I switch places with Ash so I’m standing next to Reeve and she’s next to Derek.

“It’s so cold,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the cup. I’m wearing a dove-gray fleece and skinny jeans and riding boots, plus my rabbit-fur earmuffs. I should have brought mittens, though (I left my ivory coat home, on purpose).

When Reeve doesn’t say anything, I tug his coat sleeve. “I’m so cold,” I repeat.

Reeve rolls his eyes at me. “Why didn’t you wear a coat?”

I creep closer to him, huddling for warmth. That’s why, Reeve. “Well, my fleece usually keeps me warm enough, but tonight it’s freezing.” I try to link my arm through his, but he flinches like I’ve burned him.

Then he steps away from me and shrugs out of his puffer jacket. He pushes it at me and says, “There. Now quit complaining. Let’s not forget you’re the one who bugged us about coming to this cornfest.”

Why is he suddenly being such a jerk? We had this close moment on Saturday, and now, three days later, it feels like he’s trying to push me away. Did he hear what I said to Ash, or is it something else? Maybe I should be relieved, but I’m not. I’m annoyed. “We’re here so we can support Alex,” I remind him. “He’s your friend too!”

Reeve makes some kind of snorty sound and goes back to watching the chorus with his arms crossed. They’re singing “Let It Snow.” Derek and Ash have migrated over to a tree and they’re making out. In public. So tacky. And a total waste of a hot chocolate. Their cups are on the ground.

It’s me and Reeve now. I glance around for Kat again, but I don’t see her. There are too many people milling around.

I sneak a peek at Reeve, and he’s standing there with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. I take a sip of my hot chocolate. Maybe I’ve been imagining this whole thing and he’s already over it. “What’s up with you tonight?” I ask him, taking another sip. “You’re being such a grouch.”

He barely even glances in my direction. “Nothing’s up with me.”

“Is your leg hurting from standing on it too long? We could go find a bench or . . .” My voice trails off. He’s not even listening. I bite my lip. If he’s over it, then I’m going to be over it first. Whatever it is.

I jab Reeve on the shoulder. “Here,” I say, shoving his coat back at him. “I’m leaving. Tell Alex I had to go.” I start speed walking away from him and toward the church parking lot. I toss my cup in a trash can along the way.

“Wait!” he yells.

I don’t slow down, I hurry faster, but Reeve catches up with me. Breathing hard, he whirls me around so I’m facing him. His green eyes are bright; he fixes them on me. He doesn’t blink once. In a low, urgent voice he says, “I like you. I’ve been holding it in, for Lind’s sake. But I like you. I can’t help it.” He watches me, waits for me to say something. Do something. “No more games, Cho. You and me—is this real?”

My face is flaming. I know I’m supposed to say yes. Say yes and kiss him. That’s the plan. Except the thing is that, deep down, I want to say yes. I want so badly to say yes. But I’m afraid. We’re so real it terrifies me.

Seconds pass, and finally Reeve’s gaze drops and he isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s looking down. He’s going to back away, he’s going to leave, and it will all be over.

“Yes. It’s real.”

Reeve’s head jerks up. “Then—then why did you tell Ash you weren’t here with me?”

I don’t know what else to tell him except the honest answer. “Because I’m scared.” My voice breaks. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.” You least of all.

I stand there, shivering. Reeve puts his coat on my shoulders, and then I let him help me into it. He pulls me toward him, and then he slides my arms around his neck. “Okay?” he whispers. He’s shivering too.

I nod, my heart beating so fast and so hard I can hear it. I think I can hear his, too.

And then he kisses me, and I stop thinking altogether.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

I saw them leave. I slipped away from the chorus, stepped right off the risers, and I followed them. Reeve’s kissing her, so soft and gentle, like she’s a porcelain doll that will break in his arms if he’s not careful. She’s never looked prettier. Like an angel. Roses in her cheeks, her shiny hair whipping around them. It’s like a movie. Two teenagers, kissing in the parking lot, Christmas carols in the background, the tree all lit up behind them.

