“Lily!” I call out.

  She freezes but doesn’t respond. Her shoulders are hunched, and she keeps her back to me. Really? I do not have it in me to walk the mile and a half to my house today, especially since it’s about to start pouring.

  She opens the driver’s door wider and moves like she’s getting in. Seriously? She obviously heard me.

  “Lily!” I shout her name louder this time, and she freezes again, turning extra, extra slowly.

  Her smile looks pinched and uncertain. Is every single thing about this stupid day determined to be bizarre? I keep walking and watch Lily’s face. She looks like she’s seen a ghost, jaw clenched and eyes wide. I think of taking photos at the haunted forest event every October, the we’re-so-scared faces we pull to make it seem like a better time than it ever is. What is up with her? Did something happen?

  I close the distance to her. “Lil, you okay?”

  “Hey, Clara, what’s up?”

  “What’s up? I just spent the last thirty minutes getting grilled in Ms. Chang’s office for knocking Vera down in the Clogged Drain. And then I had a little do-si-do with Paxton the Prick Bryce.”

  Her face registers shock. “You knocked down Vera Johnson?”

  “Obviously not on purpose, but she sure the hell thought so. And Mr. Droesch was all too happy to agree. He hauled me to the office so fast.”

  “What an asshole,” she says. The words and tone are right, but her face is off. Her eyes are darting around. Her posture is tense. Lily detests Mr. Droesch and is always ready for a bitch session, but not today.

  “Hey, seriously. You okay?” I ask.

  “Just another shitty day in Tuskegee High,” she says.

  “You too?”

  She shakes her head like she’s not going to talk about it, but something is really eating at her.

  “Did you hear back on one of your early admission apps?”

  She flinches. Lily is a master of hiding her emotions, but I know that look—that little startle where her brows draw in and her mouth thins.

  “Who said no?” I ask softly.

  She glares at me for a long moment, like she’s not going to respond. Or maybe like she’s angry that I figured out what was wrong.

  “Clemson. But it’s whatever.”

  Except it’s not whatever. Practically everyone is desperate to get away from Southwest Ohio, but it’s different with Lily. She’s obsessed with going to an out-of-state college. It’s the only issue I’ve ever seen cause a real argument with her parents. She’s got everything she needs, from the GPA to the extracurriculars, but her parents have zero interest in sending their only child away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “But it’s only one application. I’m sure you’re going to hear from others.”

  “I said It’s whatever,” Lily snaps.

  I go quiet. She’s more upset than I thought. She’s still stiff, and she isn’t moving out of the way. More rain is spatting down on us.

  She lets out a breath that sounds forced, and when she talks again, her voice is closer to normal. “Sorry. I’m in a mood. People here have been assholes all day too.”

  “Do tell,” I say, trying to crack a conspiratorial grin.

  “Want to guess?” she asks.

  “First let’s go home,” I say. I head around the front of the Civic to the passenger door and fling my backpack inside, tossing my denim jacket in after. I slide into the seat and fasten my belt, but Lily is still standing in that open doorway. She’s looking left and right like she’s waiting for someone. Or maybe just distracted.

  But it’s odd. Something’s definitely up with her. Is it more than the thing with Clemson? Maybe her parents found out about these applications. I think she hoped to produce a full-ride scholarship that would be hard to argue with, but I never felt too sure that would work.

  When she finally gets in the car, I slouch into the seat while she buckles her seat belt and puts the car in reverse. She slowly, slowly begins to back out and I can’t help but to turn and stare. Has she been possessed by aliens? Because the Lily I know and love backs out of parking spaces like she’s trying to break land-speed records while doing it.

  Finally, she rolls forward, and she does that slower than normal too. She comes to a full and complete stop at the school entrance and, as God is my witness, puts on her turn signal before easing into a right-hand turn.

  I can’t keep my mouth shut another second, “Are you literally reliving your driving test?”

  She zips up to normal speed at the end of the school property, apparently snapping out of whatever weird thing possessed her. “Sorry. Just distracted.”

