“Yep.” Zack moves over to the driver’s side door and opens it. His dark eyes lift to mine. “Get in,” he says, and after a split-second’s hesitation, I do.

We drive to some weird little twenty-four hour diner on the coast. It smells like seafood in there, and all the tables are covered in sticky plastic, but when our orders come out, I swear it’s the best thing I’ve eaten in years.

“This clam chowder is …” There aren’t even any words. Zack just stares at me with those dark, unreadable eyes of his, and I have to wonder how he even managed to stumble on a dive like this in the first place. Imagining any of the Idols sitting in here is damn near impossible. Even Miranda would be hesitant to walk in.

“My dad owns half the fishing vessels on this dock.” He points out the window behind me, and I turn. “He’d own them all if the town didn’t hate him so much.” Zack leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his broad chest. He’s finished his fish and chips, and I’ve barely eaten half my bowl of chowder.

Even though Trini Bay is close to Cruz Bay, it’s always functioned on its own set of rules, more like a small town than the pseudo-suburb of a city. There are Buy Local signs all over the diner. That explains why they don’t want anything to do with the Brooks family.

“How’s life at Coventry Prep?” I ask, when I can’t decide how to respond to his statement. He shrugs, his arm muscles bunching with the movement. My eyes lock on and can’t seem to pull away. He was by no means skinny in eighth grade, but … he definitely went through a maturity boost over the summer.

“It’s fine.” Just that. His dark eyes bore into mine, and I feel my cheeks heating. Zack and I are a world apart, and we have so much history, but I like hanging out with him. “Once she finds out what you did, that girl you killed …” Tristan’s words ring in my head, but I push them away. I don’t know what he’s talking about, and I don’t care to. I’m sure whatever actually happened isn’t as grisly as he’s making it out to be. Clearly, Zack didn’t kill anyone or he’d be sitting in jail.

Right?

My phone lights up, and I glance over, seeing another text from Creed.

Is that a no? he asks, and I glance at his previous message: Are you thinking about me, too?

I tuck my lower lip under my teeth and tap out a message. Maybe. Why?

My heart thunders and I tuck the phone into my coat pocket, too nervous to read whatever he responds with. After break, things might go back to being bad at school. He might start bullying me again. Nothing’s changed, right? Not even a glorious dance under silver sparkle streamers and crystal chandeliers can fix the injustices in the world.

“Is that one of the Idol guys?” Zack asks finally, and I look up from my food. He’s just staring at me, that darkness making his face unreadable.

“Yeah, why?” There’s an imperceptible tightening around Zack’s mouth.

“Because they’re pieces of shit, all three of them. And this is coming from someone who knows he’s an asshole.” We stare at each other, and my cheeks heat.

“They warned me away from you, too, you know,” I start, cutting a potato into pieces with my spoon. “According to them, you’re even worse.” Zack doesn’t say anything, and we sit in silence for a while. “If it makes you feel better, they’ve been so cruel to me, I don’t think we could ever be friends.”

Not friends, but … didn’t Zayd’s kiss burn on the dance floor? What about Creed’s hands on your waist last night? And Tristan … I try hard not to think about Tristan.

Exhaling, I banish the thoughts and try asking about football instead. That does the trick. Zack tells me about his team, their brutal practice sessions, how much he likes his coach. It’s the longest and most continual conversation we’ve ever had.

After we’re done eating, he takes me for a walk down the pier, and along the small stretch of beach next to the restaurant, pausing to pick up an intact sand dollar. He grabs my hand in one of his huge ones, uncurls my fingers, and then places it on my palm. When he curls my hand back over it, my heart races and I feel so lightheaded that I have to sit down in the sand for a moment. He sits beside me, and we watch the moonlight or sunlight reflect off the gentle waves.

“For all the things I did to you in middle school,” he says, exhaling, “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long stretch of silence because I don’t know what to say. Even after we started dating, he never apologized, and we never talked about it.

Zack doesn’t move, just sits there, staring at the water.

I look from him to the ocean and back again.

When he reaches over, puts an arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him, I don’t resist.

The rest of the week is spent decorating for Christmas. Dad’s helpless without me around, so I’ve got my work cut out for me, pulling cardboard boxes full of lights and ornaments from the luggage compartment on the bottom of the first train car.

