His question takes me aback. What are they like, the Grimshaws? Is she like them? Fierce. Loyal. Funny. But that’s not what he means. “No,” I tell him. “She’s not like them.”

“Who was she crying about?” he asks. “Some creep?”

“Yeah.” Actually, I wouldn’t mind getting some advice on the Mike Lyle situation. As of tonight, I think we’re in over our heads. Scot looks from the crumpled wedding dress on the floor to me, still in ripped tea-length pink.

He gestures at her with his chin. “I think she’s out now,” he says.

But she opens her eyes. She stares at the ceiling. “I’m a Grimshaw,” she announces, and then passes out.

“Poor kid,” he says again. “She wasn’t really getting married, was she?”

“No. It was sort of a joke.”

“Like a homecoming prank?”

“Sort of.”

“Good.” He nods. “It was a good game. That Junior Davis is a talented son of a gun. I hope he’s got some colleges looking at him.” Scot pantomimes throwing a football. “You’ll be glad for these memories, later on, so make as many as you can.” He nods again and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve always been a good friend to her,” he says. “You get credit for that.”

Our landline ringing about twenty times into an empty house wakes me up. It’s Angel.

“Oh my God,” she says when I pick up. “Serena. I’m with Claudette. You have to come immediately. No joke. Do you have the car?” I look out the window. About three inches of snow have accumulated on the ground. From the fresh tire tracks on the driveway, I know Scot’s gone. He must have gone to church.

“No.”

“Well, you have to run, then. Melody, too. We need both of you.”

“What ha—”

“Just RUN!” she says, and hangs up.

I look at the clock. It’s almost ten. I shake Grimshaw, but she doesn’t move. “Grimshaw—”

“Leave me alone.” She sounds awake and stone cold sober. I keep shaking her.

“Grimshaw—it’s—”

She sits up and looks around her in disgust. “How did I get here?” she asks, like she’s never seen my bedroom before in her life. “Fuck you.”

“It’s some emergency at Mizerak’s,” I tell her. “Angel called.”

“Were you the one who pushed him in the pool last night?”

“What? No! He tripped and fell in.” But my voice is very high, the way it gets when I’m guilty of something. Was I the one who pushed him in? What do I care, anyway—if she wants that clumsy idiot and his loser car, that’s not my problem.