But there’s nothing like a Prescott party, and everybody knows it. If an Oak Valley Prep student or a Fuller High student knows when and where a Prescott party is taking place, they will get there by any means necessary. As long as they don’t act like they’re better than us, we let them stay.

So tonight, the pre-Halloween bash that’s being held in the old Prescott High building—the condemned one that’s just ten blocks down from our actual school—is going to be lit.

The Charters and the Ensbrooks, including Billie and Kali, they’ll all be there.

I see the cars start to line the curb several blocks away from our actual destination, and my heart leaps in my throat. This isn’t like what we did to Principal Vaughn, out in the middle of nowhere with nobody to see. Here, everyone will see. Students from all three schools will be in attendance.

Hael slows the SUV down, and the boys all focus their attention out the window, like they’re looking for something.

“That it?” Vic asks, pointing out the window at a blue car with white stripes down the hood.

“That’s it,” Hael says softly, his voice drenched in melancholy as he puts the Navigator into reverse. “A fully restored 1970 El Camino SS. This hurts my heart. You know that, right? You know that?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vic says with a sideways smirk. “Get out Bernadette.”

“Okay …” I start, climbing out with Vic, Aaron, Oscar, and Callum. Cal closes the door behind us and waves Hael off. He revs the Navigator’s engine a few times, and then hits the gas. At the last second, he spins the wheel and smashes the big, black SUV into the much smaller El Camino. There’s a screech of metal on metal as the smaller car flips over and skids across the pavement. Hael pushes it into the chain-link fence, and then backs up again, the smell of burnt rubber singeing the air.

“The ’72 Datsun 240Z?” he calls out the window, and Oscar nods. “Fuck my life. I’m going to classic car hell for this.” Hael puts the Navigator in drive again and rams a small brown car parked just two vehicles up from the El Camino, sending it flying into the side of an abandoned brick building. It crumples like a piece of aluminum foil, and I cringe.

“Mitch’s car,” Vic tells me, pointing at the El Camino. “Kyler’s car.” He nods in the direction of the Datsun, and then flips a middle finger at a hideous salmon-colored Ford down the block. “Kali’s car.”

It’s a shitbox that’s worth maybe a tenth of what the other cars were, but I get great pleasure from watching Hael destroy it with the stolen SUV. He hits it so hard that the windshield explodes, and my racing pulse rachets up a notch.

Anybody with a car has status at Prescott High; even a rolling trash heap like Kali’s Thunderbird is coveted. That’s it, by the way. The only three cars owned by their entire crew.

Hael climbs out of the Navigator, leaving it parked where it is, the grill all up Kali’s car’s ass.

“Disconnected the Bluetooth,” Hael tells Cal, tossing his phone over. “Let’s go check out this party, shall we?”

His swagger is back as he turns around and we take off up the street. There are a couple students here and there, gaping at us, but they know better than to get involved. We pass through the open front gates of the old Prescott High. It’s so packed with asbestos and lead paint, we’ll probably get cancer just walking in the doors. But it’s sort of a thing at Prescott not to care about shit that may or may not happen sometime in the future. We all sort of walk around hoping climate change takes us all out before we have to live with the consequences of our bad choices.

People whisper behind cupped hands, red Solo cups in their grips, as we move up the front walk in a group, kicking beer cans out of our way as we go.

“Are we here to party or all business?” Hael asks, turning around and making prayer hands at Vic. His brown eyes are glittering with the possibility of an actual night out.

“Have a little fun, but don’t forget why we’re here,” Vic says, lighting up a cigarette as Hael’s gaze passes over me for a moment. I Love by Joyner Lucas is blasting from several speakers set around the floor. They’re all beat up, covered in stickers, Sharpie, and paint, but they do the job, even if the one on the right is a little tinny. People don’t come to Prescott parties for the music.

They come for the drugs, alcohol, sex … but mostly the gossip.

Hael turns away and disappears into the crowd as I adjust the pink leather jacket I’m wearing. I stole it from the Goodwill that’s down the block from my mom’s place. It’s old and beat-up, and there’s a hole in the left elbow, but it looks badass anyway.

I’ve got on my best leather pants, a full face of makeup, and I’ve tamed my hair into a silken sheet that falls over my shoulders and halfway down my back. As people turn to stare at us, I feel it. Havoc Girl.

“I’ll start searching the top floor,” Aaron says, casting me a look before he slips past and heads up the decrepit looking stairs. I’m surprised they don’t collapse under his weight, or the weight of the other students drinking, smoking, and making out along the steps.

“I’ll take the first floor,” Oscar says, moving off into the throbbing crowd and somehow finding a clear path between the packed, sweaty bodies of students. Cal stays with me and Vic as we navigate down the hall toward what used to be the classrooms. The music switches to hot girl bummer by blackbear, and I cringe. I fucking hate this song.

The crowd in the front room starts to sing in chorus, swaying together with their phones out.

Vic doesn’t bother to knock, pushing open one door after another while Cal does the same on the opposite side of the hallway. The first room is full of students smoking weed and laughing at YouTube videos. The second still has desks in it, and there’s a girl in a Fuller High cheerleading outfit getting nailed over one of them by Jim Dallon. Gross.

“Is that why you wanted me to get that costume?” I ask dryly, cocking a brow at Vic. He turns a grin over his shoulder and lets his eyes devour me from head to toe.

“Might’ve crossed my mind,” he says with a smirk, continuing his search for the Charter crew. I roll my eyes, still completely unsure what the hell is happening here. I’m engaged to Vic. I’ll be married to Vic. I’m bareback fucking Vic. And if I’m not careful, I’ll end up like Kali with a cluster of positive pregnancy tests in my hand. No thank you.

We finish our search, but don’t find any of the eight assholes we’re looking for. Vic checks his phone for texts from Aaron and Oscar, and frowns.

“Nothing,” he says, as we pause near the back door and wait for them to meet up with us. Hael is nowhere to be seen. “They must be out there somewhere.” Vic gestures to the mass of people congregating in what used to be the rear courtyard of the school. The music back here is different, not quite as loud, and clearly not meant to dance to.

As soon as we get through the initial throng near the keg, we spot the Charter crew lounging on some old playground equipment. It must’ve been dumped here by the school district at some point, because this was always a high school. You don’t often find yellow slides and swings past elementary school.

“Howdy boys,” Vic says, tucking his hands in his pockets as the crowd clears away, leaving us in a bubble of empty space around the play equipment. “We’ve been looking for you. Seems there’s a problem with your cars.”