Many moons ago, in sixth grade, Dakota developed a crush on Spencer. It was an obsession that had long faded into a ritual joke that was important for them to perform every once in a while. Or, it was important to Dakota to perform and for Scarlett to nervously tolerate because she loved her friend and sometimes friends do these sorts of things…because sometimes friends think they are joking when they are not joking at all.

“How much do you think he would charge to take off his shirt?” she went on, to Scarlett’s dismay. “I know he’s famous and everything now, but everyone has a price.”

“I don’t know,” Scarlett said. “A quarter?”

“Really? I like how cheap he is.”

While Scarlett changed, Dakota fell back on her bed, imagining something Scarlett would undoubtedly find horrible.

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Your brother just killed Sonny Lavinski.”

“Do? I don’t do anything. No one knows he’s my brother except for you guys. And he’s just going to be on the show for a while.”

“But you guys got attacked,” Dakota said.

“Yeah, well, it was just some freak,” Scarlett said. “I don’t think we’re going to have any more problems like that. And who’s even going to know?”

“Dissection,” Ms. Fitzweld was shouting in eighth period, “is not the same as slicing to bits. You are not cutting up a pork chop.”

Actually, she wasn’t shouting. Ms. Fitzweld just happened to have one of those natural speaking voices that was sharp and pointy and overly loud—like she could see someone off in the distance ramming her car repeatedly with a shopping cart and could do nothing about it except take it out on sophomore Biology students.

“You do as little cutting as possible!” she raged on. “Do you understand me? Now, one person from each station come over here and get your fetal pig. Bring your dissection tray.”

Scarlett put on her plastic apron and a pair of goggles and made her way toward the barrel, tray in hand. She winced as her classmates walked past with their little plastic-bagged pigs on trays. The formaldehyde was overwhelming. It smelled like a sterilized headache.

“I see Slax is skipping today,” Dakota said, coming up beside her.

True enough, Max’s seat was still empty.

“That’s sad,” Scarlett said. “I feel all dead inside when he’s not here.”

The pig supply had run low. There were two left, at the very bottom of the barrel. Scarlett adjusted her ill-fitting plastic glove and leaned in, her nose almost touching the rim. She tried to lift a pig by the corner of the bag, but it was too heavy.

“Stop being squeamish,” Ms. Fitzweld said. “Pick it up.”