  She comes to an abrupt—and far more typical—stop at the next light and then twists around to the back seat, grabbing a red folder. “Shit, my backpack is in the trunk. Will you put this in yours so I don’t forget it tomorrow.”

  “Is this your English paper research?” I ask, tucking the red folder into my bag.

  “Yeah, but before you even think about asking, put it away, and let’s pretend it doesn’t exist for a minute. I cannot discuss it right now. I’ve done nothing but search for source material all week, and I’m so sick of Droesch and his shit.”

  “To be fair, it’s only Tuesday,” I say.

  “True,” Lily says. “But don’t you get sick of this place?”

  “Sure.”

  The light turns green, and she stomps on the accelerator. She instantly changes lanes and cranks up the radio, and it’s almost like any other day.

  At the next light, she turns to look at me. I can’t read her expression, but I can feel the intensity rolling off her. Maybe it’s Clemson, or maybe it’s the English thing, or maybe it’s something totally different. Whatever it is, it’s clear something is still up with her.

  “What’s going on with you?” I ask, no more humor this time, just a straight question.

  “I don’t know. I guess they’re getting to me.”

  “Who, your parents?”

  She tenses, but shakes her head. “No. It’s school. Just so many assholes.”

  I nod. “It is an epidemic.”

  “They get away with everything.”

  I chuckle and resist the urge to remind her that she gets away with everything too. Something tells me she wouldn’t take that joke well. Not today.

  “What’s on your mind?” I ask.

  “I just…” She looks up, eyes bright. “Do you ever think of ways to take them down?”

  I pause, surprised. I don’t know what to say, but she doesn’t wait long before answering her own question. “I think about it. I mean not everyone, but the real assholes. Like Mr. Droesch and Nate Turner and—”

  “Paxton the Prick?”

  Lily smirks and the light turns green. She hits the gas. “Yeah, what did he do this time?”

  “He was heading into the office when I was leaving, and I swear to God, it was like he was waiting for me.” I tell her the rest—his snotty little attitude and comments about the stairs. “The dude despises me.”

  “He is an asshole and a poser,” Lily says mildly.

  “I will never understand why teachers don’t see his shitty attitude. He’s like Teflon. Nothing sticks.” I shake my head.

  Lily’s smile turns wicked as she pulls to another red light. “That’s exactly what I mean. Paxton is the poster child for why murder is occasionally totally justified.”

  I laugh, relieved that she seems to be blowing off steam rather than having a full-fledged meltdown. “No doubt.”

  The light turns green, and Lily takes off with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. It’s nice to see her ornery again—like whatever weird fog was settled over her earlier is finally lifted.

  “There are so many dicks here that deserve it. If some real-life version of the Purge ever happens, I have a whole plan cooked up.” She laughs as she says it, sweeping her arm wide like she’s showing me just how far-reaching that plan would be.

  I snort. “I’d be happy to just take down Paxton. Okay, maybe I’d steal a ticket to Aruba or something.”

  “The trouble is, murderers are always getting caught,” she says, ignoring my Aruba comment. “It’s like they’ve never watched TV. I would be smarter.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. I’m only half listening, because the rain is growing a little steadier, and I really need to figure out if the shit weather is sticking around. Lily’s doing tennis before and after school the rest of this week, so I’ll be doing a lot of walking. When I tune back in, Lily is still rambling about her grand plan, big dramatic hand gestures and all.

  “I mean, don’t you think you’d be able to commit a perfect murder if you needed to?”

  I look up from my phone and Lily is watching me with that wicked gleam in her eye. She’s grinning and relaxed and clearly lost in some rabbit hole of dark humor.

  “Maybe I should be giving this some serious thought,” I say, hamming it up.

  Lily waggles her brows, and I give in with a laugh. For the rest of the drive, we zip down the road with the radio blaring and us both arguing all the best ways to get away with murder.

