy swath of irritated skin. I dripped as much aloe as I could on it after sobbing through an icy shower. My choice in clothes was completely comfort based: Ollie and I organized a breast cancer 5k freshman year and completed it in our Save the Tatas shirts, and I’ve worn mine so many times since then, it’s now tissue-weight cotton that doesn’t cling or rub. Perfect for sunburned skin. And to raise awareness for breast cancer, of course.

Because who wouldn’t want to save tatas? A man who’s willing to play head games on a high school level would clearly be adverse to tata saving. Jerkwad.

Make that Principal Jerkwad, sir.

“I’ll give you to the end of the week to sort your issues out, Agnes. We’re not looking to pick on you here at Ebenezer High. We want to help you fit in and have a positive experience. Welcome to our school.”

He says those last four words without a trace of irony. And just like that, I’m dismissed back into the cold halls of Ebenezer High, the school I thought I could take on. Now I realize those movies about clique-run, autocratic high schools that treasure conformity and beat down the slightest rebellion get made because those high schools exist, and the rebels survive to tell the tale on the big screen.

I think I’ve just become the president of Ebenezer’s goddamn Breakfast Club.

Which is fine, except for the fact that I might also be the sole member.

I look at my pass and realize the secretary scribbled the time illegibly and a person could read the minute spot as a twenty or as a fifty. Which means I can hole up for half an hour and still use my pass.

Gone are the days when an understanding school counselor I’d known most of my young life would pull me into a cozy office, hear me out, and help me smooth things over. I’m on my own here. And with a so-obvious target on my back, I’ll have to keep my eyes wide-open or I’ll wind up smiling at a cheering crowd while buckets of pig blood get dumped over me.

And, with that macabre image in my head, I duck out a side door that leads to a sunny courtyard and feel the rough clamp of a hand on my shoulder. I open my mouth to scream, but a second hand covers my mouth.

SIX

“Nes, shh. It’s me. It’s jest me.” I hear Doyle’s voice and quiver like a plucked bowstring.

I beat my fists on his chest as he yanks me under the shade of some trees. Real trees with wide, glossy leaves so dark green, they’re almost black, and white flowers that smell like rotting summer.

“You scared the crap of me,” I hiss.

His chuckle mixes with the lazy, hooded look in his eyes and takes the wind out of my fury. “I was worried about you. Was it bad?”

“Armstrong just basically told me to buy a cardigan and join the cheer squad.” I spit out the words as we hunker down on the soft grass, hidden in the hot shade.

“Are you into that? Cheer?” Close-up, I’m able to confirm that his eyes are almost a light purple, like a lavender. What a waste, for a boy to have what my abuela would call “Liz Taylor eyes.”

Though, waste or not, they’re throat-closingly beautiful.

“What do you think?” I walk my fingers along his hand because I can’t help it. “And why are you here? You should go before your ex gives her commandant uncle stalker notes that detail your every move.”

“I think I’d rather have you on my baseball team than cheering for it.” His voice is all hungry and honey. “And I think Ansley might be targeting you because things didn’t end well with us, so I’m feelin’ kinda responsible for this BS.”

“Great. Of all the boys who could have been landscaping half-naked in my backyard, it had to be the queen bee’s ex. What are the chances?” I should feel prickly, but those eyes...looking into them is like sliding into a hot tub. Their warmth bubbles all around me like the jets are on high.

“I thought about what ya said. To Ansley. And about me and her. And you’re right. It’s time for her to get off her damn pedestal. I’m tired of how everyone jest lets her get her own way all the time.” Fury must change his eye color, because they’re a deep blue now, like the clouds around a full moon.

“There’s a whole system stacked in her favor, Doyle. I should have listened to you. I should have kept my trap shut. Unfortunately, I suck at that.”

He leans close, predator-like, and I feel very ready to be devoured. And equally ready to bolt.

“Goddamn, I love the way you can’t keep your mouth shut, Nes. You’re the first person around here in a long time who’s had the balls to jest say what’s on your mind to anyone, no matter who they are. It’s sexy as hell.”

My hand twitches, and he takes it in his.

He threads our fingers together like being this close is no big thing. And I guess I overplayed the whole flirty, badass NYC vibe...because my heart is a bird throwing itself against the bars to escape its cage, but he’s looking at me like we’re both cool with everything happening at warp speed in the secret shade of this tree.

I love the way our fingers lock together, but this is fast. On top of the dizzy feeling I get when I hold hands with Doyle, I’m upset about my idiotic trip to the principal’s office, I’m miserable over facing Ansley, I miss Ollie so much it feels like I have a cough drop permanently lodged sideways down my throat. And there’s Lincoln.

I want... I have no idea what I want. My vision goes grainy and Doyle’s voice coils softly through the fog of my chaotic thoughts.

“Yesterday, in your yard after school, I was actually hatching this whole plot to get your attention somehow next time I saw you. Then you jest walked outta your house in a bikini. Hand to God, I thought I was bein’ punked.” His ears burn pink.

“Your ears are blushing,” I whisper.

He leans lip-to-lip close. Every nerve in my face goes tight. I smell his warm hay scent mixed with the heady aroma of those heavy cream flowers sizzling in the morning sun.

The bell screams, and the courtyard fills with students. I jump up, my pass a congealed wad of pulp in my sweaty palm. “Crap! Doyle, I skipped. Like I’m not in deep enough trouble!”

“It’s okay. Teacher’d have to remember to check when you left the office, and Webster won’t bother. You’re fine.” His voice is laid-back as he reaches out to take my hands. I can see that he still wants to cash in on the promise of a kiss that was only barely possible when I was under his pretty-eyed spell.

“I’m not fine.” I slap his hands back. “My life is out of control. You know what? I should never have left Brooklyn, but now that I’m here, I can’t be some psycho debutante’s target. I need to lie low.”

“Meaning what?” Doyle’s mouth twists with a disappointment he doesn’t have any right to feel.

