Klatts sniffs, nods, observes me through her triple-power bifocals as I sit and reach into my coat for A Clockwork Orange. Last time I read, Alex was home, enjoying classical music after an evening of beating and raping. I’ve only got about a hundred more pages to catch up on, but so what—I’ve got all study hall to read. Just an off-campus lunch. Not like I blew off actual English class or something. I picture myself trying to sell that line to Ma, and my stomach curdles. Precisely why I’ll make sure she never, ever finds out.

In my pocket, something crinkles against my fingers. A lump in a plastic wrapper. I pull it out partway and see a fortune cookie. Kincaid, brushing by me in the doorway of Song’s. He slipped me his cookie.

My smile takes over, the feeling of being chosen, made special, erasing any worry of people noticing the signs that I was out in the cold fresh air a minute ago, my hair windblown, my hands chapped. That I was tasting the real world instead of the stale gerbil pellets of this place all day.

Nobody looks twice. Nobody questions it.

Tearing the seal on a food wrapper in study hall is like using a can opener around a pack of hungry dogs. I wait until I’m at my locker, the door blocking people’s view as I break the cookie open and take the paper slip out.

Fortune favors the brave.

Eleven

BREE’S MOM’S JEEP is in the lot when I step outside the next afternoon.

I hesitate, glancing at their stoop. Sage and I are supposed to show up at Bree’s place at four thirty, bringing whatever we volunteered to hunt down from Trace’s list. I’ve got the Jell-O; we’ve had a couple boxes in with the nonperishable pantry stuff for at least two moves now. Berry Blue.

Bree’s mom is just the weaselly excuse I need to turn around and go back inside where it’s warm and the kitchen smells like Ma’s baked chicken, sizzling in the oven. Kincaid’s fortune mocks me from my pocket; I’ve been having serious second thoughts about joining Trace’s siege tonight. I should’ve asked more questions, found out what we were really getting into instead of sitting there wondering what the hell was going on with Kincaid. But Bree. She’s waiting.

I knock, sticking the Jell-O boxes into my coat in case her mom answers. Instead, it’s Hazel, who says, “Hi,” in a hushed tone, moving back so I can step over the sneakers piled on the mat.