“Look at that,” Cale says, stepping right up to the window.

  I stand beside him, my palms pressing against the cool glass, looking out into a sky pocked with stars, a hillside of lights tumbling downward into a dark, motionless bay.

  “Not bad,” I say, wondering why I am here with Cale instead of out there with James. Because I like the way he listens to me? Likes who I am when I’m with him instead of who I normally am?

  “Play something,” Cale demands, his voice startling me.

  I look over. He is standing by the piano and has lifted the cover, drawing bare the keys glowing white in the moonlight. I meet him at the bench, embarrassed by his request, trying to recall the last time anybody has asked me to play. Probably when Mom needed to entertain guests or something.

  James never asks me to play for him.

  Taking a deep breath, I lower myself to the bench and ready my hands, trying to call a song to mind. But I seem to be drawing a blank.

  Ha—I’m not nervous! I perform on cue all the time. That’s what practicing 24/7 does for you. It makes you a walking recital, ready to play at any given moment.

  “Relax,” Cale says, his fingers at my neck, playing with my hair. “It’s only me.”

  “Sorry.”

  I am nervous, but only because Cale is so close to me.

  Drawing in another breath, I close my eyes, trying to loosen my hands and arms and shoulders. That’s the key to performing like a pro—never let yourself go tense.

  With uneasy hands I start playing, timidly at first, but growing more and more comfortable until my body is swaying with emotion. In the zone, my mind never drifts further than these keys as I dig in deep and burrow through the tunnel until it’s time to start climbing toward the surface.

  And then I am done.

  I am back.

  I exhale, and Cale claps and whistles as my hands lift from the keys. They are still shaking. I plunge them into the safety of my lap.

  “Was that Mozart or Beethoven?” he asks, his eyes wide and searching. “Cause I’ve heard of both those guys.”

  I laugh, loving how quickly he can put me at ease.

  “Those are the only two I know about, though, so if I’m wrong, well . . . I’m out of guesses.” He grins, and I melt at his smile.

  That’s when I realize we are sitting too close. Much too close. “Tchaikovsky,” I answer, wondering why it matters to me how close we are.

  “Okay. So I’ve heard of him too. But, seriously, Kenzie—that was amazing! I knew you played, but you forgot to tell me you were brilliant.”

  Why is he looking at me like that? Almost flirtatious. Almost . . .

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, my mind still a blur, my fingers throbbing.

  Cale taps out a few notes of his own, drawing my eyes to his long fingers. “How long have you been working on it? You could be at Carnegie Hall some day. You know that?”

  I look up. Our shoulders and hips are touching. The subtle scent of his cologne permeates the space between us, drowning out my train of thought. Everything about him suddenly seems gorgeous and sexy and delicious to me.

  “How long?” he asks again.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t remember . . . ”

  It is so quiet in here.

  “Hey, what are you guys doi—” a voice rings out through the silence, making me jump. Cale jumps too, a mélange of discordant notes filling the room when his hand jerks across the keys at the intrusion.

  Brecke stands in the doorway gaping at us, a ribbon of moonlight caught in her hair. “Nice, Mackenzie,” she says, her voice filled with disdain.

  I bolt off the bench, away from Cale. “We were just talking, Brecke. That’s all.”

  But she isn’t buying it.

  Cale leaves out the back door.

  The shrill bark of a whistle sails across campus and through the trees, waking me up. “Kenzie, are you even listening?” Brecke’s voice, breaking through the static.

  I turn my head, struck with the realization that she was the only other person there that night. “You told James about Cale and me at the piano, didn’t you?”

  “You should have been the one to tell him, not me. I did you a favor before he found out from someone else.”

  “That someone else could have only been you! You were the only other one there. James wouldn’t have known anything if you hadn’t said anything.”

  “Not true.”

  “We were only sitting at the piano, Brecke! Just friends. Just sitting.”

  “It’s more than that, and you know it.”

  I know. I can still sense those timid feelings tugging at me from the memory, the way my nerves lit up when our bodies touched, the way my heartbeat thumped sitting so close to him. Realizing it at the time, but not knowing why.

  How is it possible to want someone else when I already have the one guy I’ve always ever wanted? Who gives James Odera up? Who takes a walk with the lucky ones, only to throw it all away?

  I start running down the track again, trying to escape from . . .

  From me.

  Brecke reluctantly catches up to me, though she has to sprint every few yards to keep up. I don’t care. Not only am I happy to leave her behind, but there is no way I’m going to get an F in running. It is something I do in my sleep. Literally.

  “Mackenzie, what are you doing?” she asks, panting hard between each word.

  I don’t answer. I just keep running.

  “Come on, Kenzie! Wait up!”

  But I can’t talk anymore. Not to her, not to James, not to any one of the lucky ones. Not until I figure this out.

  Brecke finally slows to a jog since I’m too far away to continue our conversation. I sprint the rest of the way, hoping to make good time in spite of her, and make it back a second before Coach Allen gives her whistle a quick double-blow. Brecke crosses the finish line about thirty seconds after me, even though I should have beaten her by at least a minute.

