I can’t even believe what just happened. I jumped into a pool full of whipped cream in front of a crowd of people. With Fitz Moreland.

And that’s not all. I lost.

Lost.

And I was so close.

I should have tried harder. I can beat any task with a little effort and perseverance, even something as asinine as searching for gum in a tub full of whipped cream.

I pull one of my old shirts from the bag Granny made me take, a bright red T-shirt with a crow on the front, the word nevermore sketched above it.

I wore it my first day at Blue Falls High and then never again.

There’s a knock at the door. “Reese? Are you dressed?”

Annabel is out there. And she still has the key. She could come in if she wanted.

“Uh . . . almost.” With no time to search for something else, I tug the shirt over my head and then grab a clean pair of pants from the dresser, throwing them on with haste.

I unlock the door and open it.

Annabel smiles and steps into the room, closing the door and dampening the noise from the rest of the house.

“So, this is it, huh?” She glances around. “All this work for a space smaller than a cell block.”

“It’s better than the street.”

“True.”

The resemblance between Fitz and Annabel is strong. They both have oval-shaped faces, gold-tinted hair, and chocolate-brown eyes. Annabel isn’t as wiry as Fitz though. Fitz is all lean muscle and rugged masculinity.

Annabel is . . . something else. Voluptuous. Wide, smiling mouth, red lipstick. She’s one of those girls who can pull off wearing wrap dresses, like she is tonight. A simple black dress with ballet flats. I’d look like a beanpole in curtains.

“I love your shirt.”

I glance down in surprise. “You do?”

“I love Poe. Did you know he wrote more comedy than horror?”

“Yes. Only fifteen out of about seventy stories were of the darker variety.” And before I can stop it, my mouth runs away with me. “Poe is largely remembered because a nemesis spread false accounts of him after his death, painting Poe as someone with a dark and hedonistic history. He wasn’t, and it backfired and made Poe even more of a legend.”

My favorite factoid. I stop and brace myself for an odd glance and a quick departure.

But Annabel surprises me. “Ah, yes. Rufus Wilmot Griswold.”

I blink. “Yes.”

She didn’t look at me funny and run away; she actually knows about Poe too and doesn’t think it’s odd to spout random facts during a conversation.

She sits on the edge of the bed. “I was named after one of his poems, Annabel Lee.”

My mouth pops open in surprise. “That’s so cool.”

“You think so?” Her nose wrinkles.

“I would love to be named after a literary figure,” I say with feeling, sitting next to her on the bed. “I was named after my mother’s favorite candy.”