Most of the time I was more of a Netflix girl. School was a place I spent six hours a day, five days a week, usually under duress. I wasn't really that into spending extra time there. But, I realized as I navigated the sea of people crowding the parking lot pre-game, I was in the minority.

  Guys in HHH windbreakers and girls in hoodies and Uggs gathered in groups, giggling, yelling, hailing friends, all converging on the stadium that was lit up like daylight against the growing dusk outside. Just beyond the entrance gate were hot dog and nacho carts, a long line trailing behind them that spanned the length of the fence. The smell was intoxicating, reminding me that in Sam's flurry of clothes, I hadn't taken time to eat dinner. I could hear whistles and shouts from inside the stadium, signaling that cheerleaders were on the field, throwing their high kicks and oozing school spirit. The game that night was against Saratoga High, a longtime rival of HHH, which meant the administration was on high prank alert and the student body was on high party alert.

  "Hartley?" I heard someone call. "Over here."

  I looked up to see Chase hailing me from the other side of the nacho cart. He was in the same clothes he'd worn to school earlier—jeans and black boots, though he'd covered up his T-shirt with a black hoodie that had a surfer on the front. He already had a cardboard container of nachos in his hands, steam rising from the gooey cheese. I quickly jogged over to him.

  "Hey. Sorry I'm late. I had to walk," I said by way of greeting.

  He paused then cocked his head at me. "You look different."

  Immediately I felt myself blushing. "Nope, I'm the same."

  Chase shook his head. "No. Something's different." He squinted through the dusk. "Are you wearing eyeshadow?"

  "No!" I ducked my head again, this time rubbing at my upper lids to get some of the gunk off. "I'm just… It's the lighting. It's dark out here."

  Chase grinned. "Well, I like it. You look good in the dark."

  My cheeks heated even further, and I wasn't even sure if that was a compliment or not. "Thanks," I mumbled then grabbed a nacho and shoved it into my mouth to cover my embarrassment.

  Chase grinned even wider. "Gee, help yourself."

  I did, grabbing another nacho and totally ignoring his sarcasm.

  "The game's about to start," Chase said, nodding toward the stadium where the cheers were rising to an emotional high. "We should get in place before the cheat guy shows up."

  I nodded, grabbing one more nacho before following him around the back of the stadium and to the right where a line of portable classrooms sat.

  While every politician who ever runs for office in California uses improving schools as their platform, the truth is that our schools were perpetually broke. Meaning that classrooms were busting at the seams and the overflow was housed in portable units parked in rows on any available space of land near the school. Though, the word portable was a bit of a lie because they never actually moved. In fact, my mom had taken Geometry in the very same "temporary" portable that I had it in with Mrs. Britton sophomore year.

  The row of portables outside the stadium housed the extracurricular programs that lacked funding for real classrooms, including the pottery room, the shared room for glee club and choir, and the room that housed the extra football uniforms and the mascot's costume.

  It wasn't at every school that mascots got their own changing rooms, but in our case, he did. Mostly because our mascot was the Herbert Hoover High donkey, who everyone in the area fondly referred to as the HHH jacka—well, you can imagine. Last year, our football team thought it would be fun to sneak into the donkey's locker and switch out the contents of his water bottle for vodka right before the last home game. And it might actually have been funny if the guy in the donkey suit hadn't downed the entire beverage at once and vomited all over the field. Then he'd ended up braying at the cheerleaders and knocking the tuba player in the marching band over on his butt, all in a drunken stupor that left the administration red-faced and the fans cheering harder than any other night of the year.

  After that, the HHH donkey always changed in his own room.

  Outside of which was a towering palm tree with a large gray rock sitting at its base.

  I elbowed Chase in the ribs and pointed. "That must be where he does the drop."

  Chase nodded, then quickly looked around. To our right was the choir portable, to the left a line of bushes separating us from the condo complex next door. "We'll hide behind the bushes," he decided.

  Before I could protest that my heels weren't all that practical for stomping through foliage, he'd already slipped between two hedges and disappeared.

