“We’re in a golden age of beer,” Paul says, sipping his like it’s wine. “Bask in it.”

  “If you say so,” I tell him, and I finish my cup without tasting, pour it directly down my throat.

  If I didn’t know him better, Paul would be a good candidate for that punch in the face, but I do know him better and I sort of like him, despite the know-it-all attitude. The kid actually asks me questions about myself. A rare thing.

  “So how are the sculptures coming?” he says.

  “They’re coming,” I say, because that’s about all I can say. For one, I’m not really a “sculptor.” I nail, I carve, sometimes weld. I don’t really sculpt. So I don’t talk about it that way. Also, I haven’t touched any of my pieces in weeks. Not since we started our planning.

  “I like the one you did of the eagle,” he says.

  “Osprey,” I tell him.

  “Right, right. Massive bird. The one you made looks like it could carry away small children. You should sell it, you know? You could make some scratch.”

  There’s no denying the osprey is one of my better pieces. I made it from reclaimed wood, hacking at it with a hatchet and a saw and then nailing and gluing it together. It has a six-foot wingspan and I mounted it on top of our sugarhouse. Kinda works like a scarecrow, except it scares mice and rats away. Also reminds me of summers kayaking on Champlain, so it’s got sentimental value. That’s not to say if someone offered me serious cash, I wouldn’t part with it.

  “We’ll see,” I say. “I’m keeping it for now.”

  I put the cup to my mouth to drink more and remember it’s empty, but I keep it against my lips to play it off as Esther Green walks by. She’s got this silky way about her that maybe goes along with being clever. I don’t care who her parents are, or if people call her trash; that girl knows that she knows more than the rest of us.

  I follow her, because she’s pied-pipering the hell out of me. I don’t say shit to Paul, just toss my cup and start walking. I’m not looking where I’m going and I bump into this kid, Gus, who’s standing by a potted mum.

  Gus Drummond, yeah, of all the luck. This scruffy motherfucker was Cole’s best buddy from way back. As if I need another reminder of what we did.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  And you know how that little stain responds? “You’ll be sorry all right,” he says under his breath. “Stupid duck.”

  Did he just call me a duck?

  “Ha,” I say back to him. I literally say the word “ha,” because shit like that isn’t even worth laughing at. He must’ve put on some beer muscles tonight, but trust me, the kid is harmless. All obsessed with fantasy books and Minecraft shit. Only time he’s thrown a punch is in a video game.

  I fake like I’m going after him and he flinches, then scurries away. No surprise there. Holly would be pissed if she saw this, what with Gus being Cole’s friend from way back. But it’s probably been two years since he and Cole have even talked. I’m not worried in the slightest about him. Kid can’t even swear right. Stupid duck? Ha.

  I’m back to trailing Esther, at least until she stops by the firepit and I’m standing right behind her. She senses me there and turns around, puts a finger out and pokes my chest.

  “Not cool, Gray,” she says.

  I grin and ask, “What?”

  “Sneaking up on me.”

  “Wasn’t sneaking. You were going where I was going.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.”

  A fat kid from Southfield, who I only know as Rumson, tosses a log on the fire and sends a bunch of sparks in the air. Pretty—the opposite of rain. They dance and disappear, and when I’m done watching them, I notice that Logan is there too. All intense, staring across the fire at me. I put my hand to my forehead and flick off a tight salute, the type my sister, Greta, learned in the marines. The way Greta does it, it’s like she’s saying “Yessir!” and “Fuck off!” at the same time, which is what I’m going for, even if Logan doesn’t realize it.

  He answers with a little nod. I have to admit, he’s been handling himself better than I expected. Hasn’t been hounding me about anything. He’s letting time go by and that’s what we need. The further we get from it, the better. It rained yesterday and washed away any puke or hair or skin or whatever evidence was still left behind in the rail trail lot. At the grave, the leaves are probably matted down, and when the snow comes, it will look like any other spot in those endless woods.

  “You two all right?” Esther asks.

  That’s when I realize Logan and I have been staring at each other for too long, so I cluck my tongue and say, “Mr. Charitable owes me twenty bucks is all.”

  “Do I, now?” Logan says with a huff.

  “Lemme guess,” Esther says. “You’re one of Logan’s Heroes. Gonna open a pie shop. Two young men, making the world a better place. Through pie.”

  She’s not being serious. She’s flirting. I’d like to say she’s flirting with me, but . . . yeah, that ain’t it.

  “Twenty bucks is ’cause this bitch owes me money for a Thule roof box,” I tell her.

  That gets a reaction from Logan. It’s like I took a piss on his leg. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “Just fucking around,” I say, and I turn to Esther. “You know Logan is the sorta guy you can trust. He’ll do anything for his friends. Anything.”

  “Good to know,” she says. Then she kisses her fingertips, blows us both a kiss, and walks back to the house.

  Logan stands on the other side of the fire, mad as I’ve ever seen him. I wink and walk away.

  HOLLY

  I’M GETTING SICK in the upstairs bathroom. It is so very nasty, but I have to admit this is a really nice remodel. Dull slate and shiny chrome. I can’t imagine Becca’s parents—God, anyone’s parents—would be happy to know what I’m doing to their perfect porcelain. But they probably won’t ever know, will they? I can clean this up. I can clean up anything.

