Vera glanced up, and Max kept staring as he took his seat. He’d spent a lifetime avoiding the creepy girl with the bizarre parents, yet now he found himself parting his lips and searching for the nerve to say hi. Only, Jackson stumbled in behind them. His friend tripped over his feet and landed face-first in front of the teacher’s desk, popping up to a standing ovation, arms spread overhead.

“Always classy,” Leo joked when Jackson finally stopped milking the applause and plopped beside them. “You convince Bridget to come?”

“Of course,” he gloated, then cocked his head. “And she’s bringing Delilah.”

“Great.” Max grunted. They’d hardly spoken lately, which was fine with him. He had too much going on to worry about some girl screenshotting his text messages and sending them to all her friends for analysis. What do you think he means by the word the?

“Poor Max, the hot girl just won’t leave him alone.” Jackson pretended to pout, and when Max didn’t react, his friend followed his gaze. “Dude, are you staring at the Wicked Witch of the Creek?”

“No,” Max lied, shaking his head, though it was obvious he was looking at Vera.

“Seriously, that girl creeps me out,” Leo added. “She’s like a walking haunted house.”

“No, she lives in a haunted house,” said Jackson. “That’s legit.”

“Have you ever walked by there at night? I swear I saw lightning coming out of it once.”

“Shut up,” said Max, rolling his eyes.

“Ooh! You defending her now? Maxwell loves the frea-eak!” Jackson singsonged, stealing Max’s notebook and swatting him on the head. Max shoved him off.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’, be careful, man.” Jackson raised his palms. “She might be undercover hot, but she’ll make a voodoo doll of you.”

“I’m not defending the freak,” Max said. “I just…Could you imagine growing up like that?”

“Nope.” Jackson shrugged. “And I can’t say I’ve thought about it much.”

Max peered at her again, his eyes hovering until she caught him staring. He didn’t look away, because the truth was, he had thought about her a lot.

He just couldn’t tell his friends why.

“Wanna beer?” Leo reached into the cooler and pulled out a dripping can.

Max shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.” He knew it went against the rules of teenage coolness, but Max thought beer tasted like gym socks. Sometimes he pretended; sometimes it wasn’t worth it.

He stretched his legs as he lay in the back of his pickup truck, his bare heels kicking at dried leaves. All he wanted to do was sleep, curl in a ball, close his eyes, and forget everything.

“You cool?” Leo asked, reading his face.

“Yeah. Fine.” Max cleared his throat.

As soon as the last bell rang, they’d headed to Devil’s Pool for the first real day of bathing suits and beers. All the tourists in Roaring Creek clogged the beaches—at least, they used to back when it was a more popular vacation destination. The locals (or the local teens) took ownership of the creek. Devil’s Pool was the nickname for a stone bridge that crossed over the deepest section, which was only about twelve feet, but that was enough for kids to cliff-dive like they were in an ad for the Bahamas. Max had taken the plunge only once—early last September, on a dare. His toes torpedoed all the way to the murky weeds on the creek bed, slamming onto a rock. He thought he broke a toe; his entire track season dimmed behind his eyelids. But it was only jammed. Still, it was enough for him to never do it again.