He pulls down his T-shirt to cover the front of his jeans.

Well.

Evie calls my name again, and there’s no way in hell we’re sneaking out of this darkroom. No. Way.

She’s going to know what we’ve been doing in here, and—

Oh my God.

I just made out with Lucky.

My best friend.

And you know what? I’d do it again.

Maybe I am cursed, after all.

Chapter 14

REBEL ALLEY 1768: Historic marker sign posted in the cobblestone alley behind Siren’s Book Nook. The alley was used to transport illegal seditious material from the printer during the Revolutionary War. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

Chapter 14

The tingly good feelings we cooked up together in the darkroom linger long after Lucky coolly raises his hand to Evie in greeting and slinks out of the stockroom the same way he came in, like it was no big deal.

Like he’s used to kissing his childhood best friend until her legs are wobbly.

And see, I know that Lucky and I must have done something shocking, because Evie says not one word to me after Lucky leaves—not one word. She just stares, mouth open and shaped like the full moon, as I hurriedly try to hide the evidence of our crime by stuffing the broken curtain inside my darkroom and shutting off my red safelight.

“Do not tell my mom” is the only thing I tell her.

And thankfully, she doesn’t give me away when Mom soon returns from the neighborhood meeting. And Mom, oblivious as ever, doesn’t notice anything amiss.

“Well, ladies, that was a waste of time,” she announces.

“Oh?” I say, pretending like I care as I fiddle with the CLOSED sign on the front door of the Nook, eyes darting across the street toward the boatyard, heart racing.

He kissed me.

Mom throws her keys on the counter and sits on the squeaky stool. “The business owners on our block have decided that there is no possible way Adrian Summers—handsome, talented, Olympic-hopeful, son of a prominent member of our community—could have possibly destroyed the boatyard window in retribution against Lucky. He’s too mature for that. He wouldn’t endanger his career at Harvard. He’s on crutches, poor thing.”

Evie groans and rubs her temples with the tips of her fingers, careful to avoid the whirls of heavy black makeup framing her eyes.

I’m just trying to focus on the words Mom’s saying, because all I heard was “Lucky.”

He kissed me, and I kissed him.

I feel like maybe I need to lie down. Or something.

“I’m sorry,” Evie says.

“Never apologize,” Mom tells her. “Women do that too much for things that aren’t our fault. And this is definitely not your fault.”