I glance over at Bree, chewing gum, her breath mingling with Kincaid’s in the chill air. Still don’t know how to tell her what’s going on. If she hates me, Sage might hate me, too, and then what would stop everybody else from piling on? No more friends. No more park. A leper wearing a big scarlet S pinned to my chest; S for slut, S for stealer, the boyfriend variety. I fell asleep in knots over it last night, gazing back at the origami jack-o’-lantern sitting propped up against my bedside lamp, the paper aglow with light.

Now, Bree glances over at the school. “Can you tell us what the hell we’re doing here?”

Trace and Moon trade looks, laugh like a couple of eight-year-olds. Bree glances at Sage, who shrugs, but I get the feeling she already knows all the details. Interesting, how info finds its way into these little inlets and eddies among a group of friends. Never know who knows what, who told who when. Who’s being left out of the loop.

Trace points to the two remaining teacher vehicles still in the lot, an SUV and a light-colored VW Beetle, the old kind. “Crack’s going for a little ride. He just doesn’t know it yet.” He points to us. “This time, you guys are lookouts. That’s all. We get caught, this could mean serious shit, so just be glad Moon’s willing to take one for the team.”

Moon digs in his coat, brings out a flathead screwdriver, a metal slim jim, and his phone. He’s sporting a bruise on his cheekbone today, thanks to his older brother, who caught him trying to replace the paintball gear and figured out what happened. Moon says not to worry, his brother’s basically cool, would never tell anybody what we did, but I still wish a few less people knew our secret. “Okay,” Moon says, “I’ve never done this before. Like, any of it. But old cars are supposed to be way easier to hot-wire, and I got the WikiHow pulled up. If it doesn’t work in, like, ten minutes, we get out of here.”

“Good man.” Trace claps Moon’s shoulder, shaking him down to his shoes. “I’ll see you get a commendation for this, soldier.” Moon’s salute ends with the middle finger.

I stand silently, chewing my lip as the rest of us get our assignments—I’m posted along the drive that winds around the school to the teachers’ lot—but we wait until we’re sure Moon can get into the VW, watching from the trees as he fiddles with the slim jim, wobbling and flexing it and trying to peer down between the rubber window seal and the door to find a way to work it in. Hesitates, frustrated, then tries the handle. Unlocked. Tosses a grin at us and climbs inside.