“Meaning, you and I should probably cool it, and I gotta go now so I can make it to my next class on time.” I brush grass off my butt.

“So that’s it?” His eyes flash. “Nes, girls like Ansley have been gettin’ whatever the hell they want since they were spoiled toddlers. No one ever stands up to her and her kind. It ain’t right.”

I shoulder my backpack. “Well, Doyle, maybe guys like you should stop giving girls like her whatever they want. She’s your psycho ex. I’m not about to make this year any harder than it needs to be. I told you—my objective is to get out. Gone. Done. And I’ll forget this place like it was a bad dream as soon as it’s in my rearview.”

“So you’re going to sit back and take it? Let her and Armstrong and all the rest stomp on you? After standing up to her today? Seriously?” Doyle’s mouth pulls tight.

Inside, the crowds in the halls are thinning already, students ducking into classrooms like I should be, and I have no energy left to stand here arguing. I’m not even halfway through my day, and I’m flattened with exhaustion.

“Seriously. Look, we hardly know each other, okay? Sorry if you thought I was going to be the badass rebel who’d shake up the end of your boring senior year, but I’m not here for your entertainment. Or Ansley’s. This semester is my probation, and I’m just biding my time till it’s over.” I walk backward to the door and shrug. “See you around, Doyle.”

I leave him standing in the middle of a last scurrying surge of students, and notice Ansley skip up, grab him by the arm, and stand on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. A long shock of blond hair falls down her back and shimmers in the blistering sunshine.

It’s so cliché, it hurts. And my jealousy is extra cliché. So I clamp down on it, head to US history, and grit my teeth when Ansley and Braelynn jostle against me on their way past, knocking me into a water fountain. Doyle sees me from down the hall and battles against the flow of traffic to make it to my side, but I slip into class before he can, my face hot, the tears so close to falling, I can taste the salt in the back of my throat.

I run my hand behind my neck, above my aching sunburn, and touch my scarlet A, the tattoo that was a fierce joke and a mark of pride.

“‘Pride cometh before the fall,’” I mutter as I pull out my textbook and try to bleach my brain of this whole place.

By the time the final bell rings, I realize that I’m going to spend a lot of time trying to avoid Doyle at every turn because he’s not letting our conversation drop.

“Nes!” Doyle sprints to my car as I throw my bag in the window, lean against the closed door, and cross my arms. When he’s finally standing next to me he just stares, like he’s not sure what to say.

For once in my life, I’m right there with him. But it’s unnatural for me to say nothing, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. The thing I hope is the shortest path to getting him out of my life.

“Look, it’s not personal, okay? I like you. I do. But we just met, and things are already too complicated, with Ansley and Lincoln and—”

“Who’s Lincoln?” His eyebrows knot over his gorgeous eyes.

“My ex.” My voice hiccups over those words, because they’re strange. Deep in my secret romantic heart, I imagined I’d never have to say the words my ex and Lincoln in the same conversation.

“Oh. Was it, uh, recent?” He kicks at some loose gravel with his boot.

I nod robotically. “We dated for two years. We broke up just before I moved.”

“Oh.” This oh is totally different. And laced with pure shock. His eyes are a complicated mix of hard and soft. “Two years? I didn’t realize—”

“What? That I had an ex?” My laugh is blasé. “There’s a lot you probably don’t realize about me. ’Cause we’ve known each other for all of... What? Two days? My life is pretty much exploding around me right now like crazy. And that’s without adding in my whole insane backstory. I think it’s better if we back up.”

Clouds collect in a swollen gray mass overhead and the wind whips my hair around. When I tie it back, Doyle lays three fingers on my jaw. I startle, hold my breath, and let him turn my head and look at my neck.

“Hester Prynne?” His fingers trace along my jawline, under my earlobe, and stop just over the skin on my exposed neck.

“They let you read that book here?” I marvel. My veins pump carbonated fire, but I keep my voice on ice.

He half smiles as a light rain pelts down. “The book got taken off the sophomore curriculum ’long with a couple others. That’s why I read it. Hawthorne’s dry as hell, but the story’s a good one.” He pulls his one hand back slowly, then sticks them both deep in his pockets.

“I do like you,” I admit. A fresh burst of light rain explodes around us and we squint into the damp. “I just have a lot going on, and I don’t think my nerves can handle more.”

“I get it.” He watches as I shade my eyes from more rain, then pulls his cap off and tosses it on my head. I hold my breath, because it’s easier to resist him if I can’t smell his delicious fragrance. “And I like you. I know this feels quick, Nes, but like you said, you won’t be here for long. I don’t care if we’re just friends or even just on the same neighborhood ball team. As long as we’re not avoiding each other. Because I don’t want to miss out on my only chance to get to know you.”

I think about the way Ansley crowed like she’d won something in the halls and drag a cleansing breath into my lungs.

What did we learn from World War II?

Never back down from an aggressor.

I won’t go out of my way to get in Ansley’s face, but I’m sure not going to shut down the one and only friendship I’ve made since leaving Brooklyn on account of that flaxen-haired harpy.

“You’re right. We should be friends. It’s complicated, but nothing that’s really good is ever easy, right?” I glance up at a sky rumbling with thunder that promises a full-on downpour. “I’d better go.” I pull the cap off and attempt to hand it back, but Doyle shakes his soaked head as he jogs to his truck and gets in.

“Keep it. And get yourself a pair of sunglasses. You squint too much!” He yells over the roar of the truck’s engine, attracting the attention of a dozen or so of our classmates, who pair up to whisper and giggle.

I wave and keep my head down and grit my teeth as Ansley flies by in her Jeep. Today I may have let her take Czechoslovakia, but I’ll be damned if she marches on to Poland. If she wants a war, I’ll lead her right into the bowels of Russia in the dead of winter.

Yes, I have only the foggiest idea of what my World War II analogies mean. But I do know that a confrontation with Ansley may be inevitable, and I’m going to fight smart.