  Fab. Left with little choice, I followed, ducking as the brush grabbed at my hair and created wet deposits on my denim jacket. Behind the bush, I found Chase squatting down in the dirt. I bent my knees, lowering myself beside him while trying not to let my tube dress ride too far up my thighs.

  Chase glanced over. "Nice dress," he whispered, his gaze lingering just a little too long on the rising hem.

  I tugged it down over my knees, stretching it in a way that I'm sure would have Sam cringing. "Thanks," I mumbled.

  We sat in silence a few more minutes, crouching in the dirt. I felt my feet starting to fall asleep as the strap of my heels cut into my ankles.

  Then Chase leaned in close. "Hey."

  "What?" I whispered back.

  "Are you wearing perfume?"

  I swallowed hard. "No," I lied. "Why would I be wearing perfume?"

  Chase shrugged. "Maybe you're going out later?"

  I gritted my teeth together. Sam was so going to hear about this.

  Chase sniffed the air. "You sure you're not wearing anything? It smells like jasmine."

  "Must be the bushes," I said.

  Chase shifted. "I don't think there are any jasmine bushes around here. Don't they have flowers?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Yeah, little white ones, right? There are definitely no little white flowers on these bushes."

  "Shhh!" I said. "Someone's coming."

  Which, thankfully, was true.

  Through the shadows, I saw a guy walking toward the mascot room, head down, hands in pockets, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head, obscuring his face. Nothing about his clothes stood out as distinguishable from any of the other hundreds of students at the game tonight.

  "He's early," Chase whispered. "It's not halftime yet."

  "Maybe he needs the cash now. Maybe he wants nachos," I guessed, feeling my own stomach growl.

  Chase and I watched as the figure paused outside the mascot room. He looked over both shoulders. Then he quickly leaned down in front of the rock by the palm tree.

  "He's picking up the cash!" I whispered. "Let's go!"

  Chase popped up from the ground, crashing through the bushes toward the figure. I followed a step behind, feeling my heels sink down into the dirt as I tried not to step on anything too squishy or gross. Mud spattered up onto my legs as I emerged from the brush, tripping over a root on the ground.

  Just in time to see the guy straighten up, turn away, and shove his hands back into his pockets.

  "Hey!" Chase yelled. "Don't move!"

  Which, of course, the guy totally ignored. Instead, he spun around, took one look at Chase barreling down on him, and bolted, heading in the direction of the choir portable at a dead run.

  Chase didn't miss a beat, running after the guy as he rounded the corner of the classroom.

  I tottered after them as fast as I could, but actually running in three-inch heels and a tube dress was a total joke.

  I came to the corner of the classroom and saw Chase still running after the guy. The other guy had a head start, but Chase was taller and easily gaining on him. By the time they made it to the end of the line of portables, Chase was almost on top of him. I watched as he leapt forward, tackling the other guy from behind and bringing him crashing to the ground with a grunt.

  I clacked forward on the blacktop with my heels, closing in on the pair as Chase flipped the guy over onto his back. It was dark back there, but the ambient glow from the stadium provided just enough light to make out his features as I got my first good look at the guy's face. And realized it was one I knew well.

  Chris Fret, the HHH Homepage's sportswriter.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "No way!" I yelled, disbelief hitting me as I finally caught up to the pair.

  I'd known Chris since fifth grade. I lived just two blocks away from him. And I'd spent every other afternoon with him at the paper for the last two months. While he was on the skinny side to actually play football, he knew the sport inside and out and attended every single game for the paper. His commentary was smart, funny, and thorough, making it entertaining reading even for those of us who weren't obsessed with stats and scores. Chris was a decent student, a nice guy, and an asset to the paper.

  And the last person I would have expected to be selling cheats to the student body.

  Chris blinked, his gaze going from Chase to me. "Guys?" he asked, confusion lacing his voice. "Dude, what's goin' on?"

  "I should ask you the same thing," Chase growled.

