“Brittany's pregnant,” I say again, like I'm trying to make myself get used to the idea. Why do I even care? Because the Havoc Boys were always supposed to be mine. The thought pops into my head, and I shiver. I hate it when my subconscious calls out the lies I tell myself. Fuck Havoc. I don't care about Havoc. I'm only here for revenge.

All lies.

They've always been lies.

“Pregnant?” Aaron chokes out with a groan. Oscar just narrows his gray eyes and taps the fingers of his left hand on the face of the watch he's wearing on his right. “Hael, man, come on.”

“It's not mine,” Hael repeats for the hundredth time. “If I thought it was, I'd …” He trails off and shrugs. “Jesus.”

“Jesus isn't responsible for sleeping with that brain-dead whore,” Oscar says, crossing his arms delicately over his chest. “That was all you. Now, what's our plan?”

“Why do you think Brittany's in love with Hael?” I ask Callum, and he shrugs again.

“She has been since the lake trip last year. It's all in her face. She cares too much what Hael thinks. It might not be his baby, but she wants it to be. Maybe even believes it.”

“What are you, a fucking mind reader?” Hael asks, scowling at his friend. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“So, if she's not in love with you, what's her motivation?” Callum retorts, giving a snippy little smile in response to Hael's glower. “Tell us, we're waiting.”

“I warned you not to fuck that girl,” Vic says, shaking his head like a disappointed father. He sighs like he's beyond exhausted. Maybe he is, considering how little sleep we got last night. “And now we have yet another problem on our very full plate. Let me think this over for tonight. Go home to Marie. She's threatened to report you as a runaway again if you don't show up tonight.”

“Fine,” Hael snaps, moving over to his Camaro and climbing inside. He slams the door and peels out of the driveway. Marie … I feel like I know that name. Pretty sure Marie is the name of Hael's mother. For as long as I've watched these boys across the playground, I've never been able to get close. They're all mysteries, even Aaron. Especially Aaron.

“Take my girl home, Aaron,” Vic says, casting one, last glance my way, like he's waiting for me to acknowledge the hot ache between my thighs, the finger-shaped bruises on my hips, and the bite marks on my neck.

Aaron grits his teeth; there’s no way he missed the word my in that request.

I say nothing, give Vic nothing. Eventually he turns away and heads inside.

And I … I get ready to return to the gates of hell.

Neither my mother nor the Thing are home when Aaron drops Heather and me off at the house, so I make the best of it by getting my sister's lunch ready for tomorrow and laying out our outfits.

In the morning, I wake up early and bundle Heather into warm clothes. Fall is in full-swing, and the air is crisp, a layer of frost teasing the pumpkins on our neighbor's lawn. They do fun things like that, the people who rent the other half of this duplex. They go to the pumpkin patch and carve jack-o’-lanterns, rake up piles of leaves and dive into them. They make fall seem fun. For me, it's just another season I have to survive.

Prescott High is in usual form, a fight breaking out between Stacey Langford's girls and some of Billie and Kali's friends. Good. They've been walking around like they own the place. I feel like Stacey's being smart, throwing her towel in with the winning side. Havoc won't forget that.

During English, I listen to Mr. Darkwood drone on and on, my attention focused on the back of Kali's head as she plays with her phone under her desk. She wasn't involved in the fight this morning. Neither was Billie. Instead, they let their friends fight Stacey's girls for them. Pathetic.

I turn my attention back to the half-finished poem in front of me. It's a haiku this time, because Mr. Darkwood doesn't like originality or experimentation. He prefers neat, clean, and formulaic.

She cannot have you

Not when I have yet to taste

Passion on your lips

Still no good. Lazy writing. I scribble it all out and start over.

Bad girls like bad boys

Sometimes they even love them

Not understanding their truth

Utter horseshit.

I turn the poem in anyway, dreading lunch as soon as I see the look on Hael's face in the hall. He's tight, angry, cagey. When he sits by us in the cafeteria, he may as well be in another universe. And Victor … Fuck. The way he looks at me makes it feel like my skin is splitting, like I'm crawling out of a cocoon with fragile, wet wings.

As soon as class is over, I bolt. I've biked or walked home by myself for years. I don't need to be babysat every single day. On my way out, I spot Callum heading down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, his black bag slung over one shoulder. Where it is he always disappears to, I don't know.

But I'm curious.

I check my phone. I have several hours until Heather gets home, so I change my direction and start off after him. He surprises me by skipping the bus station and walking all the way past Main Street with its shops and restaurants, an area that used to be deadly to traverse at night but that's slowly been improving as hipster millennials snatch up all the cheap houses on our side of the tracks.

He keeps going, disappearing into the bottom floor of a large industrial building near the warehouse district. I pause outside to read the letters on the glass. Southside Dreams Dance Company.

Huh.

I try the door and find it unlocked, moving down a red-painted hallway with various dance troupes featured in framed photos on either side. Once I get to the end, there's a sign that points toward a locker room and another that says Studios. I follow that one, ending up in another hallway with glass windows on either side. Studio A and B are empty, but when I get to Studio C, I find a single dancer, stretching his leg on the barre across from the window.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

My mouth drops open as I find Callum in black leggings, black ballet slippers, and a loose tank that shows off all of his ink. He stretches for a while, unhurried, unconcerned, and then moves over to turn on a stereo. I can't hear the music from out here, but I find myself glued to the glass, fingertips pressed against the cool surface as Cal starts to dance.

What the hell am I looking at right now? I wonder as he does a series of impressive spins, and then balances on one foot, lifting the other leg up so high that I imagine he could touch the back of his head with his toes if he wanted. Callum Park … is a ballerina?!

Only men aren’t called ballerinas, are they? But I know literally nothing about the dance other than the basics that permeate common culture. Mom once had aspirations that I’d be a ballerina, forcing me into classes that I hated from moment one. But then Dad killed himself, and we were too poor for her to entertain her vicarious fantasies.

My breath fogs the glass as Cal fills the room with his presence, claiming the drafty warehouse room like it’s a stage in Paris. My eyes are locked on his lithe form as he moves; I’m paralyzed. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.