Or get my cavalry rolled under by Ansley’s tanks.

On a brighter note, even if I wind up committing social suicide, I’m definitely going to ace history this year. Mom would be so proud.

SEVEN

I scroll through Ollie’s Instagram feed and try not to let jealousy eat me alive when I see yet another picture of her laughing with friends at the new chocolate bar she and I were supposed to check out together. I want her to have a great senior year, but here’s another way moving sucks: I’m scared I’m losing Ollie.

Not losing her like we’re not friends anymore. Losing her like our friendship is diluting.

Which isn’t as dramatic as it sounds because we’ve always been a superconcentrated twosome, twined around each other for years. Conjoined, even. Ollie is pretty much reason number one that I dragged my feet over leaving Brooklyn.

Sometimes I feel like I should have just stayed.

But there was this whole other thing.

It revolved around Ollie’s lifelong dream to go to Oberlin, this rad college with an intense music program located in the bowels of the godforsaken Midwest. The thing was, we’d also discussed staying close, geographically, so we could visit each other through college. Freshman year, our plan felt solid, but as high school went on and my life fell apart and my distaste for ever going to a college anywhere near Ohio became clearer, Ollie switched gears and started talking about Juilliard so she could be closer to me if I got into NYU, my dream school.

Now, no doubt Juilliard is freaking amazing and it’s right in the city. But Ollie had done a million hours of research and Oberlin was her nest, not Juilliard. A few weeks before it all went to hell at my place I stumbled on her early acceptance letter to Oberlin hidden under her mattress. It had been stuffed there for over a month. She never said a word to me about it.

I wasn’t sure if she thought I wouldn’t be happy for her. I don’t know if she thought I needed her too much, what with my life falling to pieces and everything. But, as far as I was concerned, Ollie and her bassoon were going to Oberlin, no questions. I pulled her mom aside and spilled about how I was afraid Ollie was settling and then I totally sold her on encouraging Ollie to go to Oberlin. Then I picked up and left for Georgia. I needed to show Ollie we could love each other from afar. That she had to go wherever she needed to go, and I’d be there for her no matter what.

Only I guess I kind of thought it would all stay the same. And that’s exactly why it’s so brave and noble to sacrifice for the person you love—because it hurts like hell. Things change. And they may not go back to the way they were before.

Ever.

My mother comes in from work as I’m simultaneously hashing through all of this, listening to angsty, dark music, and contemplating the intolerable stupidity of my day at school.

“Hey, honey.” She cracks the door of my room open. “You want to grab a bite?”

“Nope.” It’s rude, but I have to put on a happy face for so many people all day long, and last night’s spat left a dull ache in my head, like a hangover headache.

“You know, we have a couple episodes of our show waiting, and I’m kind of dying to see what happens with coma guy.” She leans against my door frame, but I can tell she’s working hard to look like she’s at ease. “I finally read the article you tried to show me. The one about the fan theory where the coma patient is—”

“It was a dumb theory. So wrong. Spoiler alert—coma guy is one of the armed robbers who held up the bank across from the hospital. His crew dumped him because they thought he was dead and never told anyone. The head nurse helps him escape, but she doesn’t make it to Mexico to meet him because at the last second they bring in the victims of the horrible car crash and her ex-fiancé is one of the patients.”

My mom’s face goes through a few expressions as she processes the information: shock at the twist, curiosity about how I know, disappointment over the fact that there’s no reason for her to watch it now. I realize I’m the worst kind of troll. Only a very messed-up person spoils three of five episodes in a series’s final season.

Part of me takes sadistic delight in hurting my mom like she hurt me. Part of me wonders what kind of terrible, petty jerk I’m turning into.

“I didn’t realize you watched the episodes. Well, at least one of us got to enjoy them.” She already looks sufficiently bummed. I could stop there. A good person would.

“I didn’t watch,” I blurt out. It’s almost involuntary, like I’m possessed by the vengeful spirit of a chronic television drama spoiler. “I just read about it.”

“You never look at spoilers.” I try to interpret the wrinkles in my mother’s forehead like fortune-tellers read palms. I realize there’s no secret mystery, just the stress-induced skin creases that come from dealing with a belligerent teenage daughter.

“I do when I don’t really care about a show. It was getting so stupid.”

Eight seasons. One hundred twenty-four episodes. Three flus, a few dozen snow days, rerun marathons during heat waves and summer vacations at my maternal grandparents’ lake house, episodes with pints of ice cream to forget boy problems, low-key birthday celebrations just the way we liked—One Hundred Thousand Beats had seen us through it all, and this is the way I honor my old faithful medical drama?

“Okay, enough.” Mom presses her fingers to her temples like she’s trying to ward off a migraine with her bare hands.

“Enough what?” I will her to fight, to explode, to tell me why she chose that gross man over me.

“Of this attitude all the time. I’m not some monster who ruined your life. You keep pushing me away, but—have you spoken to your father?” Just before she really lays into me for being a jerk, she flips and brings up my dad.

“I texted with him last night.” It’s not a lie. He sent me a bunch of screenshots from this site that puts witty text on famous art. I know it was just a ton of crying cat emojis from me and stupid art jokes from him, but it counts as talking. Sort of. “Why are you bringing Dad into this?”

“You...you really need to set aside some time and talk about what you’re feeling with him—” Mom says in her best teacher voice.

“Why? Because it’s too much trouble for you to have an actual conversation with me?”

“When are you going to stop punishing me, Agnes? I’m human, you know. I mess up too.” She clutches the door frame with a white-knuckle hand, her hazel eyes blinking too fast because she’s getting teary.

I debate asking. Or just telling her how I feel. Instead of vulnerable honesty, I choose caustic sarcasm.

“You sure do!” I exclaim with a big, fake smile. “And now here we are, in the middle of Nowhere, Georgia. I’d love to talk about how unfair this is to you, but I don’t want to fail my classes on top of having the entire school hate me, so I better hit the books... You can go whenever.”