  "Chris, how could you?" I asked, realizing I sounded frighteningly like my mom when she'd clucked her disappointed tongue at my less-than-stellar report card last semester.

  "What?" he said, his eyes still bouncing back and forth. "How could I what?"

  "Drop the act, Chris," Chase told him. "We caught you selling them red-handed."

  "Dude, 'selling'? What are you talking about?"

  "You were picking up the payment," I said.

  Chris blinked. "I swear I wasn't picking up anything."

  Chase gave him a hard stare then hauled him to his feet by his armpits. "You better start telling the truth or else…" He let the rest of that threat hang in the air.

  Chris made a small yipping sound in Chase's grip. "Wait, you've got this all wrong. I'm innocent—I promise."

  "Then what were you just doing at that rock?" Chase asked, his right hand still fisted in Chris's shirt.

  Chris licked his lips. "Okay, fine. Look, I was leaving a payment."

  "Leaving a payment?" I asked.

  Chris nodded. "For the answers to Mrs. Perry's chem midterm."

  Mental facepalm. Chris wasn't selling the cheats; he was buying them. "So this guy doesn't just sell answers to Lipkins' tests." I glanced at Chase. "This is school-wide."

  "He can get answers to any test on campus," Chris said. "The money was supposed to be under the rock before the game started, and then I'd get a text with the answers after."

  "But the game's already started," I pointed out.

  Chris shrugged sheepishly. "I'm a little late. I had to convince my dad to let me borrow the car first."

  I narrowed my eyes at him, and Chase leaned in with a growl.

  Chris yipped again. "I'm telling the truth!"

  "What are you doing buying answers, Chris?" Chase asked. "You want to get suspended, too?"

  Chris's cheeks tinged pink with guilt. "Look, you can't tell anyone, okay? My dad threatened to take away my driving privileges if I didn't keep my grades up. I'm totally failing Chem, and if I don't pass the midterm, I can say adios to my dad's station wagon."

  "Ever heard of studying?" Chase asked.

  Chris blinked at him. "Between being at all the games, and the paper, and my after school job, I don't have time to study!"

  "Okay, then tell us this," I said. "Who are you buying the cheats from?"

  Again he licked his lips. "I dunno. I never got the guy's name."

  "How did you contact him?" Chase asked.

  "I have a number," Chris said. "I asked around, and this senior gave it to me. I just texted the guy with what test answers I wanted, and he told me to drop the money here."

  In the distance, we could hear the sound of the crowd roaring. From the cheers, it sounded like HHH had made a touchdown. Chris looked from Chase to me.

  "You have to believe me. I'm just an innocent consumer in all this."

  I shot him a look. Innocent was a relative word.

  "Show me where you put the money," Chase said. He kept one hand on Chris's shirt as he led him back to the rock.

  Only, as Chris lifted it up, all we saw underneath was more dirt. Whatever cash Chris had deposited was gone.

  "He must have come and gone while we…" I trailed off, looking to Chris.

  "While we chased you down," Chase finished, his teeth still gritted together.

  "Sorry?" Chris said.

  I felt my spirits sink as fast as my muddy heels as I realized I'd squatted in the bushes for nothing.

  A muted buzzing noise came from Chris's pocket, signaling an incoming text, and we all froze.

  Chris looked nervously from me to Chase.

  "Is that him?" Chase asked.

  Chris shrugged.

  Chase let go of his shirt, and Chris dug the phone out of his pocket, checking the readout. "Yeah. This is him."

  "Let me see," Chase demanded.

  Chris looked hesitant for a moment, but he handed his phone over.

  Chase glanced down, reading over the contents of the text. I moved to look over his shoulder, but I only caught a glimpse of the list of letters before Chase deleted it.

  "Dude!" Chris protested. "Come on!"

  But Chase got right up in his face, his voice low and menacing. "If you get caught cheating, not only are you going to be suspended, but I'm losing a staff member from my paper, which I cannot afford to have happen."

  Chris gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he took a small step backward.

