SEVEN O’CLOCK FALLS RIGHT IN the middle of the study-hour block, but as I learn by Thursday night, no one really cares where you are in the evenings if you’re on campus and your homework’s getting done at some point. By ten minutes to, my homework is long complete, and I’m wearing the closest thing to a cheerleader outfit I could find, partly because it’ll annoy the hell out of Salem and partly because it was the best costume choice I could think of for the current mission: encourage Salem to make the team (a thing his parents clearly think of as good). Aaaand if it maybe helps some of the other guys on the team think I’m hot, that’s maybe not the worst thing as far as my new reputation goes.

Sabrina’s door cracks open a few seconds after I knock, and her dark gray eyes look me up and down, taking in my cropped sweater and pleated skirt. “Did you seriously dress up like a slutty cheerleader?”

Sabrina’s wearing a tight black skirt to go with black tights and a black top whose shape I cannot begin to understand. “Did you bring an extra blood bag in case you get thirsty?”

“I’m sure I can find some on the court after a few minutes of Salem going up against the Camden basketball team.” She swipes on a coat of black cherry lip gloss and yanks the door closed behind her. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because he’s your brother and you love and support him,” I remind her as we head toward the gym.

“So why are you doing this again?”

“Because he’s your brother and I loathe him and want to watch him fall on his ass.”

“Got it.”

Tryouts are already in full swing by the time we arrive, but Salem immediately spots us anyway, his groan audible. Sabrina and I both wave and flash back huge smiles, and I even shake imaginary pom-poms. “I burned incense for luck!” Sabrina calls to him, and watching him attempt to melt into the floor is really gratifying. I’m positive he’s going to accidentally let a basketball go flying out of his fingers and directly toward our faces, but then a guy who must be the coach barks his name and off he goes.

“Why exactly are your parents making him do this?” I ask Sabrina as we make ourselves comfortable in the bleachers with a few other scattered spectators.

“Are they?” She snorts. “Probably trying to make him more social. They tried the same thing on me with the tennis team in junior high.”

“Did it work?”

One of her thin eyebrows arches delicately. “Do you think it worked?”

“I do not.”

“And that is why you are in honors classes.” Suddenly, her eyebrows crash down to earth. “Uh, is it just me, or is Salem not horrifically bad?”