I wait, breath held, for her to morph from the sad little rag doll’s shadow she’s been and fly at me like the raging Irish-tempered harpy she always turned into when I put a toe too far over the line before. I half salivate for her to come at me, my ears pricked to hear her screaming that I “better learn some respect” and that she’s “not one of my little friends.” I want it to be like old times, the way we were before, even if that means enduring a screaming fit.

But she doesn’t raise her voice.

The hot mix of adrenaline and hope seeps out of me as she turns on her heel and pads back down the hallway. I’d bet a round-trip ticket to JFK that she’s opening a bottle of merlot and flipping to the melancholy Celtic mix on her iPod. Boo frickity hoo.

Maybe she should have dated one of the thousands of nice, normal single guys who chased her all over the place instead of getting low-down and freaky with a married coworker whose wife aired their dirty laundry far and wide across the five boroughs. Maybe she should have told her only daughter what was going on instead of shutting her out until things were too screwed up to fix.

Just at the moment when my brain cannot handle one more pulse of confusing information, my phone rings and Lincoln’s gorgeous, traitorous face lights up the screen. It’s like he has a timer set to know when my emotions are most jumbled. I clutch the phone to my chest, and my body crumples around it.

I should have deleted this picture of him from my phone when my hate was surging and made me strong. He sent it to me long before I suspected him of screwing me over. His dark hair is plastered to his head and he’s holding a surfboard. There’s sand all over his dark brown shoulders, and he’s smiling so wide, his eyes crinkled, his white teeth bright against his wet skin. His index finger points to the Saint Christopher necklace I gave him before he left.

He claimed that he sent me the picture because he missed me, and he said he was pointing at the necklace because he was telling his cousin about his wahine purotu who gave it to him for safe travels when he went back to New Zealand over the summer so he and his father could participate in a Maori leadership convention. Which was all so sweet when I thought I was his only “pretty girl.” But now I look at that picture and wonder if he was with other girls on that trip—girls who could flirt with him in Maori, with sweet, sexy laughs, girls who could surf in water swarming with sharks without squealing with fear.

Girls who weren’t me.

“Screw you, Lincoln,” I whisper to his picture, which sweeps off my phone and disappears after the final ring, replaced by a generic voice mail notification.

My ears burn, wanting so badly to hear his cocky voice, even though I know it would probably be roughed up with his tears. My traitor heart pounds, wondering will you, will you, will you?

I pick up the phone and swish my thumb back and forth across the glossy black screen.

Will you, will you?

When I toss my phone on the bed, it lands in the navy bowl of Doyle’s cap. I finger the rough canvas and rub a thumb at the frayed edge of the brim. Holding the hat works like magic to set my head straight, and it radiates goodness and confidence through me the same way finding a copper penny on heads used to when I was a kid. The hat helps remind me that I have no need for people who use and abuse me when there are people who like and respect me.

Decision made.

I will not.

But I will call Ollie to calm the last of my battered nerves.

“Did he call you?” she demands before I can say hello.

“Yes.” I pace my room, which is an exemplary pacing space, since there’s hardly any furniture in it.

“Coño.” Despite being crazy upset, Ollie’s occasional DR swear always makes me smile. “He tried calling here too. And screw him!” I hear her pound her fist on her desk. I imagine all the famous composer bobble heads in her collection nodding along with her righteous anger.

“Should I just pick up? It’s not like I can go see him, right? It’s not like I’ll get sucked back in, so why not hear him out? Right?” I feel jazzed up, like that time Olls and I sucked down an entire netted bag of those fluorescent-colored freezer pops that come in the plastic tubes.

“No!” She’s ferociously adamant. “What will he say? What could he say that wouldn’t be a complete waste of your time?”

“Okay. Can you...can you distract me? Tell me about anything. Your day. Not that that would only be a distraction. I mean, obviously I want to hear about your day anyway.”

“Um, I bought these fierce-looking beads, the most beautiful pewter color, and they went berserk and the color all chipped off them before lunch. I had to refund twenty-five percent of my day’s profits and redo so many seventh graders’ bracelets, I wanted to scream.”

“Damn those bead criminals,” I growl sympathetically.

But from a thousand miles away, I can’t see the shimmer of the beads or the intricate knot design, and I’m pissed at how unfair it is. I thought I’d take the gold in rocking my senior year, but it winds up I won’t even get a participation ribbon.

“And the second chair cellist from Javier wrote a duet for his senior project. He needs a bassoonist, and, um, he asked me.”

Even though we’re not FaceTiming, my mind’s eye imagines Ollie’s smooth skin blushing pink, and I know she’s twirling a piece of her long black hair like some hip Vietnamese American version of a Valley girl.

“Is this the skateboard guy?” I squeal. Ollie’s had a revolving door of crushes the last few months, many of them from afar, so we don’t always have names to work with, and I’m not always the best at keeping them straight. Name or no name, dissecting these crushes always takes top priority.

“No.” I picture how she ducks her chin whenever she does that shy little laugh. “Skateboard guy is first chair, Thorton’s. This is the guy with the pretzels at the fountain that time, remember? Before the symphony?”

“Romantic.” The word floats out on a sigh. “You’ll send me the demo? And some pictures of him? I think I’m thinking of skateboard boy but putting a pretzel in his hand.”

“I will,” she promises.

But I won’t be around to sit on her bed while she practices her bassoon for a jillion hours and obsesses for twice that long over Pretzel Boy’s every word and look.

Missing that will mean missing the meat of the entire experience.

Our friendship can get by on the scraps, but I would rather it was fat and healthy.

“So have you seen my idiot brother’s Instagram?” The best way to feel better about anything, ever, is to rag on my brother with my best friend.

“You mean the dark, broody black-and-white pictures of half-eaten croissants and close-up eyeballs? I have no clue if it’s an art project or real life, since he captions everything in French, and mon français n’est pas bon.”

