She wasn’t kidding. I was immersed in a world of flashing lights, reds and blues, strobing relentlessly. I counted a total of four police cars, three tow trucks, two ambulances, and a fire truck.

One ambulance in particular stole my attention. This was because the back door was open, facing us, and two girls I very much recognized were sitting in the back.

The first girl was Imogen Klutz—aka the Most Beautiful Girl in the World. She was kind of the highlight: squeaky-clean, wearing crisp Hello Kitty pajamas, her hair completely wet, flattened in sheets down either side of her perfectly round head. It looked like she had jumped straight out of the shower for this.

Imogen’s chubby arms were wrapped fiercely around the girl beside her, head resting on the girl’s shoulder.

The second girl was Wynonna Jones—aka the Best Friend of Imogen Klutz. Her presence was kind of alarming. For starters, she appeared to be spattered in blood. Her brown hair was matted to her forehead, and everything else was drenched in sweat. Her clothes stuck to her like tape. Her face was empty. Numb. A sort of “dead inside” look oozed out of her. She had a red blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and have I mentioned that Imogen was holding her like she was the most important thing in the world?

Suddenly, I had completely forgotten about the blood situation. All that I could focus on was my overwhelming jealousy of Wynonna.

In some distant cubicle of my mind, I became aware of several things.

I was aware of the time—3:13 a.m.

I was aware of Imogen’s mom and dad standing off to the side, talking to a police officer. I heard the words, even though they failed to register.

“Her grandmother is willing to assume guardianship, but she’s currently out of town. She’s trying to get here as soon as she can, but until then, well… the girl is obviously in a fragile state.”

“It’s no problem,” said Mrs. Klutz, shaking her head. “No problem at all. Christ, I wish we could do more.”

I was aware of Wynonna—looking directly at me.

At first, I was startled. She was looking so intently at me, it almost seemed resentful. Maybe it was. But the more I studied her, the more I realized it was longing. Like she wished she was me.

I failed to realize Mom was still holding me.

I failed to realize what that meant to Wynonna.

Tick—3:14 a.m.

Pi.

It was kind of a magical number for me—in the same way that 7:11 was a magical number for everyone else. “Seven-eleven, make a wish!” they would say. Well, I liked to make wishes on 3:14—although I usually made my wishes in the afternoon. Tonight was a rare occurrence. I had never stayed up late enough to make a wish at 3:14 a.m.