My pulse is cranked bass, my throat pounding with it as we fly over dead grass, the copse of yew trees ahead, the only cover from view of the classroom windows on this wing. So this is cutting. Never done it, wanted to ever since we spent three whole months learning how to hold a pencil in kindergarten. I’m scared, psyched, a million worries taking a backseat to how badly I want to be in on this, part of them, the third weird sister.

Bree makes the trees first. Sage and I tie for second, all of us flattening ourselves back against the trunks, breathing hard. “Kincaid won’t come,” Bree says. “I know it. We’ll get all the way down there, risk our asses, and he won’t show.”

Sage shakes her head, sucking wind. “That’s what you guys get. Falling in love with a ghost.”

Bree bolts. We race after her. I can’t help but take one backward glance at the school, the image bouncing with every step like the final scene in a found-footage horror movie.

Downtown. Song’s Banquet waits quietly, the lot mostly empty before the noontime rush. We pass beneath the gold dragon into synth waves flowing from a radio behind the unmanned counter. Smells of hot oil and soy sauce, walls decorated with silken embroidered hangings. It Will Be Our Pleasure to Seat You, the sign says, but nerves and guilt stretch two minutes into ten, so when the hostess doesn’t turn up, we go in search of the boys ourselves.

Trace and Moon are at a booth in back, Trace with his shoulder pressed against the wall, one bent arm shielding whatever he’s working on. Moon balances on the edge of his bench, using his phone while they talk. “Damn it,” Bree says under her breath: no Kincaid. Part of me settles back to earth, deflated, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing. He really got in my head last night. Looked around, rearranged things, left a closet door open behind him to let all the bad things in. I should be pissed at him, and I am, a little, but then I think of his hand, gripping his own wrist in place of mine, like he needed someone to hold on to that badly. Kind of takes the wind out of the sails of the Good Ship Resentment.

Bree and I slide in with Moon while Sage bounces in next to Trace, planting a kiss on his cheek, which he returns with quadruple enthusiasm, saying, “Anybody see you guys?”

“Just some random people downtown.” Sage sits back and takes a breath, grinning at me. “Clarabelle can really haul ass. And she didn’t even get lost.”

I laugh, flipping her off. Bree cuts in with, “Is this everybody who’s coming?” glancing back at the entrance.