“He’s so pretentious. I think he’s embarrassed to let anyone know he ever lived in the United States, let alone that he’s a US citizen,” I say in a horror movie narrator voice.

“I’m not saying we have to, but a throwback pic of him might be a fun thing...” I hear what sound like thumps and grunts and am willing to bet Ollie is under her bed. “Ah! A little dusty, but I found that picture from the Fourth of July. The one where your mom bought Jasper and your dad matching American-flag shorts and they both had that weird haircut like the guy from House Party.”

I howl. “The Kid ’n Play classic!” Underneath my unholy laughter at that memory is a little sting. Maybe it’s partially that I brought the whole senior nostalgia thing on early by switching schools midyear, but bittersweet is my constant emotional jam. I miss the way things were—I miss my family being whole and unpretentious and happy. I miss my best friend. I miss having a boyfriend I trust.

I push through it because what else is there to do? Ollie is the best shoulder to cry on ever. She’s better at long-distance best friendship than most people are at the one-on-one, everyday kind. I’m thankful our best friendship is still awesome and loving, but I’m pissed circumstances have forced it into a blurry copy of what used to be so sharp and bright, and that aches.

When we get off the phone, I feel hollowed out. If I was back in the city, tonight would be my life art class at Mom’s college... The one we were attending together, the one where our folders with half-shaded legs and feet and other things are probably still leaning against the cluttered shelf. In the fall, I joked that the hot male model was kind of checking my mom out. But at Thanksgiving, I stopped making her blush by pointing out that kind of stuff (even though ninety percent of straight dudes check my mom out...that’s just my life) because every sign pointed to her and my father reconciling. Maybe that’s why the whole affair blindsided me so hard. Maybe I still feel cheated out of that naive Parent Trap dream.

Jasper so would have been London Lindsay Lohan in that alternate reality.

There are no art classes here. I could join a club, but every club has its hierarchy all set up by now, and it’s not like I’ve made many friends. My Brooklyn neighborhood was full of coffee shops and bookstores I’d wander through with Ollie in our downtime. We prided ourselves on finding the best hole-in-the-wall food places. I went to musical reviews and art shows with Ollie and her parents, helped Mom organize student events at the college, rocked the vote, volunteered at soup kitchens, headed committees... My life back home was full to bursting, to the point where I’d dream about slowing down, taking time to do more nothing.

Now that I have all the downtime I could want, I also have a nasty case of be-careful-what-you-wish-for slap back.

In this new, boring version of my life, I do homework. I try to nap with no success. I scroll through playlists I instantly hate. I poke around in my unpacked boxes, but I find too many items that make me feel starved for a life that’s washing away too fast. I decide to distract myself with a life-form more pathetic than I am in my current state, so I water Doyle’s tree and imagine Ollie lounging on the beach chair next to me with a stack of paperbacks and a pitcher of her famous lemonade nearby. I imagine my abuela swatting flies, pruning the already-tended bushes, squatting down to save soggy, drowning dragonflies from the pool while we yell at her to relax a little even though we know she is physically unable to do that. I imagine my brother, dressed to the nines in a seersucker suit and poring over Mom’s old copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s She Came to Stay, impervious to heat and tedious literature. I imagine Mom and Dad, maybe fighting, maybe kissing... They did those two things so often, I’m having a hard time assigning them any other activity at this pitiful imaginary pool party.

And, though I fight it, my sappy brain imagines Lincoln, bouncing off the diving board, tucking his knees to his dark, muscular chest and flipping in a few tight circles before he breaks the calm surface with a splash so big, it disrupts everyone. We’d all be annoyed until his head pops up and he dazzles us with that irresistible smile.

That smile got him out of so much trouble. That smile sometimes made me scared I’d never be attached to another guy, because I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

I know I was wise to put a thousand miles between me and it. Me and him.

“¿Qué lo que carajito? I feel like you’re not even trying,” I scold the sickly little tree to divert my attention. “Trust me, I get how hard it is to be a transplant, but you can’t go down without a fight. You’re here now. You might as well attempt to thrive.”

So I’m talking to plants now. Doyle really is rubbing off on me.

Despite my pep talk, the tree looks zero percent better this mosquito-filled, muggy evening than it did yesterday, and I’m willing to bet that’s a trend that will continue for weeks on end. The gusts of rain that blew through and chilled things for a nanosecond this afternoon are long forgotten, and the leaves sprouting out of this poor excuse for a tree look parched and overly delicate. While the hose soaks the earth above the tree roots, I wander to the edge of the pool and drop my feet into the still water, then lean back on my arms and tilt my head up. I’m attempting to untangle the few constellations I know when a voice on the other side of our white picket fence makes me jump.

“Stargazing?”

It’s a romantic word anyway, but twisted around his drawl it sounds delicious.

“What exactly did you do before I moved here, Doyle? Because it seems like I take up a lot of your time.” I watch as he climbs over the fence and jumps into my yard without asking permission, his legs stretched long and sure as he walks my way.

“You’re gettin’ ahead of yourself, Nes. I’ve spent a grand total of maybe two hours with you, not countin’ English class, which is required.” He kicks off his boots, throws his socks on top of them, cuffs his jeans, and slides down next to me so that we’re shoulder to shoulder, our feet nearly touching under the water. “Know any constellations?” He juts his chin up.

We gaze at the black sky dotted with a few pale white stars, and I try hard to ignore how much I want his arm around me—both because he’s got beautiful, muscled arms and because the reality of Doyle’s arm will blot out the memory of Lincoln’s.

“I know the big ones. The Dippers and Orion. And...that’s all, I guess. Can you enlighten me?” I covertly side-eye him, but he’s looking at me.

Coño. Caught!

“Nope. Now, if you wanna know the plants growing ’round here? Or the bugs? That I can help you with. But when I look up, I don’t see nothin’ in particular.” His foot brushes mine under the water, and a chill swims up my back.

