She blocked her leg before Kara could punch her again.

“Look.” Taylor pulled out the chair and dropped into it. “I know we’re not always nice. But that’s how we have to be, or we’d be surrounded by losers.” She shrugged. “If Gabriel Merrick says you’re in, you’re in.”

“Come a little early,” said Heather. She stepped around the table and picked up the end of Layne’s braid. “We’ll do your hair. I bet you have awesome hair.”

Layne couldn’t move.

“She does,” said Kara. “It’s, like, all the way to her waist.”

“If you don’t want to come,” Taylor said, “I totally get it. I mean, Gabriel wasn’t going to come until I told him we’d be inviting you . . .”

Layne tried to imagine it, Taylor confronting him in the hallway, Gabriel brushing her off until hearing Layne would be there.

No way.

Then she thought of those two notes on her desk.

Maybe?

“Here’s my address.” Heather slid a piece of paper across the table. “Come at seven. Everyone else will show up around eight.”

Layne glanced down at the paper—not like she needed to. It figured that Heather wouldn’t even remember that Layne lived right down the street. But it meant she wouldn’t be trapped at the party. If the girls started acting bitchy, she could walk home.

“Okay,” she said, hating that part of her was a little eager. She hated these girls. Hated them.

But sometimes she desperately wished she were more like them.

Especially lately.

“I’ll come,” she said. “Seven?”

“We’ll come,” said Kara.

“Great,” said Taylor. “Bring something sweet, ’kay?”

Layne ticked down the minutes until her father would walk in the door. Another late night, as usual. She’d called to tell him that she and Kara were going to a friend’s house down the street, and he’d promised to be home before they left.

She and Kara had baked chocolate chip cookies, and they sat on a plate, covered in saran wrap. Kara was actually being nice for a change, and for the first time, Layne wondered if this was what a friendship was supposed to feel like: laughter and teasing and baking cookies.

Simon was upstairs, locked in his room. He’d worn a different shirt home from school, and when she’d tried to ask what his problem was, he’d given her a pretty universal sign of displeasure.

Kara was licking the spatula. “Are you seriously going to wear jeans and a turtleneck? To a party?”

Layne shrugged. “I think you’re showing enough skin for both of us.”

Kara was, in a spaghetti-strap top and skintight denim capris. The pants were a little too tight, but Layne didn’t feel like opening that can of worms.

Kara dropped the spatula into the sink. “I have no idea how you got one of the Merrick brothers’ attention.”

“Me neither.”