  Five

  While Lily waxes on about all the people worthy of being offed, I point out the dull stuff like the necessity of wearing gloves and a hairnet. Then I give my detailed and geeky explanation of the role of chemistry in forensics. Lily rolls her eyes as she drives us along Spring Street with its lines of strip malls and chain restaurants. This ribbon of pavement is the dividing line between the haves and have-nots in Pikeville. It strikes me how normal everything looks, how this backdrop is a mundane mismatch to Lily’s monologue.

  “Okay, you’re boring. I’d go full James Bond,” she says. “With a heavy dose of John Wick maybe. I would end them all.”

  “Well, you would look great in a snappy gray suit.”

  “No, I’m serious. And you said yourself that taking out cars in a parking lot would be easy to get away with because people are distracted in parking lots and no one would even notice us, making it a super easy location for planting explosives.”

  I laugh. “Oh my God, are you talking about the weekend when we binged all those old Jason Bourne movies last summer?”

  “Yeah, maybe. And I think you’re right.” She nods decisively. “That’s how I’d do it.”

  “Okay, Jason Statham, tell me all your nefarious parking lot plans.”

  “Like cut the brake lines, or overfill the tires so they’d all blow. It would work.”

  I shake my head. “It wouldn’t work. Don’t you remember our hour-long conversation after Retribution?”

  “Okay, fine, then tell me how you’d do it.”

  “I wouldn’t do it,” I say. “I’m not that damn bothered by anyone.”

  “Oh, come on. Not even Paxton?”

  “Paxton is annoying as shit but not worth all that.” I say. What I don’t say is that Paxton is the one who has a problem with me. I don’t have beef with him, other than his attitude toward me. Attitude that’s probably somehow related to the same incident with Cadence. One awful hour of my life, yet I’m pretty sure I’ll be uncovering the problems that hour caused forever.

  You’re not allowed to feel sorry for yourself.

  The reminder comes swiftly. Cadence is the only one who gets to bitch about what went down because it ruined her life too. Difference is, it was my stupid decision that did the ruining. Not hers.

  I turn my focus back to Lily’s ridiculous exercise. “I wouldn’t pop tires, that’s for sure. That’s barely more than an inconvenience,” I say.

  “It’s all hypothetical,” Lily says, turning onto a wide residential street. We pass between two brick walls, each bearing an ornate glass lamp and dark metal letters that spell out Fox Chase. Thick-limbed trees rise up on either side of the road, standing sentry in front of houses. Perfect houses, my mom always says. Not too big and not too small.

  “Well, you know what I’m going to say. My hypothetical solution is always just blow it up!” I wave vaguely, checking my schedule at work next weekend on my phone. It’s incredibly slow for May. Not one shift this weekend, and funds are running low. “You don’t have to be anywhere near an explosion. You can set it up and go out to lunch. Or catch a plane to another country. Explosions are the way to go.”

  Lily chuckles. “Funny, I’m not sure your Chemagination project would have won if you’d included that slogan in your report.”

  “That would never have been my slogan. My project was a cautionary tale for homeowners everywhere.”

  The project in question, “Hidden Explosives: Household Items and Why They Combust,” won me national attention in high school chemistry. It was part science fair, part exposé on the dangers of things like gas grills, aerosol products, and even plain old flour. It was my golden ticket to a new future. And it all happened because of Lily.

  That’s the part no one knows. I would have never risked entering if Lily hadn’t called me. She’s the reason it happened. She is the only reason I’m not still Back-of-the-Class Clara with a bad reputation and zero chance at a real future.

  “You are such an adorable nerd,” Lily says.

  “An adorable nerd with an interview for that summer program.”

  “Oh, that’s right! I saw that text, but I’m not surprised!” Lily glances at me with a grin. “Hey, maybe you should ask them vaguely accusatory questions about their storage policies for cleaners and flour?”

  “Mock if you must, but I still say there should be better education or controls.”

  “So in your big spy-thriller plan, you’d blow things up by what, attempting to light gas grills with the lid closed?”

  “That’s clearly not practical.”

