“Charlotte,” Dad starts with a sigh as the first bell rings, and I glance over to see the boys waiting for me at the front entrance to the school. We're all late now, but so what? This is bigger than class (although I really am trying this year since, you know, Tobias teased me with Bornstead University and all). I'd love to go to college with my boys.

My cheeks flush bright as I realize what I've just said.

My boys.

Mine.

Ugh.

Told ya I'd fall in love with every boy. I'm a sucker for romance.

“I've already said too much. Get to class and we'll discuss this later.” Dad stands up straight, glancing over at the school and the cluster of Student Council members with his mouth in a flat line. “Is this some sort of rebellion thing?” he asks me, and I realize after a moment that we've switched topics, from murder to boys. Based on my dad's face, I'm guessing they hold about the same weight in his mind. “Pretending to date them all like this.”

“Uh, believe it or not, my dating them has nothing to do with you,” I snap, frowning hard. “And don't think I'm just going to walk away and let this whole thing go. You know someone's trying to kill me, and you're not going to do anything about it?”

Dad looks back at me, and I can tell by the expression on his face that he's scared for me, really and truly terrified.

“I'd give my life to protect you, Charlotte,” he says, and then he takes off in the direction of the administrative offices, leaving me standing there dumbfounded behind him.

“Are you alright?” Church asks as the boys join me near the woods, and I turn a worried face their direction.

“Pretty sure my dad just admitted that someone's trying to murder me,” I hedge, and we all go quiet for a moment. It's one thing to suspect something, and it's another to have it confirmed. Fantastic. Senior year, in a skirt, five boyfriends, three murderers on my tail.

This should be fun.

I barely make it through two classes before Mark is schmoozing his way over to me with his football buddies in tow, cornering me just outside of math, the one class in the day where none of the boys are close by.

He cuts me off in the middle of the hallway, but I'm not concerned. I wasn't afraid of him while I was wearing pants, and I'm not afraid of him in a skirt.

“Well, well, who knew Chuck Carson was actually so fuckable underneath those ugly glasses?” He reaches out to touch my hair and I smack his hand away, making him and all of his stupid friends laugh. “What's the matter, Chuck? I thought you liked dick. You're already screwing five different guys, so what's one more?”

“Nice to know that you're a homophobe and a sexist pig,” I snap back, narrowing my eyes. My fingers are just itching to pull out that pepper spray and let loose with it. “Now get the hell out of my way.”

Mark just sneers at me again, this violent edge to his behavior that's only getting worse by the day. He was insufferable last year. This year, he's a total nightmare. I'd love nothing more than to kick him in the balls—if he has any, that is.

“What if I don't want to get out of your way?” Mark asks, stepping closer to me, trying to intimidate me with his size. Too bad. I'm not afraid of him. Without even stopping to think, I reach out with both palms and shove him as hard as I can, knocking him back several steps and into his football buddies.

“Girl or not, I'm kicking your ass,” he snarls, shoving off his friends and coming for me.

He doesn't make it very far.

Mr. Murphy steps between us, forcing Mark to stumble to the side to avoid doing whatever he planned for me, to our teacher.

“If I recall, you were just written up and put on garden duty for the rest of the semester, Mr. Grandam. It's senior year; I'd hate to have to write you up again.” Instead of his usual soft, sweet smile, Mr. Murphy looks resigned, like actually writing someone up might set off an anxiety attack or something. At least he looks like he’d actually do it—it’d be his first time, by the way, ever writing a student up.

With a scowl, Mark takes off down the hall just as my boys come around the corner. Spencer's eyes go wide at the sight of our friend ‘Adam’ standing in front of me, and he exchanges a look with the twins. Church doesn't seem particularly surprised, but Ranger is pissed.

“What the fuck was Mark up to?” he asks, storming over to stand beside us, and then turning his glare on Mr. Murphy himself. “And how about you, Adam? Huh? You want to explain some shit to us?”

Lionel Murphy stares at Ranger for a long, quiet moment, and then hangs his head, almost in shame.

“Meet me after class in my office,” he says, lifting his head, a deep sort of sadness resting in his pale blue gaze.

“Why? So you can admit what you've done?” Ranger continues, refusing to let up. He takes a step forward, but Mr. Murphy is already turning away and heading back into his classroom. Meanwhile, Mark’s wasted most of my break, so instead of getting a snack, the bell rings, signaling that it's time to head for third period.

Surreptitiously, Ranger leans over and pushes one of his homemade granola bars into my hand, carefully wrapped in that reusable beeswax food covering he likes so much, and tied with a dainty pink ribbon. My cheeks turn about that same color as I clutch it to my chest. Church, meanwhile, hands over one of the two white chocolate mochas in his hands, the kind that Merinda only makes for him. I just barely resist the urge to hop up and down. Church can tell, I’m sure, and he smiles in that way only he can—like a smile means everything.

“What do you think that was all about?” the twins ask absently, watching the door of the classroom like some clue might jump out at them.

“I have no idea,” Church replies, voice as smooth and stoic as always. “But I suppose we're going to soon find out.”

After school, the six of us meet up outside the door to Mr. Murphy's office. He's already waiting for us, welcoming us in before he closes and locks the door, and lowers the shades on the window that faces the hallway.

While we stand there, in various states of awkwardness (me), anger (Ranger), and curiosity (everyone else), Mr. Murphy takes his sweet time preparing a cup of tea and then sitting down behind his desk. He looks exhausted, and like, ten years older than he did this morning.

“You ready to confess or what?” Ranger asks, pausing only when Church gives him a look that very clearly says calm down, my friend. Mr. Murphy cringes slightly, his cheeks turning a funny pink color, the way mine do when the boys tease me about sex stuff, or how Ranger's do when he sees a fluffy kitten.

“You asked me about Jenica before,” Mr. Murphy begins, and very quickly, the room goes silent. Ranger's entire body tenses up as he curls his hands around the chair in front of him and leans forward, sapphire eyes glittering like the night sky. Our English teacher looks up with tears in his eyes, and Ranger rears back like he's been slapped, clenching his jaw in anger. Without thinking about it, I reach down and grab hold of his hand, giving it a squeeze. Almost immediately, I see a change in him, and a little flower of gladness opens up inside of me.

…

Flower of gladness?

Jesus, it's no wonder I'm no poet.