Zoe drops her gaze to the pavement beneath us and scrapes her oxfords against it, expression unreadable. “It’s not like they didn’t deserve it,” she mumbles, before taking a deep breath, straightening out to look at me. “Amber is always trying to get a reaction out of people. She lies. And Whitney just follows her blindly.”

“Ms. Warren made it seem like I had a problem getting along with people.”

She considers this for a few beats, visibly shifting her weight between her feet. “When you have something other people want, they hate you for it,” she remarks.

“What do I have that other people want?”

“Seriously, Allie,” Zoe says, laughing without humor. “Look around. Things might have changed since you came back, but it wasn’t always like this. People are constantly staring at you, and it’s not just because you nearly died.” My frown deepens. She sighs again, sounding frustrated. “You have this . . . magnetism. Everyone wants to be around you or be you.”

The words make heat rush to my face, but I shake my head. “I don’t believe that’s true.”

“It is true,” she says. “A talented actress, dating the captain of the soccer team, charming, drop-dead gorgeous. It’s like a superpower. You’ve even got Mason Byrne wrapped around your finger now. Throughout all of high school, I’ve barely seen him hang out with anyone, and suddenly he’s following you around like a lost puppy.”

A stray raindrop makes its way onto my cheek, but I barely notice it, feeling hot with embarrassment. Her description of me hasn’t been the impression I’ve gotten from all that I’ve learned about myself. It feels inaccurate and misguided—like she’s projecting.

“That doesn’t explain why they hate me,” I protest, and her expression changes again.

“That was Amber Griffin.”

I shake my head, not recognizing the name.

“You remember that article you were reading in the computer lab? That’s her brother.”

It takes a minute, but then the photo from the article flashes through my mind, and I realize why she looked so familiar. She and Jacob have a striking resemblance. “The kid who had the allergic reaction? What does that have to do with me?”

“She’s convinced you did it.”

My blood immediately runs cold.

How else could you get out of paying for all the awful shit you’ve done?

“Why?” I breathe, blinking rapidly.

“He was your competition,” she says simply. “Another rising actor who was stealing your spotlight. She’s so eager to see your downfall that she’s told herself you tried to get rid of him by messing with his food and stealing his EpiPen. It’s crazy.”

“I didn’t, though,” I stammer. “There’s no way I did something like that. Right?”

“If you did, they were never able to prove it.”