  “Isn’t that the whole basis of your big award-winning project?”

  “One of the pieces of my project outlined all the reasons combustion is likely in that situation, but it isn’t something you could weaponize.”

  “No? What could you do, then?”

  I shrug. “For a car? You can get your hands on all kinds of things that would work to at least put a car out of commission, maybe worse. You don’t need C-4 or whatever.”

  “But you could blow up a car, right?” she asks, sounding worried.

  I laugh. “In the highly unlikely event we would need this skill, yes, Lily, I absolutely know how to blow up a car. You probably do too if you think about it long enough.”

  “Not me. You’re the chemistry whiz.”

  “Oh, please. You’re like six points behind me. You’re great at chemistry. You just don’t love it the way I do.”

  Lily turns into her driveway, and I glance up at her fairy-tale house with its wraparound porch and French doors. I’ll never get used to the idea of being friends with someone who lives here. We pull into the garage and Lily parks on the left. We make our way around her Mom’s Jaguar to the garage door. Inside the mudroom, Lily throws her sweatshirt on the floor, and I set my backpack carefully on the bench.

  “Lily?” Lily’s mom’s voice floats into the mudroom from somewhere in the house.

  “Hey, Mom. Clara’s here too.”

  “Hi, you two!”

  Random rustling. A pan on a stovetop. While Lily and I toe off our sneakers, I can already picture Mrs. Dalton—who insists I call her Jenna—in the enormous kitchen with gleaming white marble counters and appliances hidden by panels that match the cabinets.

  I take a vanilla-scented breath and follow Lily through the cavernous living room to the kitchen. Jenna is standing much like I imagined her, in a pair of dove-gray yoga pants and a peach-colored T-shirt that looks both unremarkable and expensive. It’s like looking at Lily in twenty-five years—the same pale hair and warm brown eyes. The same slightly upturned nose and dimpled chin.

  “How was your day, girls?”

  “Okay,” I say, forcing brightness.

  “Bleh, it was shit,” Lily says.

  “Well if you need a pick-me-up, you can help me decide on a shortbread recipe. I’ve tried three, and I need taste testers.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” I say gently. For reasons that have never been clear to me, Lily can barely stand her mother. Every day we exchange about twenty seconds of pleasantries—and it’s a stretch of the word on most days—before tucking into her room with the door shut and the music on.

  Normally, I’m the one dragging my feet, feeling bad to leave someone who’s always been so kind to me. But today, Lily isn’t bolting. She’s thumbing through a pile of mail on the counter and glancing at the baking sheets lined up on the impossibly large stove.

  “Sounds delicious,” Lily says.

  Her tone does not match her words, and her expression matches them even less. I’m not sure if I need to call an exorcist or an alien expert, but the person wearing my best friend’s skin today is not Lily Dalton. Still, when she slides onto a stool, I can’t see any way around joining her. And I love shortbread, so whatever.

  Jenna hides her surprise with a big smile. “Okay, I’ll set it all up. I’ll get you some iced tea too. Tell me about your day.”

  My heart squeezes at Mrs. Dalton’s eagerness. I glance left at Lily, hoping she won’t change her mind, but she seems distracted enough to stay put, her phone already out on her lap.

  “Did you learn anything interesting?” Mrs. Dalton asks.

  “Let me think on that,” I say, because sharing that I learned Vera thinks I’m out to attack her doesn’t feel like the thing she’s after.

  “Why don’t you tell us about the recipes first?” Lily says, looking up from her phone to roll her eyes at me like her mom is oh-so-boring. Then she starts tapping out a message.

  My phone instantly vibrates with an incoming text.

  Lily: Back to the explosions thing.

  Me: Yes?

  Lily: You said that you know how to blow up a car.

  Jenna starts a meandering play-by-play of her adventures du jour, and Lily and I make all the right noises. We even dutifully nibble shortbread—all delicious—from each of the small delicate plates she puts in front of us. But all the while, we are texting back and forth under the counter. A continuation of our conversation from the car.