“Hi, hon,” she says, tapping me on the head. “Everything okay?”

  I stop playing, pressing my fingers flat against the keys to hold out the tune as long as possible until it fades. “Sure,” I answer, not sure, at all.

  My eyes still feel swollen so I try not to look up at her.

  “That wasn’t too convincing.”

  I lift my legs and spin around, my back to the piano keys as I take in this multi-million dollar view yet one more time. “It’s been a strange week,” I finally say, glad for what seems to be the first time ever for my mother’s uncanny intuition. She’s the only one I want to talk to right now, even if I don’t quite know what I want to say.

  “Strange? In what way?”

  Even in those fancy workout clothes and overdone makeup, my old mom is still there. In fact, she appears to be the only one in my life who’s remained unchanged since I’ve been Struck. Maybe some people remain basically the same no matter what life throws at them.

  I wish I was one of those people.

  I peek up at her for a second when she’s still looking out the window, and can’t seem to look away. Those knowing eyes are something concrete to cling onto, somehow a part of me. A part of Spencer and Nate and . . .

  And . . .

  “Mom,” I dare ask. “Why did you stop having kids? After me, I mean?”

  I sense a cord of tension threading through her, making me feel bad for throwing something so personal at her—a cheap shot. I almost tell her to forget it, but stop when she lowers herself into a chair beside me.

  “I don’t know, honey. I always thought I’d have more than three kids. All growing up, four was the magic number,” she says, almost wistfully, her eyes glazed over. “But then your dad got so busy with work and you kids started getting older . . . and then we bought this house, and there were more bills to pay and I . . . I don’t know . . . ” She looks up, as if she doesn’t know what else to say, like she is looking for a concrete reason herself.

  “Oh,” I answer, the matching faces of my twin brothers fading from memory the more I try to draw them forward.

  “That was a strange question,” she says, meeting my eyes. I turn the other way before she can guess I’ve been crying. “What brings it up?”

  I can’t talk to her about these things without feeling like I’m lying. She knows me too well not to notice it, either. So I change the subject before I end up having to go rogue and admitting the truth about my being Struck with every wish I ever wanted. My mom is a great listener, but not that great.

  “Do you like James?” I ask her, out of the blue again.

  “What?” She wrinkles her brow, confused.

  “For me. Is he a nice guy? You know—from a Mom perspective.”

  “I don’t know. Sure, I suppose.”

  “That didn’t sound too convincing.”

  “He’s nice, Mackenzie. I’ve always thought he was nice. Polite. Charming. Attractive.”

  “Does it seem like I like him, though?” That’s what I really want to know. Sure, I feel sparks. Sure, I get all flustered and tingly inside whenever he’s near me. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I like him. Or love him. Especially not that. It just means I like the attention. Who wouldn’t like the attention from James Odera?

  Mom laughs. “What kind of question is that? He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know anymore. Lately things have been weird between us. And I’ve been kind of confused. I think I like him . . . but sometimes I wonder if it’s more about liking who he is, rather than liking him.”

  “I don’t know . . . I guess now that I think about it, maybe you don’t seem yourself as much when you’re with him.”

  “Really?” I say, wondering what being “myself” is like, versus not.

  “I actually saw him just this evening,” she adds.

  “James? Was he at your yoga class or something?” I joke.

  She laughs. “Pilates, not yoga. And, no, he wasn’t in my Pilates class; he stopped by the office to drop off a check, is all.”

  “A check? For what?” I ask, wondering if she also sells Tupperware on the side. Or drugs.

  “Rent, my dear,” she adds.

  “Rent?”

  And then it hits me. Words like rent and market combined with her fancy clothes and odd hours.

  My mom’s a realtor!

  Mystery solved.

  She confirms it too. “You’d be surprised at how many tenants procrastinate until the last possible second—as if we all don’t have our own deadlines to meet,” she says, standing and stretching in the sun, her brown hair streaked gold. “Though, I have to admit, the Oderas aren’t the worst of them.”

  Wait.

  RENT.

  The Oderas.

  As in, James Odera.

  No. Way.

  How did I not know about this?

  “You mean the Oderas are renters?” Like me? I want to add, thinking about my old self—the old me who was convinced that in order to fit in in this town, my parents had to have a piece of real estate attached to their name. That we were imposters in our rental house. That we didn’t belong in Piedmont because we had to do our own yard work as part of our agreement . . .

  My mind is flipping out.

  Mom slaps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, shoot. That is not supposed to be public information.” She stands up and roams around the room, looking for an escape. All I can do is picture the Oderas’ picture-perfect house in my head—the brown and green Tudor with a tall, peaked roof and storybook chimney, with the meticulous landscaping leading up to the front door.

  Mom’s eyes come to rest on mine. “Mackenzie—you can’t say a word to James or his family, or anybody. Do you understand?” she says, her forehead etched in crooked valleys. “I could get in serious trouble.”

  I can’t believe it. The Oderas are renters.

  My mind is officially blown.

  “Mackenzie?”

  I look up. She stares at me, her eyes bulging. “Do you understand?”

  “Understand? What?”

  “Not a word. To anyone.”

