“Oh, it is so on—” With a rebel yell, Sage charges the trees, swallowed up by the night, leaving us.

Bree links her arm through mine. “This way. Hurry—”

I can barely see my feet hitting the overgrown side trail, but Bree holds her phone out and we glue together, stumbling and laughing, hearts pounding so hard it seems like they must echo through the woods, giving us away as we hear what sounds like the boys ahead. Bree switches off her phone, and we blitz attack with a scream.

Bree’s braver, colliding with someone, while I waver in the dark, breathing hard, wanting Kincaid but hearing Trace instead—“Body slam! Body slam! Ohhh”— and a mad crunching of dried leaves and brush.

“Bree?” My voice sounds shrill, and I fumble for my phone, are you okay on the tip of my tongue, but thank God it never escapes because I hear her swear, half laughing, to my left, which gets me laughing, too, and the danger is fun again.

She takes my offer of a hand-up, wiping her face with her sleeve. She says, “Let’s kick their asses,” and we’re off down the trail, witches on broomsticks, propelling down a tree tunnel faster than we have any right, faster than our feet could ever take us.

Five

TURNS OUT THERE’S truth to Ma’s old love songs. She listens to weird stuff, the Ladies of Country Gold, hits from the 1960s and ’70s—think beehive hairdos and snap shirts, all about standing by your man even though he cheats and drinks and shot your old yeller dog. If my dad tried anything like that, she’d kill him.

But right now, I’m in touch with some of those clichés. Can’t eat, can’t sleep, up half the night trying to calm the thrumming energy in my limbs—kicking off the covers, pulling them back—can’t stop seeing him, remembering five hot pinpoints tickling my side, wondering if it was Kincaid’s hand doing the climbing.

Still caught in the cyclone of last night, I don’t really mind getting up for school today, taking a couple bites of generic frosted wheat squares before pushing the bowl away, watching Ma use her reflection in the microwave door to fluff and spray her bangs. Her work schedule is all over the place: a morning here, three nights there. The usual: her managers know she’s desperate for hours, so they drop her into whatever sucky shifts need coverage.