And then there’s me. In the background. In the shadows. Watching.

Step one.

It worked. He loves her now for sure. The way he’s looking at her right now, like she’s the girl of his dreams. He can’t believe his luck. It’s all unfolding exactly the way it’s supposed to.

So why am I hurting so bad? This is what I asked Lillia to do. I’m getting what I wanted. I should feel glad.

Why does it feel so terrible?

I’m clenching my fists so tight my fingernails leave red crescent moons on my skin. I feel a surge, a heat roar up inside me. As bad as I’m hurting now, he’ll hurt ten times worse. That’s the only thing that keeps me going.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

I’m sitting on the ground, the cold seeping through the butt of my jeans, in the middle of the damn treelighting crowd. I rip off my mittens with my teeth, fold down my combat boots, and check my ankles for blood.

You know, there is such a thing as concert crowd etiquette. Common-sense rules to abide by so that everyone in the audience has a good time. It’s true even for punk shows, where people in the pit beat the piss out of each other. So it should definitely be true for this shit show.

I learned about the rules at my very first show at Paul’s Boutique. Kim and I were up in the sound booth. She had a bouncer’s flashlight with her and kept beaming it on different offenders so I could watch their transgressions live.

It basically boils down to this.

One: Never pretend that you have a friend close to the stage just so you can push up close. People will call out fake names, like, “Hey, Jimmy! I’m coming!” and then weasel their way to the front. It might fool one or two people in the very back, but ultimately you end up at the stage, clearly by yourself, and people get pissed.

Two: Even in the tightest of crowds, you must always respect people’s personal space. Like, it’s fine to brush up against someone once, but that’s it. And if you carry a purse or a bag, you hug it to your chest so you won’t knock people with it.

Three: If you’re super tall, don’t be a dick and stand in front of a short person.

Now, even though it’s never come up at any of the shows I’ve been to, there has to be a rule about how to navigate a crowd when you’re pushing a double-wide stroller packed with two screaming babies through a crowd of people like a damn snowplow.

I stare daggers into this Mother of the Year as she coyly spins around and gives me the most pathetic I’m sorry! face. Meanwhile, her wailing kids are drowning out the whole damn choir.

I get back to my feet and look for Lillia and Reeve in the crowd, but they’ve both disappeared. That dummy Ashlin and her meatbag Derek, too.

I spin around and stand on my tiptoes and try to see where everyone may have run off to, but the crowd is so thick, and the family standing behind me is giving me weird looks, so I turn back toward the concert. Lillia will give us the juicy stepone details later. I know she’ll make it happen.

Anyway, I’m interested in hearing Alex sing. I’ve been trying to get him to play me one of his songs, but he never does. I told him that tonight could be like a practice for his USC audition. He still hasn’t sent in his application, as far as I know.

After two boring songs, the band kicks in to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Alex steps forward, along with some other girl I recognize as a drama geek. He’s got his guitar with him, and he starts playing along.

I feel myself smiling. Forget this drama girl. She’s coming off way too Broadway, especially since “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” is a sexy song. Alex is doing it right. Like how a boy would talk you into something. Sweet, but with something hungry underneath. And he does have a great voice. Clean and bright, and very confident. If he could be as confident in regular life as he is when he’s singing, dude would go far in life.

After he’s done, he steps back up on the risers and blushes at the applause. And people are applauding. Not the polite stuff. Like they’ve seen something . . . special.

349 Meanwhile, Alex is looking around the crowd, I guess for his friends. But they’ve all left him.

Poor guy. I don’t get why no one in his circle of friends can see how great he is.

Alex’s eyes find me. I wolf-whistle and then throw up the rock sign with each of my hands. Like he’s a rock star. Or at least on his way to being one.

He breaks into a smile, and despite being freezing, my whole body warms.

I look to give the same rock signs to Mary, because I’m freaking proud of her for getting up in front of everyone like this, but I can’t find her, either. Where the hell has everyone gone?