  Inside the locker room we are met by the sound of running showers and a stifling cloud of humidity. I lean over the sink and splash water in my face, blotting it dry with a towel. Brecke ignores me and takes a gulp of water from the sink, downing a couple of pills. I look up at her in surprise, wondering what they are.

  “What?” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “Not all of us can be as perfect as you.” She wipes the water from her mouth and disappears behind the maze of lockers. A pang of guilt pricks my conscience, at my hypocrisy. Here I am, judging Brecke for whatever monster she’s dealing with while I’m just as messed up as the rest of them. Just as desperate. Just as afraid and confused.

  I’m sorry, I mumble to whomever is listening, determined now to find Brecke and apologize. But I stop at the faint, wispy outline of someone standing beside me, turning to find Katie fixing her hair and glossing her lips. When did she get here? I look around the locker room, realizing everyone has disappeared behind the row of lockers while steam from the showers gathers around us.

  “Am I in your way?” I ask, stepping away from the counter to give her more space.

  But she only moves closer to the mirror, examining her teeth before swiping a glossy wand across her lips and smacking them together. Soon, a suffocating veil of fog has nearly obscured the mirror and I can’t find myself anymore, despite a hint of my own small, brown eyes peering through the haze at me.

  “I know what happened at the Pumpkin Ball,” Katie says to the mirror and not me, her voice barely there. “Everybody does.”

  The invading mist has already swallowed up her reflection, and I turn to look at her directly. “What?” I ask, gaping into her eyes, afraid of what she’s going to say next.

  With a slight tilt in her head, she smiles something sweet and innocent, and then delivers the poison. “You and Cale Blackburn. Too bad for James. And for you. Good for me, though.”

  She smiles and walks away.

  The rest of the day my hands won’t stop shaking. Every face I pass has me on edge. Being on the wrong side of the lucky ones makes me feel so vulnerable.

  Alone.

  I fight back tears and avoid everyone by staring at my feet as I beeline it straight for my locker, terrified I’m going to run into James or Brecke or pretty much any one of them. I can’t help but look for their heads poking through crowd, scared they will somehow find me before I’m ready to face them.

  I stop and fumble at my locker as fast as I can, trying to get in and out of there before Brecke shows up. When the five-minute bell rings, I breathe a sigh of relief and slam the door shut. But when I turn around, Brecke is behind me, Tanner all chummy beside her. Tanner looks the other way and Brecke stares at me coolly, like I’m in her way.

  “Hey,” she says, though it’s not her usual, friendly “hey.” Her voice is definitely cooler now, though anybody who doesn’t know her would never guess it. I smell her familiar rosy perfume when she reaches past me to open her locker.

  “I’m sorry about ditching you in PE,” I say. “It was pretty crappy of me.”

  She smiles. “It’s okay.”

  Is it?

  I can’t tell.

  I step out of her way, feeling strange about how she’s acting, unsure whether or not to just start talking to her like normal or to run away.

  Tanner chuckles, though I have no idea why.

  “Woo hoo hooo! Lookie here, ladies.”

  Now I do. And I’m terrified at the sound of that voice. James’s dark head emerges from the crowd with Katie and Morgan flanking him on either side, both of them all smiles, aimed directly at me.

  I contemplate walking right through them and not looking back, but then that would make me look like a coward. And I may be a jerky, judgmental friend, and even more of a flirt than I ever realized—but I’m not a coward. At least I’d like to think so.

  Morgan and Katie peel away from James and he comes straight for me.

  I can’t move.

  Or breathe.

  There he is, his black eyes aimed right at mine. I step backward into the wall of lockers behind me, waiting for the worst.

  James advances like he’s not going to stop. I can sense everybody watching me from out of the corner of my eyes, but I don’t dare look away. Our faces are a hair apart when he stops and places his palm above my head, flat against the locker, trapping me under him. I smile weakly, unsure of his intentions.

  Loving and hating how close his face is to mine.

  “You coming to the bonfire tonight, baby?” he asks me, his voice dripping in sugar. His scent is suffocating yet exhilarating, reminding me how his lips feel on mine, of his hands on my skin. I wilt at the memory, until his fingertips find my chin and crawl backward toward my ear, lifting up my hair up and exposing my neck, releasing all the heat that’s stirring up inside me.

  The way the light catches the contours in his face unnerves me, making him appear more solid, more flawless than he really is. He leans in and kisses me on the lips and I can’t help but kiss him back.

  Is this real? Or play?

  I thought he was mad at me. What about the rumor everybody else seems to believe? Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t believe the rumors.

  Soon, it seems only he and I are in the hallway, the bodies and faces around us a blur of commotion. I blink when he pulls away from me, not sure how to respond, not sure what to expect. My heart drums in the space between us, still sucking me toward him. His lips nuzzle my ear and I feel the heat of his words on my skin. “You okay, baby?”

  I exhale.

  Blink. “I’m okay.”

  Even though I still can’t move.

  The bell rings, snapping me out of his spell. I break free, ducking under his arm, but he pulls me backward to him again, into his chest. “See you tonight, K.”

  twelve

  After school, I’m surprised at how relieved I am at finding my house empty, with nobody around to ask me how my day went or to beg me to play Legos with them. Peace and quiet is definitely a benefit to my new life.

