Finally finished with her introductory spiel, Miss Manners arranges the girls in a row alongside the coffee table, then asks the boys to take a seat on either the sofa or a set of cushy lounge chairs huddled under the window; even though the blinds are closed and our building is shaded, heat pushes inside with a bullying intensity. Drew nabs one of the chairs right away. Marcos motions me to take the other, and as I sit, a smile spills over me. I have no idea if I smiled to be polite or because he genuinely struck me as sweet (attention I am starved for). Either way, Marcos didn’t miss my smile, and his grin blossoms before he realizes what he’s doing and stomps it out. Head bent and fingers snapping, Marcos seats himself at the end of the couch farthest from me.

Nice one, Major. Way to totally flirt with a guy mere seconds after swearing it off.

“All right,” Miss Manners says, interrupting my spiral. “Molly, you’re exempt from the first exercise, so just observe. Lacrishia? Darcy? Which of you wants to be Connor’s wife?”

My spiral resumes. This is it—Darcy’s note. Say yes.

But it isn’t Darcy. Lacrishia is already cautiously jutting her arm into the air. “I could be Connor’s wife, please,” she says in a hopeful voice, barely above a whisper.

“You like Connor, Lacrishia?” Miss Manners asks.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s handsome, even for a little guy, that scrappy black hair, I don’t know.” Lacrishia ends with a nervous laugh on the crest of a moan I know all too well: it’s the sound anxiety makes as it escapes the body. I’ve made a few involuntary moans like this in my time, mostly when talking to a cute guy making me self-conscious.

“Damn it, girl,” Marcos groans, humiliated, into a decorative pillow.

As Lacrishia throws another sweet, pathetic simper my way, I seriously contemplate grabbing Molly and running for the escape boat. Jesus flipping Christ, they wouldn’t marry me for real to one of these girls, would they? First Vicky, now this? How many wives does Nightlight want me to get before I turn eighteen?!

Darcy won’t even meet my frantic eyes. If I’m going to be force-fed a wedding (oh my god oh my god oh my god), can I at least find out what Darcy wanted to tell me? Maybe I should refuse Lacrishia and ask for Darcy instead…

There won’t be a need for that, though. Miss Manners groans, visibly put off by Lacrishia’s performance. “Darcy, you should be Connor’s wife.” Darcy straightens her tilted bob wig, shrugs, and agrees to be my wife as if someone asked her to run a quick errand. “Connor, will you be Darcy’s husband?”

Ramona lowers a dead-eyed stare my way, an indifferent gaze, the kind a sea creature wears just before it devours you.