  But Chase wasn't done with him. He took another step forward, his eyes narrowing. "So far, your only crime is being stupid enough to give this guy a wad of cash. Which means I have no reason to turn you in to the administration."

  Chris's shoulders sagged with relief.

  "But," Chase continued, "if I find out that you have actually used stolen answers to cheat on a test? I have no choice but to tell the vice principal. Got it?"

  Chris swallowed again. "Yeah," he squeaked out, his voice high enough to join glee club.

  "Good." Chase finally backed off. "Now, you better get back to the game. Because I expect a finished article on our victory over Saratoga first thing Monday morning."

  Chris nodded. "Yep. Right. Cool. I'm on it," he said then scuttled off toward the bright lights of the stadium.

  I watched him go, feeling the disappointment of our busted evening.

  "Now what do we do?" I asked. "We missed the guy selling cheats."

  "We did," Chase agreed, pulling out his own phone. "But now we have his number." I watched him quickly enter it into his contacts from memory.

  "And what do we do with that?" I asked.

  Chase sent me a wide smile that was all kinds of wicked. "We set up a sting."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "So, how was the date with Chase?" Sam asked the next afternoon as she pulled her American Government book from her backpack.

  "Stakeout," I corrected, mirroring her actions and adding a notebook to the pile of study materials on her bed.

  "Bummer." She paused. "Did Chase even mention your outfit?"

  I fought down heat in my cheeks as I answered. "Yes. And I am never going out looking like that again."

  "Why? You looked hot."

  "I looked like a girl who thought she was going out with a guy and ended up on a stakeout, squatting in the mud in a pair of heels and smelling like jasmine! I felt ridiculous."

  "Oh." Sam bit her lip. "Sorry. I was just kinda hoping you guys would get together."

  "Why?" I asked, trying to ignore the blast of embarrassment still coursing through me.

  Sam shrugged. "I know how uncomfortable you get around Kyle and me."

  I bit my lip. Was I that obvious? "You guys aren't that bad."

  "I just thought it would be fun to double-date. Then maybe our kissing and stuff wouldn't squick you out so much."

  "Thanks." I shot her a smile. "But I'm not squicked. You guys are fine."

  "Cool," she said, grinning back at me as she reached into a drawer in her desk and came out with a pen, pad of paper, and an eraser, all in a matching sparkly pink desk set.

  My school supplies, on the other hand, consisted of a beat-up spiral-bound notebook and a number two pencil with bite marks on the end.

  While Sam was my best friend, her bedroom could not look more different from mine. My walls were a blank eggshell, the same color that had been there when Mom and I had moved in, and were covered in posters and photos ripped from fashion magazines. I had a corkboard tacked to the wall, where pictures of Sam and me were attached with different colored tacks, and a full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I had a desk, somewhere, but it had been a while since I'd actually used it as a desk. More often it just doubled as a place to put clothes from the overflow of my closet. My bed was rarely made, school papers kind of lived wherever there was a surface to put them down, and the overall appearance was lived-in.

  Sam's room, in contrast, looked like an ad from Pottery Barn. The walls were pale violet to complement the floral bedspread on her perfectly made bed, and all her furniture matched—a white clapboard look dominating the headboard, dresser, and desk. Above the desk in the corner was a board covered in quilted fabric with ribbons running diagonally across it to keep photos in place (a couple of them copies of the ones on my board at home), and every drawer, cubbyhole, and cupboard was perfectly ordered inside and out with organizers of every size.

  And, for as much as Sam was into fashion, I didn't see a stray piece of clothing anywhere.

  Sam was like my tidy evil twin.

  I shifted on her bed, almost afraid to make a wrinkle as I flipped my binder open to my American Government notes.

  "So now that we've established it was not a date but a stakeout—how did the stakeout go?" Sam asked.

  "Terrible." I shoved my book bag onto the floor then filled Sam in on the Chris fiasco.

  "And by the time we got back to the rock," I finished, "the cash was gone. We'd completely missed him."