“You mean you don’t know Shark Attack on a Half Shell?” I point, and he leans over to get a better look, his ribs pressing tight to my back. I move from word to word carefully, because my brain is mushy when I’m this close to him. “Those three, see, are sort of like a shell, if you squint when you look, and that kind of triangle—”

“Maybe more like Rabid Goldfish Attack on a Plank?” He wraps his arm around my shoulder and points to the left, pulling me closer as I tilt my face to the sky. “And that one? I’d say Four-Wheeler Running over a Hog.”

I laugh because I’m supposed to, and I train my eyes at the stars in the sky, but I’m not sure all the beauty I see overhead is strictly astronomical. Some of that sparkle has to be because of my close proximity to Doyle. I swear the sky wasn’t exploding with all this gorgeous light before he sat down next to me.

“Why are you here?” I blurt out. He drops his arm, letting it graze my side.

“My grandfather needed me to check up on the pecan orchard across the street. They’ve got weevils—”

“You’re seriously trying to tell me that I’m just a side visit after you took care of pecan weevils?” His face is Norse-hero handsome in the moonlight.

“Hell no.” His grin tentacles around my heart, squeezing tight. “Truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever run out of excuses to get over here and see you. The Dickersons think they might have a spider mite infestation in their cotton, but their fields are fifteen miles in the other direction. I convinced my cousin to take a look at them.” He brushes the hair from my face with the back of his calloused hand. “I came here to see you, and I’ll keep doin’ it till you’re back in New York City, forgettin’ this all like it was a bad dream.”

He slings my own words at me like the nasty slap of a rubber band on my skin. I pull back from him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His voice never loses its evenness.

“Bring on the guilt. I mean...it’s stupid.”

We just met, he has no right. But if that were true, it would be simple to blow him off. So why isn’t it?

The truth is, something stuck fast the second I met him. He walked up, and I had this feeling like, oh, there he is, that person I just met, but who I’ve been waiting for. Like I’d always known he was coming, and then—there he was.

Here he is.

But that’s just a weird gut feeling, probably intensified because I’m so damn lonely and out of place right now.

“We don’t even know each other,” I muse, half-surprised to hear myself speak the words out loud.

“We could fix that. We should. Right now. We never even met properly, what with you bein’ all flustered by my manly pecs the other day.” My laugh skips over the pool water and echoes back at me in a friendly way. He faces me and holds out his hand. “I’m Doyle Ulysses Rahn. Pleased to meet you.”

My mouth swings open like my jaw is set on faulty hinges.

He ducks his head and squints my way. “Yeah, it’s weird, right? My granddaddy’s side always middle-names every second son Ulysses after some Confederate soldier who saved our family farmstead during a Civil War battle... It’s a long story.”

I press my palm against his, squeeze hard, and shake. “Well, Doyle Ulysses Rahn, I’m Agnes Penelope Murphy-Pujols.” I wait for it...

“Pretty.”

“Pretty?” I shake my head. “Doyle, I’m middle-named after Penelope. From The Odyssey.”

His face blanks, then lights up with recognition. “Uh, okay. I remember that one. Where he goes home after all those years, the bow, the crazy ladies who drive sailors wild with their singing, and the cyclops and the special bed, all that? We read that back in junior year.”

“Ulysses is the Roman name for Odysseus.” The look of pure adoration that splits across his face makes my skin tingle and itch all at once—hives of feeling.

“Holy hell. Your brain works overtime, don’t it?” He rubs his thumbs over my knuckles. “So you’re saying you and I have these weirdo middle names that connect us? Like maybe it was fate that we were meant to get to know each other?”

“Don’t read too much into it. You didn’t even get the reference until I explained it to you.” My voice is too breathy to be convincing, but Doyle doesn’t buy into my protest anyway.

“That’s the beauty of it though. You teach me about things I don’t know about, like old Greek books—”

“Roman books. You know the Greek version.”

“Right. You teach me about the ancient Romans and all that nerd stuff, and I make this year better than purgatory until you’re gone for good.” He slides one hand over my knee, and my breath hitches. All I can see are his eyes, deep as wishing wells. “I get that you’re gonna leave when this is all over. Hell, I respect it. But I think you might wanna reconsider forgetting everything just because a few people are total assholes.”

“Maybe.” The word is meant to be a lazy brush-off, but there’s something about the starry sky and the quiet croak of the frogs that makes it hard to turn my brain on autopilot and go cold. “Can I tell you something weird?”

It pops out, before I can think it through.

“I love weird,” he declares. I let the tips of my fingers brush over his forearm and like the way he sucks a quick breath in. “You gonna tell me you turn into a mermaid during a full moon or something?”

He looks so hopeful, I laugh. “Nope. Not like ‘boy fantasy’ weird. Weird like ‘crap I don’t talk about to anyone except my best friend.’”

I stop and reconsider my path. Once someone knows things about you—things you’ve never told anyone else—they can choose to use them against you. Not that I think Doyle would...but I’d have to move my trust in him from hypothetical to actual, which is a huge step.

“I know how to keep my trap shut.”

He’s not flirting or teasing. I bet Doyle is one of those true Southern gentlemen who lives and dies by his word.

“We moved to Savannah because my mom got into this crazy situation with her coworker—” I don’t get any further because the words petrify in my throat. Before I can get up and flee back into the house, where I can safely avoid any more intimate human interaction, Doyle squeezes my knee gently, like he’s steadying me. He speaks, quietly. Slowly. Like maybe it’s as hard for him to talk about his feelings as it is for me.

“When I was in fifth grade, my mama finally came back again—she left the day before summer break my third grade year, and she was only around real spotty when I was in fourth. ‘Figurin’ her life out’ is what she said she was doing. Never made sense to me, ’cause she had a life at home with all of us, so what the hell was she figurin’ out?”

When he breaks off, I give the weakest verbal comfort. “That blows, Doyle.”

It’s a pathetic attempt at sympathy, but he gives me a half smile before he finishes.