The mayor steps up to the podium and signals for the Christmas tree to turn on. And it does, for a second, before it flickers out. And all the other light too—the streetlamps, the shop windows, the traffic lights—until it’s completely dark out. Then everything starts flashing, on and off, like there’s some kind of issue with the power.

Damn, does this whole island need to be rewired?

I’m about to run for my life for the second time this year, but then everything clicks back on, good and strong, and everyone in the crowd applauds like it’s a true freaking Christmas miracle.

Which, hell, maybe it is. But I’m bouncing out of here either way, to be safe.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

I’m at lunch with everyone on Wednesday when two sophomore girls nervously approach our table. They look so young, both of them, in jeans that are way too blue and way too baggy, track-and-field fleeces, and Converse sneakers.

“Um, Rennie? Could we ask you a quick question?” the one with the straw-colored ponytail asks.

“If you’re not too busy,” the mousy one adds.

Over the past few weeks I’ve become very adept at pretending Rennie does not exist. Almost as good as she is at pretending that I don’t exist. So I go back to the pages of my history textbook and pretend to be utterly absorbed by a portrait of Eli Whitney.

Plus, I already know what this is about.

The two girls produce a clipping and place it down on the table for Rennie to see. From what I can tell without totally obviously looking, it looks like maybe something cut out of a teen magazine. Or a department-store catalog? “We were wondering if this dress would work for your party.”

Rennie’s New Year’s Eve party is all anyone can talk about. It’s going to be at her mom’s gallery, the last hurrah before Ms. Holtz sells the place. It will be Rennie’s pièce de résistance, her masterpiece. It’s a twenties theme, and she’s pulling out all the stops; she’s been hoarding bottles of gin and champagne from Bow Tie for the past month. It’s been easy enough with all the company holiday parties they’ve been hosting; according to Rennie, there are plenty of bottles at the end of the night. And everyone’s going to be in costume, too. Girls have been coming up to Rennie showing her pictures of their dresses and getting approval on 1920s hairstyles. I actually spotted her, forehead wrinkled with concentration, reading The Great Gatsby during a free period, which is hilarious, because we were assigned that, like, freshman year.

I was the first one Rennie told about this idea, back on the first day of school. Rennie has practically invited the whole school to the party, but she hasn’t invited me. She hasn’t flat-out banned me, but she hasn’t invited me either. I don’t want to go, but it’s not like I have a choice. It’s the final stage of our plan.

Rennie tears into both of the girls. “Are you serious right now? First off, this is a prom dress, not a New Year’s Eve dress. And it is not flapper-esque. See the cinched waist? And that awful-looking poufy skirt? It’s a lame fifties-housewife costume.” She actually crumples up the paper and chucks it on the cafeteria floor.

For as long as I’ve known her, Rennie has been on me to have a party at my house. I’ve always said no, because the kind of party my parents would let me have is not the kind of party any of our friends would be interested in going to—i.e., no alcohol, no loud music, no skinny-dipping, no hooking up in random bedrooms. It would be more like karaoke and a cheese plate.

And the truth is, I’ve never been that into the idea of hosting a bunch of people. It seems so stressful, making sure everybody’s having a good time but also making sure they’re not wrecking the house. It is a perfect party house, though. My mom designed it that way, with an open floor plan and high vaulted ceilings and plenty of room to move around in. And the movie night I had a few weeks ago worked out fine.

I spend the rest of the day wondering why Rennie is the only one to ever throw parties. Why she and she alone gets to be the gatekeeper to all social activities on Jar Island. That night, an opportunity arises. We’re cooking dinner when my mom suggests the three of us surprise my dad this weekend in New York, where he’s speaking at a medical conference. I remind her how I have to work on my college apps, and she says, “Lillia, you hardly ever get to see your dad. This will be such nice family time. We’ll see a show, go to brunch, check out that new art installation at the Met. Maybe get a massage. We can do some Christmas shopping too! Didn’t you say you need new riding boots?”