  Except Spencer. I don’t want peace and quiet from him; he’s the one person I want to talk to right now. The only person I need to talk to. I don’t think that will ever change, even in this life. Spencer’s such a good sounding board. He always knows just the right thing to say or not to say.

  At least he used to.

  The last time I talked to him was Friday.

  It’s time for a Spencer fix.

  Hands shaking, I face his bedroom door, getting ready to knock, when I think I hear the faint sound of the guitar seeping under the door.

  Does Spencer play the guitar now?

  I knock.

  The music stops. “What?” Spencer’s voice.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  No answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Go away,” he says, the guitar strumming again.

  I wait, my forehead and palms pressed against the door. Come on, Spencer. I need to talk to you.

  “Listen . . . I’m sorry about . . .” What exactly am I apologizing for? Being a lousy sister? Being myself? “I wish you would give me a chance to explain some things. Spencer?”

  The music grows louder the longer I speak. He’s trying to drown me out. Ugh.

  I hang my head, mad at Spencer for not being the old Spencer anymore, mad at the Bird Lady for asking me to make such impossible choices, mad at Dad for never being home, mad at Nate for picking a school in frickin’ New York, mad at James for being so irresistible, mad at Cale for being so patient . . .

  Just mad.

  I open the door and march into Spencer’s room, not caring how ticked he’ll be. He jerks his head up and slaps his palm against the strings of his guitar. “What the—I said get out, Kenz!”

  The last time I heard that nickname was . . .

  Before being Struck.

  It stuns me, and I lose my momentum.

  Spencer stands up, towering over me at his full height, narrowing his eyes in a challenge. “I said—”

  But I don’t let him finish. Instead, I rush at him, stopping before running him over. He stumbles backward in surprise, catching himself against the bed.

  “Will you listen to me?” I say.

  “Get off me! What’s your problem?”

  “Look, I get why we’re not close anymore. It’s probably my fault . . . but I’m starting to wonder if it’s a little bit your fault too.”

  “Kenz—”

  “You used to be this great, understanding, thoughtful person who cared about stuff, even though you were sick all the time.”

  He laughs. “You’re kidding me. You’re going to lecture me about thoughtfulness? You’re the last person on earth who should be talking about that.”

  Whoa. Right to my heart.

  He’s not done, either. “The last time I checked, you only cared about you and your pathetic little group of wannabes. So don’t act so shocked when someone actually calls you out on your crap.”

  “That’s not—”

  True.

  That’s what I was going to say, but considering the longest sentence Spencer has spoken to me since being Struck is to tell me what a jerk I am, it makes me pause.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say, not able to come up with anything better.

  “I don’t care if you’re sorry. Just get out of my room.”

  “No, you’re not listening!” How can I get him to realize I’ve changed? That the sister he’s used to isn’t me anymore? That we can be friends again? That we have to be friends again. Have to. “I’m not that person anymore.”

  He pushes me on the shoulder, knocking me off balance. “I don’t care. I said get out.”

  “What about you?” I yell, pushing him back, feeling a wave of heat flush across my face. “You’re not any better than me, you know. I’m sorry for being so selfish and shallow. I’m sorry for being a lousy sister. But you aren’t perfect, either.”

  “Whatever, Kenzie.”

  “You used to be optimistic. Did you know that? Despite being on the verge of dying, you lived over there on the bright side of things. You used to be the one who was always trying to pull me away from the dark side. Now you just mope around with a crappy look on your face all the time and ignore people, just freaking mad at the world. Apathetic.”

  “Stop the psycho-analysis crap, will you?

  “No. I figured it out. You have all you need now, so you don’t need me.”

  “What are you—”

  “I’m not done!” I shout, angry at how he’s always blowing me off, like there isn’t a thing in the world he would hate doing more right now than listening to me. “Stop interrupting me!”

  He lifts his hands and backs up, as if he has no choice. He doesn’t.

  I continue. “I’m sorry Dad’s never home . . . And I’m sorry Nate and Indy and Ezra aren’t here anymore, either, Spence. . . . It’s all my fault,” I say, trying to catch my breath, not realizing until my cheeks start to sting that I’m crying. His mouth hinges open, his dark eyes empty. He steps forward and brings his lips together, like he’s about to speak, but I cut him off too fast.

  “You want to know what I’m most sorry about, though?” I ask, my tears dropping faster, where they gather at my chin until I wipe them away. “I’m sorry I ever knew what it was like for you and me to be friends. We were best friends, Spencer. Don’t you know that? Don’t you even care?”

  My voice cracks.

  “And knowing what I lost is so much worse than never knowing at all.”

  Spencer steps toward me, his mouth open like he’s about to say something.

  But I gasp at my words and run away from him, trying to find my way out of there. Away from him.

  Away from the truth.

  Mom finds me later plunking around on the piano, where I’ve been hiding from Spencer and anybody else who wants to remind me what a horrible person I am for the last couple of hours. Still in her workout clothes from one of those new, trendy exercise classes requiring expensive getups, she drifts across the floor toward me, stopping in front of the wall of windows overlooking the whole of the San Francisco Bay.