“Same to you, Blackbird,” he retorts, as if we barely know each other. As if we aren’t soul mates, tied to the same rock and willing to drown together, just so we don’t have to be separated.

When I open my eyes, Victor is gone but Ms. Keating is standing at the end of the hall in a mustard yellow suit jacket with short sleeves, a black t-shirt, and sneakers. Her arm is still in a sling, and she has scars on her face, but she looks much more like herself now.

The Thing’s influence is fading, I realize, wetting my lips. My lipstick tastes like hate and regret or, if you wanted to be specific, you might say blackberries and vanilla. It’s the color of lividity on a dead body. I know that because I’ve seen it firsthand.

“Bernadette,” Ms. Keating says, walking slowly toward me, her sneakers squeaking across the floors. They’re much cleaner than you’d think, those floors, since they have to be mopped so often. Piss, vomit, cum, spit … blood. You name it, it’s on the floor of Prescott High.

I hate it here; I can’t wait to be done. I wish I’d been done months ago, but I’m going to enjoy the rest of my ride out of here. It’s the only way I’ll be able to move on knowing that I took advantage of every, single second.

I smile.

“Ms. Keating, you’re looking better.” My smile is so fake it hurts my mouth, so I drop it into the abyss opening up beneath my feet. Kali Rose-Kennedy is dead. Everything I asked for is coming true the way it’s supposed to and yet, I’m in deeper shit than ever. I’m dancing with the sons of rival gang leaders in dark clubs with throbbing music and flashing lights. “Is Sara Young asking for me again? Or is it Constantine this time?”

The vice principal shakes her head slightly, her own smile much less fake than my own.

“Nothing like that. I was just wondering if I could have you alone for a minute?”

I nod and follow her down the hallway to her office. Once we’re inside with the door closed, I curl my fingers around the back of one of her chairs but refuse to sit down. If I do, I’ll fidget, and she’ll wonder why. Can’t tell her I’m acting like a little bitch over something that means nothing while acting blasé as fuck about the things that really do, like that last night with Kali.

“How are you handling everything?” Ms. Keating asks, but her question is so vague that I could pretty much answer for anything happening in my life, talk freely about it without her ever knowing what it was.

“Handling what?” I ask instead, forcing her to make her question more specific.

“Everything,” Ms. Keating repeats, pointedly ignoring my move to corner her. With a sigh, I come around the chair and sink into it. “You don’t have to tell me, but I thought you might like a safe place to talk.”

I lean forward in the chair and exhale.

“Have you ever wanted everything to stay the same, but also have it all change, too?” I ask her and she nods, slowly, like she’s actually thought about it. “That’s where I’m at right now.”

Ms. Keating looks at me sadly.

“I have to, in good faith, let you know that I’ll no longer be responsible for anything regarding you or your friends. Anything your teachers—or your parent, even though you’re emancipated—has to say will be reported directly to the police.”

After a moment, I just stand up and leave the room. Instead of going back to class, I go sit outside on the top of the yellow Firebird, wishing it were the Camaro and wondering when the fuck I’ll get to drive the Eldorado.

I like it so much that it hurts

Like the sunlight that falls through the window, white as cream against the tangled sheets.

I like it so much that it makes me hate you

Like the pain of your hand in my hair, but the pleasure of your body between my thighs.

I like you so much that it hurts

Like the feeling of losing myself, just so I can find you.

The poem is for Mr. Darkwood’s class, and it’s late because I just can’t be fucked with poetry lately. But I like it. I like writing it and discovering things; the words only have to mean something to me. That’s what matters.

I drop the poem off before the end of class and meet Vic outside, climbing on his bike, and curling my arms tightly around him.

“I wrote about you today,” I say. He says nothing, but he fucking heard me. He’ll probably steal my poem out of the trash when I get my grade back—it’ll likely be a C-minus or a D-plus—and read it anyway. He’ll probably tuck it in his back pocket, act like he was going for a cigarette, and keep it to reread later.

Fucking asshole.

When Heather and I lived with Pamela and the Thing, the morning consisted of oh shit, let’s get the fuck out of here! while possibly stealing a stale granola bar from the cabinet, one that I’d pinched from the delivery truck outside the cafeteria. Didn’t hurt that every time I walked by, I might see Hael Harbin smoking over by the dumpsters.

Mornings at Aaron’s house depend on which guy is sleeping beside me. Or comes to find me. Or corners me against the wall in the hallway and shoves my pajama pants down my hips, grinds me into the wall to the left of the staircase. Covers my mouth with his hand. Moans huskily against my ear.

Callum is fucking me so hard that I can’t breathe, that I don’t dare make a sound. The girls are upstairs, and I don’t need them wandering out of their room to see this. When he comes, I relax a bit, holding tight to him so he won’t move for a second.

The sound of the door opening upstairs gets us both moving and quick. He sets me down and fixes his shorts while I pull up my pajama pants and underwear.

“Can I use the bathroom?” Heather calls out, and I close my eyes as Cal chuckles.

“No! It’s my turn next,” I yell back, wondering how the fuck I lived in Pam and Neil’s house for so long. The tension was so tight, you felt you might slip off the tightrope of it and break your goddamn neck at any second. It’s much better here. Same amount of tension, but a different kind. It isn’t all focused on my throat like a garrote. It’s more … diffused. “What are we doing today?” I whisper as Heather whines and stomps back down the hall toward the room she’s been sharing with Aaron’s sister, Kara, and their cousin Ashley.

“It’s Friday, so … something,” Cal says, pausing as Aaron shuffles out of his room toward the top of the stairs. He’s here every night, obviously, but the other boys come and go, depending on their living situations at home. Vic is here as much as he’s legally allowed to be. Maybe a tad more than he should. He’s cutting it too close.

I feel irrationally irritated all of a sudden and scrub my hands down my face.

Vic met with his mother on Monday—in a very public place—and told her that he agreed. She gave him paperwork. We gave it back. Now we’re waiting. I feel sick, and I hate every second of this. We go to school every day like things are normal. But they’re not. Nobody understands that better than me, I think.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Cal warns me, coming up behind me and running his hands up my sides. It was like, as soon as I’d given him permission, he was here by my side, like he’d always been there. Nothing changed except for the fact that I knew he was there. Oscar was pretty much the opposite. “You know how Vic feels.” Callum chuckles. “He wants you all to himself. Last thing he’d do is give you up.”