He nodded as if confirming something only he knew before leaning in close. When most boys back then smelled of an overabundance of supermarket body spray, Macon smelled of cedar soap and do-me pheromones. “Tell me, Tater Tot, is it a beautiful soul you’re looking at when you moon over the half-naked-firefighters calendar you have pinned in your room?”

All the blood rushed from my face, leaving painful prickles in its wake.

Macon’s smile was cutting. “I don’t believe for a second that you like Hayes for his riveting personality. You act all high and mighty while you’re as susceptible to good looks as the rest of us. At least I have the guts to admit it.”

The worst thing? He was right. I slammed my locker shut and fled.

“It’s been fun, Tater Tot,” he called after me in a laughing voice. A loud-ass voice. And when Macon Saint spoke, people listened.

By lunchtime, snickers of “Tater Tot” could be heard all over the cafeteria. The horror only grew when grilled cheese and taters were on the lunch menu the next day. Dozens of those tiny brown pellets of potato sailed my way. I’d been labeled by the king of Shermont High, and everyone acted accordingly.

Misery followed to the point I almost refused to go to prom. It was Sam who finally stepped in, hunting me down in my bedroom to have a talk.

“Don’t let Saint get to you. He’s only having fun.” Her blue-gray eyes were guileless as she grabbed my hand. “And, really, it’s cool that he gave you a nickname. No one else has one from him. Not even me.” She frowned at that as if the thought had just occurred to her, and she didn’t much like it.

“Tater Tot is not a nickname,” I snapped. “It’s an insult, and you’re welcome to have it.”

“No.” She shook her head, sending her straight hair over her shoulders in a glinting wave. “I’d need something else. Something to signify our deep connection.”

I held in my gag admirably, but I found myself speaking without forethought. “How about ‘Mirror’? Since you both love gazing into them.”

As soon as I said it, I knew it was unkind. Sam’s pretty face flushed bright pink, and she launched herself from the foot of my bed.

“Sam, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” she cut in sharply. “You said what you said. You know, Saint is right; you can’t help but pick people apart.”

“Excuse me while I choke on the irony,” I shot back.

“Always with a joke,” Sam said, even though I hadn’t been joking. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your problem is that you don’t know how to play the game.”

“The game? Life isn’t a game.”

“Bullshit. It always has been and always will be. Smile whether you want to or not; compliment the people in position to help you or have your back.” She counted her points off on her fingers. “When everyone assumes you’re the sweetest, most helpful, or honest person in their world, they’ll let you get away with anything.”