She holds up her phone, and I recognize the picture on the screen. She’s blown it up, nice and big. Even after all this time, the photo humiliates me. My eyes burn. Damn you; don’t you dare cry.

Jamie pretends to study it. “You might want to think about working out, Quinnie. Looks like you’ve put on some weight.”

I can see my future before me in that moment. This—this shitty moment—will be every day of my senior year as long as Carey is missing. Repeated over and over again in a thousand different ways. Because I promised him. I love Carey. I’m scared he won’t be found. I’m terrified he won’t be found alive. So even though it sucks, I suck it up. The sick rolls in my stomach, but I not about to let Jamie break me.

She pushes into my space, a whole six inches taller than my five-foot-one-inch frame. “Who’s in the picture with you?”

This has bothered her for months. She has harped on it. She thought I would spill my guts when the pictures hit the Internet. The more she tries to get a confession out of me, the tighter I close my lips to spite her. Besides, Blake is right. It would only hurt the Breens to admit I’d been kissing him.

Jamie pushes again. “Come on, Quinn. Who was it?”

My mouth opens, as if pulled by her demands.

That’s when Blake steps forward. He doesn’t have to do anything more to command attention. Carey and Blake acted like brothers, but while Carey’s lips tip into quick smiles, Blake waits. I can’t think of another way to describe it. I can never tell what he is thinking. Jamie clearly can’t either, and she backs off in a hurry, watching to see what he’ll do.

“Tell them,” Blake says.

His quiet voice rumbles through the cafeteria like slow thunder. This is the first time he has confronted me in public since the pictures came out. Carey’s best friend confronting the whore girlfriend.

They don’t hear what I do in his words. They are a dare and a plea. Something’s happened since we talked Saturday. Some part of him wants me to tell the truth, so he can be punished alongside me. I’m almost selfish enough to do it. Except then I would be blamed for his downfall—nobody ever faults the boy—and besides, I still have lingering feelings for him despite my best efforts.

So I repeat his words from Saturday. “Fuck you.” Fuck you for trying to make me confess for you. I survey the cafeteria. “That goes for all of you. I don’t owe any of you a thing.”

When I try to walk away, Jamie grabs my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. “You don’t deserve Carey. You—”

“Don’t you get it, Jamie?” I shake my head in disbelief. “None of this matters. He’s missing, and you’re worried about some stupid picture that he already knows about.”

Blake’s head snaps toward me. I hadn’t told him that Carey knew about the picture. I’m sure he’s wondering if Carey figured out Blake’s the one with his hand on my breast, but I’m not about to tell him. It’s revengeful and petty, and I can’t believe how good it feels.

“Fuck with my locker all you want. I don’t really give a shit.”

Jamie tenses. I’ve guessed right. She was behind the damage. Her nails sink deeper into my forearm, threatening to cut my skin. I start to shove her away when Mrs. Breen calls my name.

“Quinn. Principal Barkley’s office. Now.”

Carey’s mother. Just fuck.

*   *   *

In September, on that first day at school, when I entered the principal’s office, Principal Barkley’s secretary had given me a sharp look. The heavy woman bore a strong resemblance to a marshmallow and, on most days, her personality could be just as sweet. But she’d clearly heard the rumors, and her soft body shivered with disapproval like an overweight terrier when she saw me.

“Ted, the Quinn girl is here.” She said into the phone. While she paused to listen, I had wondered if I would be referred to as “the Quinn girl” by every adult who looked down his or her nose at me. Mrs. Rodriguez set the receiver in its cradle and said in a snotty tone, “Go in. Principal Barkley is waiting on you.”

The only other time I’d been to Barkley’s office had been before the photo leaked. He’d stood to open the door and ushered me in with a cheerful smile. He’d asked about cheerleading, my dad, and Carey. Because in Sweethaven, even the high school principal knew I’d been dating Carey for two years and was going on marriage and 2.5 kids in a house on Do-What’s-Expected Street.

Things had changed, though. Principal Barkley had two sons serving in Iraq, and he’d served in Desert Storm before them.

Barkley didn’t bother to rise from his chair when I entered, and he also didn’t offer me a seat. Instead, when I started to close the door, he gestured for me to keep it open. As if I would make a pass at him. As if a middle-aged man with a bald spot the size of Texas and a bushy gray beard made my knees quake. My hands tugged down the hem of my cheer skirt, and I prayed the visit would end quickly.

Barkley adjusted his ugly tie and cleared his throat.

“Sophie—”

“It’s Quinn.”

“Right. Quinn.”

He folded his hands on top of a file that probably contained a copy of the incriminating photo. My shame in a manila folder. I felt my cheeks burn at the idea that Barkley had seen it, had studied it while deciding whether or not to expel me. Had it given him a cheap thrill?

“Quinn, I think you know why you’re here. You—”