  “Okay.”

  It’s all a façade. Not his façade—but mine.

  For years I made up James and Brecke and all the rest of the lucky ones to be something they never were. That smile and those dimples and the way he walks into a room like he owns it, high-fiving the world, charming the girls; his “babys” and nicknames and that deep, smooth voice—the way it purred in my ears . . . James Odera invented himself. And what an invention! He is as much of a poseur as I am, yet that never stopped him. Not even close.

  And Cale—what about Cale? Here is a dude the exact opposite of James—royal by birthright but who refuses to take the crown. He wants nothing to do with the lucky ones though he has every right to be one.

  “Kenzie, look at me.”

  My eyes fly open.

  For ten seconds I can’t remember anything. Not even where I am. Until the sound of Mom’s voice pulls my brain out of the fog and jerks me awake.

  “Promise me you won’t say anything,” she begs, her brown eyes still pleading with mine.

  I grab her hands and clench them tight.

  They are so cold.

  That’s when I realize I was wrong; Mom has changed. Her hands never used to be so cold.

  “I promise,” I say.

  thirteen

  There is laughing behind me. And where the party used to be is only thick, black smoke searching out more victims. I turn away, squeezing my eyes shut against the ash until the wind shifts the other direction.

  Most have already abandoned the campfire, except for Aly and me. Orange flames leap higher from the pile of wood, cracking and hissing into some kind of smoke-creature, burning hotter and drier until the smoke disappears and draws everybody’s attention back to the lick of flames.

  The stars are visible again, and the logs encircling the campfire are once more crowded with bodies. Aly remains by my side the whole time, waiting for someone else to talk to her. So far, I am her only friend here, and I can tell she senses that very thing the way she keeps shifting around uneasily.

  “Do you want me to grab you a drink?” Aly asks, standing up.

  “Sure.”

  She braves the harsh looks and accompanying silent treatments following her every move, and cuts through the circle to the ice-filled cooler. Somehow she seems to be taking this a lot better than I am.

  I still can’t figure out where I went wrong. I mean, I thought the rich me had a little more clout than this. Now that we’re here, though, I realize my mistake in bringing Aly—especially without warning anybody in advance. Not only is everyone giving her a cold reception, but I feel their icy stares falling on me too . . . including James. He’s been distant all night, sitting across from me on another log, next to Katie.

  So much for our romantic rendezvous in the hallway today.

  I want to be over there by him where all the attention is, not relegated over here to outer darkness. But James is ultimately the one in control—I know that now.

  Not me—him.

  His approval means everything to everyone. He is our CEO with a black pen scrawling his signature across all that goes down in the corporation, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been fired.

  I wonder how different things would be if everybody knew his secret. I wonder what people would say, how differently they might treat him if they knew the truth. Would they treat him like they treated me when I was serving them drinks instead of dancing with them? Or is James enough on his own? Did he invent himself so seamlessly so that, no matter what, he’ll always be the man in charge, the one with all the power?

  As I watch him with his adoring crowd, I still can’t believe all these years I assumed he was just another lucky one, with nothing to worry about except for how often to bleach his teeth. Not like the rest of us.

  He plays his part well.

  Now James is putting his Alpha Male on display for all to see. To let the world know that what James Odera says, goes. That if you cross him, you’re finished. And if Mackenzie Love doesn’t follow his cue, well . . . then watch out.

  Have I screwed everything up?

  “Mackenzie.”

  “What?” I turn around, coughing, trying to find a face belonging to the voice. But there is too much smoke, all of it somehow right in my face. Who is in charge of this smoking pile of wood, anyway?

  “Your marshmallow’s gone. You trying to burn the place down?” A tall forehead made even taller by dark, coifed hair appears through the thinned-out smoke.

  I finally make the connection. Tanner.

  “What?” I ask, my mind drifting around like this infuriating, errant smoke.

  “Your stick’s on fire,” he says, pointing.

  “Wait, what?”

  All at once the word fire registers in my brain, and I look down to find my long, marshmallow-roasting branch lit up in flames. Fire, climbing up the stick, inches from my hand.

  “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!” I yell, dropping the stick into the fire.

  The rest of the crowd searches me out through the smoke, every one of them falling into laughter at my mistake.

  “Nice going.”

  “Smooth.”

  My hands sting. I lift my eyes. James’s smile sparkles here in the dark, even with smoke in his face. He is so hot, so heartthrobbishly handsome in the glow of orange flames that I want to leap toward him, to hear him call me “baby” again, even though I finally decided I hate that word.

  It doesn’t matter, though; he keeps me at a distance with a single flick of his head, prompting me to look the other way.

  Aly settles next to me again, handing me a Coke. “Don’t worry,” she says, her familiar scent rising from her skin, even through the smoke. “Burning up your stick is not a big deal. Trust me.”

  But it is.

  Liv and Morgan watch me through the flames. I wonder what they are thinking, or if they’ll ever stop sizing me up. James drains what is left of his drink and stands up in front of the crowd, planting his feet wide while taking a moment to compose himself.

  “Oh great. He’s going to do it again,” someone says.