We hang white lights outside, red and green ones inside, and drag a Christmas tree home from the lot up the street. Neither of us is religious, but we’ve got a ceramic nativity scene that Mom left when she moved out, and that goes in its usual spot on a shelf in the living room. Compared to the pictures Miranda keeps sending me from Paris, it’s not much, but it feels homey, familiar, and safe. That’s all I really need right now.

Since Dad has to work everyday of my vacation save the weekends and Christmas Day itself, I have a lot of free time on my hands to lie back on my bed and text. I’ve got an interesting back and forth going on with Creed, and, surprisingly, messages from Zayd and Tristan as well.

Zayd’s a great texter. Honestly, we’re having conversations now that make me feel like we’re friends. Almost. But then I close my eyes and I remember him telling me he’d pay my price, and my stomach twists into knots. Tristan, on the other hand, is as dark and intimidating over text as he is in person. Our conversation centers mainly on the project we’re doing for chemistry and not much else. At least his zeal for schoolwork matches my own, so there’s that.

I’ve completely forgotten about my mother coming over until I open the door on Christmas Day and find her standing on the porch in an expensive white fur coat, diamond earrings, and strained smile. Every single cell in me vibrates with emotion, and I can’t seem to stop thinking about the lingerie she got me for my birthday. Snag yourself a rich one, Marnye, you’ll be glad you did. Look how that turned out for me! My throat goes dry, and my stomach turns to ice.

“Marnye-bear,” she says, holding her arms out for a hug. She hasn’t called me Marnye-bear since that one time when I was five and she called me drunk and bawling her eyes out. I don’t move into her embrace, instead stepping back so she can come inside. She frowns at me, but she steps into the living room anyway, giving the scattered bits of wrapping paper a dirty look. The way she dresses now, you’d never know she lived here with her husband and daughter once upon a time. “Charlie.” Mom—although I’d rather just call her Jennifer—nods her chin in my dad’s direction. It’s painful, the way he looks at her, like he’s still desperately in love.

“Jenn,” he replies softly, and then he looks away, like he can’t bear the sight of her.

“So, how’s that academy treating you?” she asks, her blue eyes and blond hair nothing at all like my brown eyes and brunette waves. Well … I guess I don’t have brunette waves anymore, and I reach up to touch the short rose gold locks with a tentative gesture. Jennifer notices and smiles. “Love the hair, by the way, very chic.” She winks at me, like we’re old girlfriends or something. In reality, I barely know the woman.

“I’m top of my class,” I say with a shrug. My stomach and chest have gotten so cold that I feel numb now. Looking at Jennifer, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to think. Some little part of me, buried deep down and covered over, wants to fall into her arms and let her hold me like she did before she left. The rest of me knows that’d be a disaster waiting to happen. “And I got first chair for harp in the orchestra.”

Jennifer smiles, and I think it really is a genuine expression. Only … she’s happy for all the wrong reasons. She isn’t proud of me; I’m just an extension of her, my accomplishments becoming her own.

“See, I knew I had good genes,” she says, reaching out to touch my hair. I step back and she frowns, but that ice is melting inside of me, giving way to anger.

“Genes? This has nothing to do with DNA. It has everything to do with Dad working a second job to pay the four hundred dollar a month rental fee for a harp, so I could play at home.”

“Marnye,” Dad starts, rising from his spot on the couch. I haven’t told him about the fifty-five thousand dollars in my new account yet, but I did use some of it to buy a few Christmas gifts when I was out with Creed and Miranda. He’s got a new watch on his wrist that costs more than I’ve ever spent on a single item in my entire life. I’m not sure that he realizes how valuable it is. Pretty sure Dad thinks it’s a knock-off. “Your mother’s here to take you with her for Christmas dinner.”

“We’re going to Avondale,” she says, beaming, so supremely proud of herself for booking a reservation at the most expensive restaurant in the city. “You’ll love it there.”

“Is my sister going?” I ask, and some more of that ice melts, giving away to rage. I haven’t even met my sister yet. As far as I know, she isn’t aware I even exist, and we’re barely three years apart. Mom was already pregnant with her when she abandoned me at that rest stop.

Jennifer’s mouth turns down into a frown and she glances over at my dad.

“Why are you looking at him when you’re the only one that can answer my question?” I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the counter, trying not to think about how Mom was missing when I … those two times that I … My throat dries out and I almost choke on a lump when I try to swallow.