“She needs Rastin,” Wes said. “However, she’s also willing to go in without him and try reasoning with Masks R Us directly if that’s what it takes to keep you safe. Which means that, if you don’t get put into a mandatory time-out, her next step will be to tell the authorities about Rastin’s involvement just so he won’t be able to help you. That’s her plan B. But. If you’re already preoccupied with being in trouble, then she’ll stick with her plan A and go straight to Rastin after school tomorrow. Thing is, you and I will have already been in and out.”

I huffed a laugh at him. “And starting this fight. That’s supposed to help your case with her . . . how?”

“I don’t have a case with her,” he snapped, shaking his head at me. Like he thought I was as stupid as I was oblivious. “And I don’t expect to get one, either, until Steph is back. So I’ll worry about that later. Now, are you game . . . or not?”

“You’ll seriously go with me and Rastin?” I asked him after a pause. “Tomorrow?”

“No Trick, no Little Lottie. No muss, no fuss. Rastin opens the door. We special ops in. You Ocean’s Eleven her out, and we worry about figuring out a way to stake the vampire later.”

It sounded good to me. It sounded like maybe, if we could get Rastin on board, it could even work. At the very least, it was something—a plan.

“I’m in,” I said.

With that, Wes stood from the table. Taking the cue and deciding to trust him even if his plan was insane, I stood, too.

“Quick,” said Wes. “I’m a method actor. Give something to work with.”

“What?”

“Piss me off, Lucas.”

“Uh . . . Charlotte’s bra size is thirty-two C. Her favorite one has pineapples on it?”

“And that works.”

What that, he pulled back his fist and, no-holds-barred, took his shot.

Pain erupted in my jaw, ricocheting in and through my head so that the unanimous shouts of surprise that arose from the cafeteria hit my ears as a dull roar. The thought that he hadn’t needed to hit me so hard, or that he could have possibly just pretended, entered my mind first. And stoked the rage I’d felt the night before back into full flame. I swung at him. At his right side instead of the requested left. He took the punch, not even trying to block. And it felt good—so good—to land the blow that I hadn’t been able to last night. Even if the target had changed.

Wes hit me again, and somewhere I heard Charlotte screech my name. Not Wes’s. Mine.

Wes closed in on me again, his face twisted with an anger too real for me to buy that this was all fake.

He shoved me hard, and I toppled backward, into a table that went sliding, its occupants scattering with shouts, screams, and spilling sodas.