“What parties?” I ask. She twists the sheets between her hands, and I can see her trying to swallow back the words. “You can trust me,” I say, a little more gently. “Okay? I don’t want to get you in trouble. I want to help.”

I count long seconds. In the quiet, I can hear a distant mechanical beeping.

Finally, Tatum lets out a big breath of air, and I can tell she’s made a decision. “They were supposed to be invite-only,” she says. “Special parties, you know, for the scholarship girls.”

“What about the boys?” I ask. “Were they invited?”

“Just girls,” she says, in a voice so quiet I nearly miss it.

“Who threw the parties? What were they for? Who else was invited?”

I can tell right away I’ve leaned on her too quickly. She clams up. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” she says. Then: “We wanted to go. Nobody made us.”

“Okay. I get it.” I take a deep breath and slowly pull up a chair next to her bed. When she doesn’t react, I take a seat slowly. Now she’s forced to look at me. “Look, Tatum, the truth is that you are in trouble. Right? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Suddenly, her eyes fill up: she looks so small, drowning in all those white sheets. She whispers something I can’t make out.

I lean forward, holding my breath. “What?” She’s crying now, though, and only hiccups when she tries to speak. “Take a breath, okay?”

“I just wanted a new phone.” Another sob rocks her. “My phone was such crap, but my mom…my mom said I would have to buy it myself…I thought…”

“Tatum.” I place a hand on the bed, wishing I could hug her instead. This poor kid. “Tell me about the parties.”

But suddenly, with a gasp, she goes still. Listening. Then I can hear a chorus of high-pitched voices move toward us from the hall.

“Tatum.” Now I want to reach out and shake her. “Tatum, please.”

It’s too late. The door swings open and I recognize two of the girls who pour into the room, all sunshine and smiles, as Optimum Stars. One of them is Sophie Nantes.

“We brought donuts,” Sophie says, but stops short when she sees me. It’s amazing how someone so pretty can look that ugly in an instant. “What are you doing here?” She whips around to glare at Tatum. “What’s she doing here?”

Tatum swipes her face with her forearm. “She brought flowers,” she says, as if that explains it.

Sophie tosses the bag of donuts on the counter and leans up against it. Even I feel her presence, how it works like an eclipse to stifle all the light. The other girls jostle to be the one to stand next to her.

“She was at the PowerHouse game, too, talking to Monty,” Sophie says, addressing Tatum directly. “I guess your stalker club is growing.”

Tatum looks away. I stand up, happy with this small advantage: I’m a head taller than all of them, and in better clothes. Still, Sophie’s eyes sweep me as if I’m an insect hovering too close to her picnic.