“Back then, my father still had a job at the paper plant, but life was kind of fallin’ apart ’round our ears. Lee and me and Malachi were goin’ to school half-starved and stinkin’, the house was always a mess. My parents weren’t ever real great at the whole responsibility thing, but my daddy made money and my mama kept things pretty clean and took care of us, mostly. When she was gone, we were barely holding down the fort. Anyway, she came back, and I thought for sure life was gonna be all right. Maybe they’d let me get this pup I had my eye on that was jest born at the farm down the way from our place. But she only showed up to give him divorce papers.”

His voice doesn’t hitch or wobble. It’s relaxed, like he’s reciting a story that sort of bores him. Which is crazy because the frantic throb of his carotid artery makes me scared he’s about to have a panic attack.

“When my daddy signed ’em, it was like he signed away the lot o’ us. My mama walked out on us, and my daddy checked out. Wasn’t a year later he was fired from the plant. Went in one day fallin’-down drunk and punched the foreman when he told Daddy he wasn’t in no condition to operate big machinery.”

Doyle dips his head and presses his mouth tight to the side, like that’s the end of the story.

My own life problems suddenly come into harsh perspective. I’ve never been abandoned, hungry, or dirty. Sure, Mom drinks a little too much some nights, but it’s nothing like what Doyle is describing with his dad. And my parents, though they’re no longer a couple, have never stopped being there for me and Jasper.

“What did you guys do?” I realize a second after I ask the question that I’m butting in where I might not be welcome. “Sorry. If you don’t want to answer, that’s cool. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Nah. It feels pretty good to tell someone the whole story, even if it is all ancient history by now.” His fingers squeeze my knee a second time, but now it feels like he’s holding tight to calm himself down. I cover his hand with mine, and he attempts another weak smile. “Anyway, there ain’t much more. Daddy lost his job and never has found any kind of regular work since. Child Services came knocking on our door when it was so bad our teachers were asking us all sorts of questions every day. That’s when Daddy finally let my grandparents take us in. Pride’d been holding him back from asking for any kinda help, and by the time he bothered, it was too late. He was so far gone, and we were all done dealing with his crap anyhow. So trust me when I say I get what it’s like when parents screw up.”

He clears his throat, then gives me a nod, like it’s my turn to spill.

“My story is nothing like yours...” I throw my hands up, guilty over whining to him about my life when his problems are so much bigger and scarier.

“I never figured you and me’d have identical stories.” He licks his lips and takes a deep breath. “Pain’s pain, and what hurts hurts, no matter if you think you got it better or worse than the next guy. It ain’t a competition.”

Doyle has a way of laying out the obvious so plainly, it can’t be denied.

“Okay. So my mom and dad... They’ve always had a weird relationship.” I lift one foot, then the other, watching droplets of water splash back into the pool. “And it got a whole lot worse when my father landed this huge book deal a few years ago—”

“Your daddy’s a writer?” Doyle looks impressed.

I roll my eyes. “Not like Stephen King or something. He mostly writes boring academic stuff, but he wrote one book about growing up in Santo Domingo—he meant for it to be a cultural study, but it wound up turning into this really interesting memoir... I mean, I guess it’s interesting. That’s what all the book reviewers say anyway.”

His eyes crinkle when he laughs. “You tellin’ me your daddy wrote a book about his life and you never read it?”

I blow out a long breath. “Ugh, I’m the worst. I should, right?” I squint at him guiltily.

“You should do whatever you wanna do. All I can tell ya is, if my daddy wrote a book about his life, I’d be so curious, Satan ’imself couldn’t stop me from tearin’ through that thing. Don’t you even wanna see if you’re in it?” His eyes shine when he asks, like he’d be curious to flip through to those parts—if they existed.

Thank God they don’t.

“The book only goes up to his undergrad years, so I know there’s nothing about me in it,” I say to definitively shut down any possibility of Doyle combing through my father’s weird memoir for tidbits about me. “I guess I never read it because I kind of hate how it messed things up for my family.”

“How’s that?” Doyle leans in, intrigued like he’s about to hear some twisted Gone Girl insanity. In fact, it’s a boring story of a family that quietly fell apart.

“My dad got famous, in his own nerdy circle at least. And my mom got left out in a huge way. She took a hiatus on her PhD studies—which she’d been busting her ass on—so he could go on these worldwide tours and give lectures. Then he got offered a visiting professor position in France, which had been his dream job forever. When his guest semester was up, they offered him a full-time spot, and he wanted us to join him. But we had a life in New York, and I definitely didn’t want to go. My brother did apply to college in France without telling our mother, and it sent her into this depression for a while when he left. She thought he was going to Harvard, so it was a huge shock when he told us he was actually headed to the Sorbonne.”

I kick at the water, the silky splashes deeply unsatisfying. I want to break something, smash something, do anything immediate and violent to help me forget that bleak time when my family splintered apart quickly and permanently.

“That must’ve been hard,” says Doyle Rahn, the guy who watched his mother walk out of his life before middle school and his father descend into violent alcoholism. When I snort, he raises his eyebrows in this no-nonsense way that would make Lovett proud. “Sometimes it’s harder to deal with things fallin’ apart when you feel like you had some say in it.”

I never thought about it that way. I never considered that I might blame myself for dragging my feet about going off to France. I think Mom wanted to stay in New York City too, but what if I hadn’t pitched such a fit? If I’d been down to go, would she have gone too? Would I be there right now, smoking a cigarette, dressed in black, scowling outside my beautiful French high school with my cool French friends because Mom and Dad wanted me to pick up fresh sheep intestines for our highly dysfunctional family dinner?

In other words, would my weird family unit have remained intact if I wasn’t such a whiner?

“Some days I think if the boys and I’d been better at keeping house, kinda took up where our mama left off, would my daddy have gotten so bad so fast?”

Doyle muses his what-ifs out loud, while I keep mine locked in. But, where my what-if scenario casts me as a bratty villain, his is so noble, it dips its toe in martyrdom.

