“Well,” said Hunter, “we could always go back to the house and watch Mamma Mia! with my grandparents. Or maybe we could stare at the police scanner for another hour and wait for nothing to happen. Or maybe—”

“I just don’t feel like being at a party.” At this party. Full of guys who’d know he wasn’t allowed on the team. Full of girls who’d tease him about being an idiot.

Hunter’s dog stuck his head between the seats, and Gabriel reached up to scratch him behind his ears. “I’ll just stay here with the dog.”

Hunter sighed and gave him a look. “Come on, baby, don’t be like that. Did you pack your Midol?”

“All right, all right.” Gabriel climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him. “I don’t even know why I like you.”

Heather’s place was packed—but then her parties always drew a crowd. There had to be a dozen kids crammed into the hot tub, though no one was braving the pool. Music blared from a sound system on the far side of the pool deck, loud enough that it was a miracle no one had called the cops already.

Gabriel kept thinking of Layne’s house down the road. She’d dropped that note on his desk this afternoon. I’ll help you. That’s it. No phone number, nothing.

And she still hadn’t called. Lucky him, it was Friday, and he could wonder about it all weekend.

For about two seconds, he had a fleeting hope that she might be here. Taylor had mocked him at lunch, some crap about inviting Layne so they could all “study together,” but Gabriel had ignored her until she went away.

Layne hated Taylor. She hated Heather Castelline. And this wasn’t exactly her crowd.

“Your brother’s here,” said Hunter, handing him a soda from somewhere.

“I know.” He’d figured Nick would be here, had already spotted him across the pool with Quinn.

Nick had spotted him, too, staring at Gabriel for exactly one second before looking away to laugh at something Quinn said. And then he never looked back.

Fine.

“Hey, aren’t you the new kid in my American lit class?”

Gabriel turned—but the girl standing there was talking to Hunter. Calla Dean, tall and lithe and probably on as many sports teams as he himself was—though they rarely ran in the same circles. She’d gotten the school volleyball team to the state championships last year as a sophomore. The only reason he knew her was because she’d caught his eye once: Blond hair streaked with blue was chopped off right at her shoulders, and tattooed flames encircled her wrists and crawled up the insides of her forearms.