The only memories I want to carry with me from now on are happy ones.

It’s obvious that Mitch is royally pissed off about what happened on Thursday night. That is, the fact that we didn’t spring his trap whatsoever. It’s hard for me to keep a straight face when I see Kali on Monday. I’ve only ever seen people get their mouths sewn shut in movies, but holy fuck, she looks like a monster.

The lower half of her face is puffy and misshapen, each hole where Stacy’s girls plunged the needle red and scabbed over. At this point, I bet she knows that Neil is dead. How could she not make the assumption? After all, the last thing she saw was him dragging me out of Prescott High in cuffs.

We work on poetry in Mr. Darkwood’s class, as per usual, but all I can think to write about are the boys.

I’m obsessed with them. I suppose they’re also obsessed with me, aren’t they? Based on everything they’ve told me, I wasn’t imagining it when I watched them from across the schoolyard and imagined they were mine. They were and they always have been.

Leather, lust, and lips.

My vision narrows to a single point; my breath quickens.

So many hands, so many mouths, cocks and friction and heat.

An endless eternity of darkness speckled with starlight.

Limitless possibilities edged in violence and romance.

Me, and you, and us.

I pause, roll my eyes at my own shitty poetry, and then draw a giant dick over the top of the words before I turn it in. Mr. Darkwood doesn’t bat an eye; he’s well-used to getting hand-drawn penises in his inbox. I drew ball hairs and veins on mine, so it’s nice and detailed.

“I like your lipstick,” I tell Kali, drawing my finger across my lips when I see her and Billie in the hall together. They glare at me, and I decide that, based on their facial expressions, they’re not properly cowed just yet.

Apparently, a drive-by and a dead friend weren’t enough to shake Billie Charter.

Apparently, sewn-together lips a dead possible baby daddy weren’t enough for Kali Rose-Kennedy.

We’ll have to correct that.

By Thursday, things seem to have settled a bit which freaks me out. Last time Mitch and his crew went quiet, they planned the Halloween attack.

“They’re going to hit us at the winter formal,” I say at lunch, before any of the boys can make the suggestion. I can feel it in the air, this strange buzzing sensation that makes my heart thunder.

“Who?” Oscar asks, like he hasn’t spent the week avoiding me. I’m getting sick of it, to be quite frank with you. Friday morning, I thought he might actually talk to me, but then I came out of Aaron’s room with those photos in hand and Oscar went right back to making spreadsheets on his iPad.

I saw some interesting data when I peeked over at it.

The risk factor for my mother was listed at seventy-nine percent.

How shitty.

Even Kali Rose-Kennedy was listed at seventy-five percent.

So what are we going to do to officially knock them off my list?

“The Charter Crew,” I say as we sit at our usual table in the cafeteria. If we’re not at school, or we choose not to eat in here, the table stays empty. Once, last year, a guy named Owen Tanaka sat there without Havoc’s permission, and they broke his fingers. “They hit us on Halloween; they’re going to come for us during the winter formal.”

I take the apple from Oscar’s tray without asking, and he doesn’t say a word about it.

“They better not fuck up my Snow Day,” Hael says, folding his hands together behind his head as I bite into the apple, holding it in my mouth while I get a straw stabbed into my chocolate milk carton. “The snow the Oak Valley brats bring is so damn pure. If I’m only going to do coke a few times a year, I’d like to enjoy the moment.”

I give him a look, but we both know he isn’t snorting shit; he’ll be too busy trying to stay alive.

“I agree with Bernadette,” Oscar says, glancing over at the Ensbrook brothers and letting an absolutely horrendous smile spread across his lips. He winks at them nice and slow and both boys turn away like they’ve been kicked.

He must’ve scared the shit out of them on Thursday; they both look ten times worse than Oscar. Seeing as the odds were two to one, I’m impressed with the man’s capabilities. As much of an asshole as he is, I can’t deny that.

“Another coup?” Victor wonders, frowning hard. “If so, they won’t rely on Prescott kids again; they’ll bring in more hired thugs. We need to let Ophelia know that we’re onto her, throw some dirt in her face and get her to back down a little. She’s coming at us hard and fast.” Vic rubs at his face for a moment, an essay lying on the table in front of him. Despite everything, Victor has to maintain his grades, so he can stay on-track for graduation.

I wonder if his grandmother knew he’d have to work himself to the bone to even come close to getting her money? Was that her plan all along? Or did she just not realize how awful her daughter was? Maybe she did, and that’s why she wanted Vic to live with his dad. Who knows. Seeing as the woman’s dead, she’s taken her secrets to the grave.

I’m just wishing Neil had done the same.

“Well, there’s one positive to her hiring out some professional help. While we can’t mow down several dozen Prescott High students without drawing attention; we can definitely get rid of some hired thugs without worrying if anyone’s looking too hard.” Cal sips his Pepsi, playing with his usual lunchtime cigarette by flipping it around between his fingers. Our eyes meet and he grins at me.

This morning, he grabbed me while I was walking down the hall, threw me into a locker, and kissed me in front of the whole school.

I loved it, too.

“True,” Aaron agrees hesitantly. “But we also can’t predict what someone like that will do. They’re not involved in this feud beyond a paycheck. That could be a really good thing … or a really bad one.”

The doors to the cafeteria open, and a hush falls over the room.

I glance casually over my shoulder, the blood draining from my face as I notice Ms. Keating with Officer Young and Detective Constantine on either side of her. Shit, fuck, and holy hot damn. The beautiful young Vice Principal looks a hot mess, her face swollen, skin puckered with stitches. But she’s alive, and, apparently, she’s also back.

“Ms. Keating,” I breathe, rising to my feet along with the rest of the boys. I’m happy to see they show her at least a small amount of deference. “Okay, wife. You can deal with Ms. Keating—just so long as she is dealt with.” Victor is going to leave Breonna Keating to me, which I appreciate, but how the hell am I going to handle this?

I'm starting to realize my moral code is just a tad stricter than the boys'.

“Bernadette,” Ms. Keating says, pausing just a few feet from me. She often calls me Ms. Blackbird, but apparently surviving an attempted murder together has brought us a new level of closeness. I shift slightly, crossing my arms over my chest to hide my nervousness. Officer Young is watching me like a motherfucking hawk, searching for anything she could possibly use against me. “I'm so glad to see you're okay.”

“Just fine,” I tell her, forcing a sideways smile. “But shouldn't I be the one saying that to you? Welcome back, by the way.”