  Meeka is sitting on a stool, the type that toddlers use to reach the sink. “You can come back to my house,” she says. “Sleep off all that booze.”

  “I don’t want to be there or anywhere near that place,” I say as I take a breath.

  Besides, what is there to sleep off? I had one drink, a splash of screwdriver in a plastic cup. Which was enough to push me over the edge. How did I become so sensitive? Am I literally falling apart?

  “I understand,” Meeka says as she traces the lines between the tiles with her foot. “You know you’re always welcome, though.”

  I massage my brow and tell her, “People will start saying I was drunk the night before a game. What was I thinking putting anything in my body?”

  “You wanted to be calm,” she replies. “You wanted to be normal.”

  “I’ve never wanted normal,” I tell her.

  I wipe my mouth with some toilet paper and lean back against the wall. The baseboard radiator is on. It’s warming my back, which feels good, but I wish it would burn me. Mark me. Punish me.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Beat it, peasant,” Meeka yells. “We’re making babies in here.”

  This doesn’t make me laugh like it might’ve in the past. It makes me think. Would Meeka be a good mother? It’s a weird thought, but as I look at her, I want to say . . . maybe. She’s loyal, fiercely so. I know she’d do anything for me. I can’t imagine her with an actual baby, though. Not because she’s seventeen. There are plenty of girls in our class who I can imagine as mothers. Meeka is different. I’d like to say it’s because she’s more mature than them, but that sounds counterintuitive. Let’s say it’s her priorities. She’s got so many other things she’d like to do with her life first. That makes me wonder why she was wasting her time with Cole. Will I ever stop thinking about Cole?

  I lunge for the toilet and my body heaves, but nothing comes.

  As Meeka rubs my back, she says, “Since you’re not up to it, I’m going to make a few decisions for you.”

  “That so?” I mumble.

  “’Tis. Okay, this is what’s happening. You are going back out there. You are going to say your goodbyes and get in my car. I am going to drive you home and you are going to get into bed. You are going to sleep. You are going to wake up in the morning and you are going to go to your game and you are going to score three goals. No, four. Actually, five. Five spectacular goals. You are going to shatter that record. It’s what you deserve. It’s who you are. A fucking shooting star.”

  She helps me up, hugs me, and we push through the door. Jed Barrow is waiting outside. He shakes his head in exasperation. We were in there for a long time.

  “The babies are officially made,” Meeka says, and she punches him on the shoulder as we pass.

  We weave through the crowd, giving half hugs to the kids we like, with Meeka doing all the talking, squeezing my cheeks and saying things like “We gotta get our lil’ darlin’ wested up for tomorrow, so she can score wots and wots of goals.”

  As we circle around the house, we see Logan. He’s next to the driveway, sitting down with his back against a tree. Alone.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” we both respond.

  “You out?” he asks.

  “You bet,” Meeka says.

  Then we don’t say anything else for a few seconds, until Logan breaks the silence.

  “Good luck tomorrow. I wish I could be there, but . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s a stupid game. A stupid number. That’s all.”

  “No, it’s a big deal,” he says. “And you deserve all the credit you get.”

  That’s a compliment, but somehow it sounds like a threat. Maybe I’m hearing it wrong, but the word “credit” doesn’t sound good.

  “Thanks?” is all I can manage to say.

  “Have fun,” Meeka adds. “Be good.”

  Logan tries to smile, but it doesn’t work. It’s painful to watch, so I don’t.

  Past him, in a patch of trees, I spot someone else. A boy, peeing. His blue Carhartt, splattered with bits of white paint, tells me it’s Grayson. The four of us, together again. Okay, not really together, but in the same place. Only for a few seconds, though. Long enough to make me remember our confession as I rush to Meeka’s car.

  * * *

  • • •

  Huddled over the phones, the four of us said it one by one. First Grayson, then Logan, then me, and finally Meeka. The same words except for our names.

  “I, Holly Morse, along with Grayson Hobbs, Logan Bailey, and Meeka Miller, have buried this recording with Cole Weston because we are the ones who caused his death. It is not a crime because we did it in self-defense. Cole Weston was a dangerous young man. He threatened Meeka. And he threatened the rest of us. It was only going to get worse from there. He had access to guns. He was great at hiding things, and the police would have never found any evidence, so they would have never been able to charge him with a serious crime. That is, until it was too late. Cole assured us of this. We believed him. So we stopped him. It was self-defense. For ourselves and our town. For the future we all want and deserve.”

  LOGAN

  I’M DRIVING HOME by myself. Not that I expected to be leaving with Esther, but Grayson destroyed any slim chance I had of that. Probably a good thing. Random hookups are a bad idea for any number of reasons. If I want to get anywhere with Esther, I should ask her out properly. Be respectful. The opposite of the Cole approach.

  Not that Cole ever actually used any approach. As far as I know, Meeka is the only girl he’d ever been with, and he more or less fell into that relationship. Still, he talked a big, and foul, game.