  Do what? I wonder, still not able to remember much from last year in this life.

  My eyes sting. Loud, angry music thumps from a car parked behind us, breaking in through the chaos of voices and laughter.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention,” James says, all eyes shifting to him.

  Jared manages to produce some kind of catcall-like whistle, as some guy I don’t know stands up and starts chanting and clapping his hands. “Pied-mont! Pied-mont! Pied-mont!” As if this had anything to do with sports.

  James stands there in his self-imposed spotlight, his teeth bared through his charming smile, waiting for the noise to die down.

  Loving every second of it.

  Aly shifts beside me. She is biting her lip. Nervous.

  I need to get out of here, to get Aly out of here. There is some kind of discord stirring in the air and reflected in the eyes around me, like something terrible is about to happen.

  I start to grab Aly’s hand to leave, but feel the weight of James’s voice hold me back. “I’m thinking it’s time for another truth or dare,” he says through the noise, bringing my attention back to him.

  I hold still, afraid to move.

  The crackle of fire eats up the silence when his eyes find me through the smoldering black, keeping me prisoner. The group quiets down, the tension building at his announcement. I search for an ally in his eyes but find opposition instead. Trying to hide my disappointment, I lose focus in the crackling embers and the heat sears my face, matching the fear that has started to come to flame inside me.

  “Aly Campbell,” James almost purrs, his voice a wisp of smoke curling around us. “How’re you doing tonight, baby?”

  All heads turn our direction. I lift my head up, surprised he singled her out. Terrified he singled her out.

  This isn’t good. Not at all.

  Aly jabs an elbow in my side. “What’s he doing?” she asks, her voice hovering above a whisper.

  “I don’t know,” I say. Wishing I knew.

  She peers into the fire, trying to find James. “Hi,” she says to him, offering a smile.

  James clasps his hands together. “What’s your choice, baby? Truth or dare?”

  “Um . . . ” She scans each face reflecting the orange-yellow glow of the fire while I secretly panic inside. All at once, Aly’s eyes fall on me, her pupils focused and fierce, glaring.

  “Pick truth,” I whisper, hoping James’s bark isn’t as bad as his bite.

  But it’s as though Aly doesn’t hear me or doesn’t trust me or doesn’t care what I say, because without any hesitation she says boldly, with a smile, “Dare.”

  I clamp my hand over her knee. Aly flings it off and scoots a couple of inches away from me, her hands clenched beneath her.

  What is going on?

  “Woo hoo hoo!” James says, his voice an octave higher than normal. “Hold on a minute, will you?”

  He turns around to consult his friends.

  I elbow Aly. “I told you to pick truth,” I whisper, trying not to let anyone else hear.

  “I know,” she says, staring straight ahead, her jaw clenched, her profile unmoving.

  James separates himself from his co-conspirators and turns back to face Aly again, his smile positively devilish despite those irresistible dimples. Behind him, more faces grin, all eyes on Aly and me. A chill ricochets up and down my arms, as if warning me what lies ahead.

  “What do you think he’ll make her do?” someone whispers.

  I wait.

  We all wait.

  “Flashlight, people. Who has a flashlight?” he says, scanning the group.

  Tanner tosses one into his chest. James catches it, barely, and steps around the fire until he is right in front of Aly and me. I crane my neck upward to find his face chiseled out in the light of the fire, the shadows like paint brushed across his face. His eyes avoid me completely.

  With a clank, the flashlight drops into Aly’s lap.

  “Thirty minutes underground,” James says, pointing to a field of rocks behind us where a burrow of underground caves snakes through the abandoned property we claimed tonight.

  For a second I think James is kidding.

  I even wait for him and everyone else to start laughing and high-fiving each other before another more reasonable dare is thrown out. Instead, the only sound through the silence is the continuous crackle of fire.

  He can’t be serious.

  The static finally ruptures with a gasp, followed by a string of giggles and a long whistle before it grows quiet again. All is silent as each hushed face waits for Aly’s response, all soaking in the look of terror flashing across her face.

  Even then, she refuses to turn away from him.

  I feel sick.

  I hate this. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

  All I want to do is grab Aly’s hand and escape.

  But I can’t. Not now.

  I search for the right words, for the perfect response to get James to back down. I want to be strong and confident, even though every bit of me feels small. Insignificant. Powerless.

  “Come on, baby. You’re not scared, are you?” he taunts Aly in his high-pitched voice, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  Aly stands up and mimics him, crossing her arms too. “Where’s the entrance?” she says, grabbing the flashlight from James and pushing past him.

  I can’t believe she is so calm. Any other girl here would have balked, including me; they would have gone with truth in the first place. She is a lot stronger than I thought.

  A lot stronger than me.

  Jared starts cheering her name, which under normal circumstances would have been a good thing. But not now. This isn’t so good.

  Why did Aly pick dare?

  “Al-y! Al-y! Al-y!” Soon, the whole crowd except for me has joined in, making me realize how far I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone and straight into the crosshairs of James Odera by inviting an outsider without permission. By being too nice to Cale.

  This type of stuff isn’t supposed to happen to the lucky ones.