“It’s just…” Lia shrugged, sucked on her teeth, and shook her head. She started rubbing Omelet dry. “You wouldn’t get it. You’re good at things.”

“I’m good at things because I work at them,” he said.

“I work so hard at so many things,” Lia said, her voice rising. She took a breath. “When you say that, it sounds like you’re implying that I don’t work at things. Like I don’t practice. Like I’m lazy.”

Lia tried and tried, but by the time the secrets to Calculus AB or chemistry made sense to her, the class was already on to some other new subject and Lia’s grade was a solid 75 percent. But with Assassins, she knew her classmates and the town, and she knew how games like this worked. She had finally had all the time she needed to prep. She could finally be good at something.

“Sorry. I really didn’t mean it like that.” He finished drying Omelet off. “People say stuff to me all the time. They tell me I’m so lucky I’m good at music or that I have an ear for it.” He made a face. “I spent years practicing. They only ever see the outcome, never all the failures.” Then he looked at Lia. “You’re not failing at anything,” he said. “I’ve been in half your classes.”

“Yeah, but I’m not good at them either. Ms. Christie had to ask my name three weeks ago, and I’ve had her for two classes.” Lia patted Omelet’s head and shrugged. “I’m really good at games, and they’re never important. This one is. It’s the only thing that Lincoln cares about that I’m good at.”

And her parents were part of Lincoln. The adults of the town might turn a blind eye to the antics of Assassins, but they respected the tradition. She had always known her parents were disappointed in her, but this was a chance to make them proud.

“I see where you get your mixed-up priorities now.” Devon pulled away from Omelet and gently draped the towel over his head like a veil. Omelet woofed and flicked his head back. “So the game is really important to you, huh?”

Lia nodded.

“I guess I should try harder, then,” he said.

A pleasant warmth fluttered in her chest and she smiled. “Thank you. And I promise not to shoot anyone else off a bridge.”

It was an easy promise to keep. By Monday, Abby’s injury was common knowledge. How she got it was not.

“She was teaching Omelet to box,” Georgia said. She sat next to Abby in every class they had together. “Omelet won.”

Abby rolled her eyes and stole a piece of Georgia’s breakfast bar. “Lia and Gem were there. They saw Omelet best me.”

“He has a mean uppercut,” Gem said. “How’s your arm?”

“It still hurts,” Abby said. “The cops showed up.”

“They did?” Lia asked nervously.

Abby nodded. “They said someone had vandalized the bridge. And by someone they meant me.”