“Doyle, you know it’s not your fault your mom left. You know it had nothing to do with how clean the house was or how you and your brothers behaved. Your mother’s reasons for leaving had everything to do with her. And it was her fault. Her loss.” I nudge him with my shoulder.

“That all makes sense to me now. But the little kid in me still don’t listen to reason.” He bumps me with his elbow. “So you were hell-bent on staying in New York instead of going to Paris, but you up and left for Georgia?” His laugh is rusty. “I mean, I like it here fine, but it’s sure as hell not Paris.”

I tilt my head back and direct my attention to the big, shiny moon. “It was more a lack of any other decent choice that landed me here. Like I was saying, my mom had this gross affair with a married guy she worked with. His wife found out, and it was basically hellish for my mother to go to back to work with all the office gossip. Everyone was giving her crap, all this stupid passive-aggressive high school drama BS. Which is kind of insane. I mean, he’s the one who actually cheated on his wife. My parents aren’t even...”

I stop short because it’s easier to give up trying to explain than it is to untangle the knot that is my parents’ crazy relationship.

“Married?” Doyle fills in, the word delivered softly. Helpfully.

“Yep.” I was actually going to say “in love anymore,” but I’m not sure whether or not that’s a fact. It is definitely a fact that my parents are no longer joined in holy matrimony, no matter how lovey they acted during our Thanksgiving in Paris. “It’s just... Their whole thing is complicated. Always has been. Sometimes I think about how much easier my life would be if my parents had managed to keep their crap together.”

“I hear that.”

Doyle’s pain is on a different spectrum than mine, but our frustrations run parallel. A sweet relief spins through me as we sit side by side, our confessions laid bare between us. Ollie would be proud of all the sticky feelings I dredged out tonight.

“I don’t hate it here,” I confess over the rising chorus of frog croaks. “I mean, I wasn’t excited about coming here, and I miss home, but this place isn’t all bad.”

“Not all bad?” He shakes his head. “Pretty weak. No worries though. I plan to pull out all the stops to make this year better than you’d ever have expected.”

“What exactly does that entail?” I arch my back as his thumb arcs along the soft skin above my knee, inside my thigh. “Four-wheeling and hogs?”

“You wanna go four-wheeling?” He leans closer.

“Hmm. I’ve never been. Is it fun?” I try to rein my voice tight. It’s just his hand. On my knee. It’s just an invitation to ride an all-terrain vehicle. No big deal.

“I think you’d like it. You busy next Saturday?” His other hand cups my shoulder, pulls down to my elbow. His fingers are sparks, my skin is a river of ethanol.

“I’ll have to check my planner. I’m pretty popular around here, you know.” I slide one hand onto his leg, and I can feel the muscles through his jeans. It lights up something in me, and I want him. My breaths burst in and out, and my head spins as he leans closer.

I want to kiss him, just so I have one kiss notched in my belt from lips other than Lincoln’s.

Ollie’s warning about comparing Doyle and Lincoln flops around in my head. I bring my hand up to Doyle’s chest and force us to keep those few inches of distance.

I lie back on the patio, and he lies next to me, silent.

The water laps on the sides of the pool, as measured as Doyle’s breathing. It’s peace.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but suddenly Doyle is shaking my shoulder. “Hey. Nes. Hey. Your feet are all pruney. You need to get some sleep. In a bed.”

“Okay.” My voice is groggy. “Are you leaving?”

“Are you inviting me to stay?” The backs of his fingers brush my cheek.

“Mmm.” I sit up and blink sleepily. “I kick in my sleep.”

“I can take a beating.” It’s a joke, but something fierce in his eyes punches through the lightness.

My instinct is to stomp out that frantic look. Why? Because I’m protecting him? Or maybe it isn’t that noble of me. Maybe I’m just avoiding anything complicated?

“I’m like a mule. On ’roids. Go home, Doyle. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

He stands, pulls on his socks, hops into his boots, and holds out a hand to tug me to my feet. “How ’bout breakfast first? I know a place, best cheese grits around, and they open at six.”

“Grits, huh?” I wrinkle my nose. “Is this part of your plan to convince me stay? I do love breakfast foods...”

He raises his blond eyebrows. “I jest might be trying to convince you to stick around, and I’m willing play dirty. I’ll use every weapon in my arsenal, cheesy grits included.”

I poke a finger into his chest. “All right. Don’t get cocky though. I come from a place where breakfast foods are like a religion.”

He maneuvers so that his lips are a hair away from brushing mine, then boomerangs back, with a grin so adorable, I have to roll my eyes to fend it off.

“I’ll pick you up.” He walks over to the hose and turns it off, then braces one foot on the fence and gets ready to jump.

“I want to drive myself.”

He looks over his shoulder and tilts his head like he’s considering my statement.

“Nope. Tomorrow, ten to six, be ready.”

“Ten to six? That’s too early!”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I like to take my time over it.” He jumps. I hear the thump of his boots and, a second later, the rumble of his truck’s engine.

On my way in I pick up my phone and notice I have a new text from “Ulysses.”

Penelope, thanks for watering our tree.

“Dork,” I whisper to my screen, but something deep in me flutters so hard, I’m vibrating.

I flop onto my bed and sink into a sleep so deep, the world is soundless and pitch-black until the blare of my phone alarm drags me into the early dawn light.

I have fifteen minutes before Doyle gets here. I sprint to the bathroom and take a GI shower, goop on some mascara and lipstick—this is a date, sorta kinda, after all—scrunch gel into my dripping hair, decide I look hevi nais, especially considering my limited time frame, and get ready to grab some clothes. But Mom blocks my bedroom door, her face more stricken than usual.

“Aggie, sweetheart, I have to tell you something.” Her eyes are puffy, like she didn’t get much sleep. Or like she has a wine hangover. She twists her hands tightly. “It’s Lincoln. His parents just called. He was in an accident.”

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