“No,” I interrupted. I’m not sure why I did it, except that I hated how smug he looked.

“I’m sorry?”

Principal Barkley’s confusion acted as a balm to the ache in my belly. “I said, no. I have no idea why I’m here.”

For a single moment, he hesitated. His pompous mask slipped as he tried to figure out if I was screwing with him.

“A . . . compromising . . . picture of you and another boy was e-mailed to members of the school board this morning.”

A moan almost escaped, but I crushed my lips together in time.

Barkley continued. “I’ve been trying to reach your father. I think it’s vital we all get on the same page before this gets out of control.” He tugged on his tie again.

“He left yesterday on a fishing trip with Reverend Cooper,” I admitted. “His phone doesn’t always work up at the lake.” Only that morning I’d still hoped there was a chance this would blow past without him ever finding out.

Barkley cleared his throat again. “Yes, well. Considering his unavailability, I think we can reconvene this discussion when we are able to reach him. Until then, I’d like you to go to class.”

My father would kill me.

Knuckles rapped on the door, and Mrs. Breen’s voice sounded behind me. “I have a question, Quinn.”

Carey’s mother was Sweethaven’s cheer coach and a den mother to the team. More to me. The most painful thing about keeping Carey’s secret was losing his parents. Every time I had had a crisis, I’d headed to the Breens. When my mother left, Mrs. Breen ran her fingers through my hair while I cried in her lap. When my father forgot my fifteenth birthday, Mr. Breen ran to the store for a cake and lame party hats. I’m sorry, Quinnie, he’d told me with a crooked grin. It was Power Rangers or Barbie, and you’ve always struck me as a kickass kind of girl.

Mrs. Breen’s brown eyes, so similar to Carey’s, were bloodshot, as if she’d been crying. If anyone could have made me confess the truth, it was her. The words climbed back up my throat, but the white lines around her mouth stopped me. Carey had been the first to point out that those lines were a litmus test, proof-positive of rage.

“How could you, Quinn? Carey’s barely been in Afghanistan a few weeks. When he finds out—”

“He knows,” I said.

“What?” Her voice dropped to a near whisper at my words.

“Carey knows.”

She wanted to slap me. I could see her hand itching with the urge. She gathered herself.

“If he dies, I won’t forgive you.” She paused. “You’re off the team, Quinn. What you did—the picture—you signed a contract when you joined the squad. To be an example for the other kids. I think we can agree that no parent wants their child following your example.”

WhoresluttrampTRAITOR.

Her words were worse than a slap. My head bowed.

“Please go to the locker room and change out of your uniform.”

Barkley said nothing. I rose and turned to leave without making eye contact. Carey’s mother touched my arm when I passed. I looked up, hoping . . .

“Who’s the boy, Quinn?” she pleaded.

Sometimes a moment defines you, defines how people see you the rest of your life. That’s something my father said, a truism he shared with his troops. You can accept it or fight it. If you’re lucky, you’ll recognize the moment when it happens.

This was my moment. I could name the boy. I could tell the truth, but it wouldn’t do any good. Everyone had made their minds up. Only Carey could save me, and he wasn’t here. A promise was a promise.

I walked out of Barkley’s office without a backward glance.

“I hope for your sake he was worth it.”

The curse rang in my ears. Part of me couldn’t blame her. Starring in a photo wearing your lacy best with a half-naked boy draped across your front ranked pretty high on the list of Things Parents Frowned Upon. Having said photo spread like a virus on the Internet and to every mobile phone in a twenty-mile radius? A definite no-no. And what I did was ten times—a thousand times—worse, because the boy in that picture wasn’t her son.

Carey didn’t have a tattoo of a tiny bird on his left lower back, two inches beneath the waist of his pants. Blake did.

Chapter Seven

Principal Barkley’s office looks the same as it did six months ago, and he doesn’t mince words when I am in front of him.

“Some students have organized a candlelight vigil for Carey at Town Hall this evening.”

Understandable. And most likely Jamie’s doing. In our town, Marine families stick together. The vigil is less about Carey than about showing the Breens support. But I don’t see why he would call me in to his office to tell me this. He must see my confusion, because he seems embarrassed.

“The Breens have asked that you not attend.”

I swallow, give a jerky nod, and tilt my head to study his water-stained ceiling so I won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

After Barkley excuses me, I do not return to class. I head for the safety of my Jeep.

*   *   *

Blake is standing in the hall with Angel as I head for the exit, and I avoid their eyes.

“Q?”

Worry punches holes in Blake’s usual bitter tone, but I ignore him. I don’t stop until I am in my Jeep and pulling away from the school. It’s only when I see my reflection in the rearview mirror that I realize I’m crying.