Vincent Volkov spotted me first. Perched on the gray bricks of an old wall, he had his long legs crossed beneath him. His joint went slack in his mouth when he saw me. He didn’t say anything as the smoke slowly curled from his lips, enveloping his face and his long, messy hair.

It was Jason Roth who gave away my arrival. He’d always been the quiet one, the good kid. But his life had imploded over the summer, when the rumor went around that he and Vincent were dating. It shouldn’t have mattered to anyone, but unfortunately, there were plenty of people in Wickeston with a stick up their ass who clutched their pearls at the very thought of two men being together. Including Jason’s own family.

Some people claimed his parents kicked him out, others said he’d gotten himself emancipated from them. Regardless of what was true, Jason had shown up senior year with his hair buzzed off, dyed bright blue, and his earlobes stretched with large black tunnels. The new look seemed like a giant middle finger to everyone who’d tried to make him feel ashamed.

“Fucking hell.” Jason’s blue eyes fell on me with such cold hatred that I didn’t dare take another step toward the pool. He had his laptop open, playing “Awful Things” by Lil Peep from the crackling speakers. But he snapped it shut, cutting off the music. There was a screech of polyurethane wheels and Manson popped up from the pool, with Lucas close behind him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Jess?” Manson’s voice was deep — a vicious baritone as dark as the black band tattooed around his upper arm. He usually spiked his hair into a mohawk for school, but the dark locks he kept in a long strip at the top of his head were loose tonight.

“I was looking for you,” I said, as if that wasn’t already obvious.

I didn’t want to linger in the dark with them any longer than necessary. I had power in daylight, in the fluorescent halls of Wickeston High, where my status and Kyle’s backing gave my words weight.

But this was their turf. I wasn’t foolish enough to think I had a level playing field here. Especially not with Lucas staring at me as if his dark eyes alone could cause me to spontaneously combust. The only smile he ever wore was the stick-and-poke happy face tattooed under his right eye. His fists were clenched, his hands scarred from the fights that had gotten him continually suspended and eventually expelled.

“Kyle is out for blood, Manson,” I blurted. His expression didn’t change; he looked spectral in the flickering firelight, the flames making his cheeks hollower and his jaw sharper. “He found out.”

“He found out, or did you tell him?” Only the shift in Manson’s breathing showed his fear. I knew what he looked like when he was afraid, nervous, angry. His locker was right next to mine, and I’d spent enough time pushing his buttons to know what each and every emotion looked like.