It isn’t until five minutes before the bell, when Spille opens his top desk drawer for a paper clip and brown liquid sloshes out onto his arm and the floor, that the prank hits home: somebody’s emptied a bottle of cheap bourbon into each drawer.

Hyde opens her mouth to begin her lecture, hands clasped behind her back—and the fire alarm goes off. We file out and stand around the parking lot in the freezing cold, watching leaves detach themselves from trees while we wait for the fire department to arrive. Nearly a whole class period later, the verdict comes in: false alarm. Somebody pulled it. Prank Number Three. Low points for originality, high marks for honoring tradition.

“Swear.” When Trace just laughs, Sage shakes her head, grinning. “I knew you were full of shit yesterday. What’d you do, recruit people?”

“I swear on a whole crap-ton of Bibles that none of this is me. It’s freakin’ inspirational, though, isn’t it? We grew baby pranksters. They’re like little birds leaving the nest for the first time.” He links his thumbs, winging his hands through the air. “Fly, fly, Starling. Fly, fly.”

Bree shakes her head. “Don’t quote Hannibal Lecter while I’m eating.”

I want to ask if anybody’s seen Kincaid since we talked yesterday, but I don’t. I haven’t seen or heard from him since what we did in his mom’s house, and I spent last night worrying about him, wondering if he was in the woods, in the dark, flirting with hypothermia, hoping he’s smarter than that. I know he stays with the boys most of the time, but if he even thinks he’s a burden to their parents, he’ll bolt. Now, sitting here in the hysteria the prank war hath wrought, I come clean with myself: it bothers me. A lot. I’m officially pissed that he did not come to school today.

“Young Master Savage.” Crackenback, death warmed over, stands at the end of the table, watching as Trace’s bird hands descend to earth. “A word, if I may.”

“Okay. Here’s a good one—ablaqueated.”

Crackenback points in the direction of the main hallway, and his office. “Right this way, please.”

Trace’s glance is disinterested. “What’s over there?”

Sage sucks her lips in, finding something else to look at. Crackenback’s smile forms as slowly as skin on pudding. “Your destiny.”

For a long moment, Trace stares back at him, not moving. Then he jumps up and walks toward the doors, letting Crackenback catch up.

After school, I walk straight to the park, not bothering to wait to catch a ride, since Trace is probably in detention, anyway, or worse.

Kincaid’s not here. Two days is unheard-of—since when doesn’t he live on the half-pipe?

Maybe since me. Since I figured out what’s really going on with him.