  “Every girl is a slut, deep down,” he once told me and Grayson. “All you have to do is find her weakness and you can bring the sluttiness out of her. You don’t even have to treat her nice. In fact, it works better if you treat her like garbage.”

  So disgusting. And it certainly wasn’t the only time he talked like that.

  There was this one rainy Sunday last May, and we were all bowling together. Grayson was checking out Gayle Jasper, who was working at the alley. She was a graduating senior with a mane of red hair and a family name that, to be honest, carried some baggage.

  “Give her two Mike’s Hard Lemonades and she’ll be blowing you back there behind the pins,” Cole whispered to Grayson, though I was close enough to hear.

  Grayson chewed at his thumbnail like he was thinking about it.

  Meeka, who was a little farther away, asked, “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Oh, just girls with . . . questionable morals,” Cole said. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  It made me so uncomfortable, and I couldn’t stop glancing over at Gayle to make sure she couldn’t hear us. Meeka put two and two together.

  “For fuck’s sake,” she said softly. “The rumors about her aren’t at all true.”

  “About who?” Holly asked as she returned from the bathroom.

  “If anything, it’s the opposite of what guys tell you,” Meeka went on. “She didn’t put herself in those situations. I heard she doesn’t even remember what happened.”

  “No one forced her to drink,” Cole said. “That’s on her. And how convenient that she ‘forgets’ what happens. And the guys, who were plenty drunk too, all remember. Why’s that?”

  “Trauma maybe?” Meeka said. “PTSD? Heard of it? Call me when you experience something traumatic and I’ll—”

  Meeka closed her eyes. She must’ve immediately regretted what she said. She didn’t say she was sorry, though.

  “Whose turn is it?” Holly asked as she nervously checked the monitor above our lane.

  Then Cole placed a hand on Meeka’s shoulder and said, “You’re right. She feels victimized. And it’s a shame she’s suffering through those feelings.”

  Meeka took a long, deep breath and then put her hand on top of Cole’s. She squeezed tight, like she cared. Or maybe she was angry. I wasn’t sure which.

  Grayson cleared his throat, grabbed his ball, shuffled down the lane, and promptly rolled a strike. The sound of the pins and his triumphant howl pulled us away from the conversation and we didn’t return to it for the rest of the night.

  It was a good night after that. We had fun.

  * * *

  • • •

  Was it a boy or a possum? I drive the dark roads looking for either, hoping for any moving thing to test against my memory. The woods are as impenetrable as velvet curtains and yet I keep searching. As much as I don’t want to, I go by the rail trail lot, around the Malvern Loop, and past Meeka’s place, retracing our route, hoping something will pop out and skitter across the road. When fog rolls in, I can’t even fight the darkness in front of me. My headlights barely cut through and so I drive slow and my heart goes fast. I want to be home in bed. I keep driving and I don’t see much of anything but the fog. Thankfully I know my way.

  When I get home, Mom is still up. It’s not a surprise because she watches a lot of movies. Or if there’s a big news story going on, she flips from news channel to news channel. Tonight, she’s watching something old, in black and white, with violins on the soundtrack. She turns it down when she hears me walking past the family room.

  “Hey, bud,” she calls out.

  “Hey,” I say, and I poke my head in.

  “Good party?”

  “Eh.”

  She pulls Dad’s book off the armchair and places it on the coffee table, which is her way of asking me to sit down. I want to tell her I’m going to bed, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to for a moment who actually cares about how I’m feeling. Even if I can’t tell her how I’m feeling.

  I flop into the seat and rub my eyes.

  “Better not be drunk,” she says.

  “Tired,” I reply.

  “You were safe?”

  “I drove as slow as humanly possible.”

  She pauses the movie on the blond heroine, who’s all curls and winks. “Was Holly there?”

  “Yeah, but I hardly talked to her.”

  “She’s such a great kid,” Mom says, and I know she’s not saying it because she wishes I was still dating Holly. It’s almost like she wants to be a teenager again herself so she can be Holly’s friend. Not that I blame her. Everyone loves Holly, especially the people who don’t really know her well.

  “I wish I could sleep for a week,” I tell Mom.

  She smiles proudly and says, “There’s no rest when you’re trying to change the world.”

  It’s eleven thirty on Friday night and I have to be up at five thirty so I can go with Dad to Montpelier and have a “business” breakfast with some state senator who’s supposed to help me find political support for Logan’s Heroes. I’m thankful for this. There’s no question about that. I realize how privileged I am to have a dad who can actually set up a breakfast with an elected official. But it doesn’t mean that these things aren’t still physically and mentally exhausting.

  I know. It beats working at a fast-food joint, which I can confirm because that’s something I’ve done. And even though it was probably as good a fast-food job as a teen could get—it was an organic, locally sourced burrito place called Rita’s Ritos, after all—the hours sucked, the kitchen was always boiling hot, and the customers were hardly ever appreciative. Working food service will teach you a lot about the world. Dad told me that, and I learned how right he was my first day on the job. It’s not something I ever want to do again. The nonprofit life is the one for me. So if that means waking up early and talking to stuffy people over crepes to achieve my goal, then I’ll count myself as blessed.