String cheese is the perfect tension breaker and conversation starter—who doesn’t love peeling the stick apart string by string?

And just in case that’s not enough, I grab a pair of juice boxes.

Feeling optimistic, I bound up the stairs two at a time.

When I get to Doe’s door—the room that, until last Friday, was Aunt Rachel’s sewing room—I kick gently at the base while pul ing open one of the cheese-stick packages.

No answer.

Huh. I don’t know where else she could be. I mean, it’s not like she has extracurricular activities or an after-school job.

Besides, Prithi is staring intently at the crack under the door.

Doe must be in there.

“Doe?” I ask as I turn the handle.

Pushing the door open, my eyes scan the room for any sign of my cousin. As I look over the messy piles of clothes and the schoolwork strewn al over the floor and the unmade bed—Doe is clearly used to an extensive housekeeping staff—it takes me a few seconds to find her in the debris field.

Correction, to find them.

I get a view of way more Doe than I’d bargained for.

She and Brody are lying on her daybed, arms wrapped around each other, clothing stil intact but bunched and disheveled to the point of revealing skin that’s usual y wel and truly covered.

“Omigod!” I gasp.

I grab for the door handle, dropping the cheese and juice boxes in the process, and hastily pul the door shut, just as Prithi darts inside. That is something no girl should have to walk in on.

Heart pounding, I lean back against the closed door and try to erase the mental image.

But no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes, it won’t go away.

If only I could perform a mindwashing on myself.

I’m not sure how long it takes—two seconds? Twenty?—

but al of a sudden it hits me. After blurring out the below-the-waist bit of the mental image, my focus shifts to their upper bodies. The part of the image at the top of her bed.

Their heads.

My humiliation evaporates.

Fear and anger and utter panic flood my bloodstream as I whip around and throw open the door. It crashes against the wal and shakes the framed pictures of Mom’s family.

“Dosinia Sanderson!” I shout.

She and Brody are now busy rearranging their mussed-up clothing, trying to act as if nothing at al was going on. As if I hadn’t seen what I know I saw. Brody is on his feet, tugging his T-shirt back into place. Doe’s pretty much put back together, skirt hem down where it belongs with no inappropriate skin showing, and is busy smoothing out her hair.

Too bad she can’t do anything about her lips.

“What have you done?” I demand.

I can’t tear my eyes away from her plumper-than-usual mouth.

Casual y, as if she’d just accidental y spil ed her grape juice on the kitchen floor, she swipes one finger beneath her bottom lip, clearing away any displaced lip gloss.

“What does it look like?” she replies with a smirk. “I’m making out with my boyfriend.”

I don’t know how I manage to stay standing. By al rights I should col apse into a heap on the floor, next to the piles of shoes and dirty clothes. I feel like I’ve been caught up in a powerful current that is dragging me… wherever it wants to go.

As it is, I have to brace my arms on the doorjamb to keep from pitching forward. Every awful thing I’d been afraid of happening just happened.

Doe kissed Brody.

And now they’re bonded and Brody is turning mer.

D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R.

Chapter 5

ho’s ready for pizza?” Aunt Rachel singsongs as she Wwalks in the kitchen door. “I’ve got Lorenzo’s on speed di—”

She freezes when she sees the three of us—me, Brody, and Dosinia—sitting around the kitchen table. I’m sure none of us looks terribly happy.

Brody, at least, has the grace to appear mortifyingly embarrassed. Good. He should feel like a froggin’

clownfish after I found him making the moves on my baby cousin. And in my own house!

Not that I can be entirely furious with him. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s gotten himself into—correction, what Doe’s gotten him into. He’s about to get the surprise of a lifetime, let me tel you.

Doe looks, as usual, unaffected. I might as wel have only caught her sneaking an extra bowl of plumaria pudding before bed for al the guilt she’s showing. She doesn’t even seem to care what she’s forced onto Brody, a boy she supposedly cares about.

I know she’s only sixteen. I was sixteen once, and I remember what it felt like—the emotions and the desperation and the acting without caring about the potential consequences—but what she did… wel , that makes every other teenage rebel ion pale in comparison.

She’s not only screwing up her own life, she’s screwing up Brody’s, too.

And me? I can’t see myself, but I’ve been clenching my jaw so hard for so long that my cheeks are getting cramps.

My back is stick straight and my fingers are wrapped tightly around the seat beneath me—mostly to keep me from flying across the table and wringing Doe’s unapologetic neck.

I just knew she was going to do something like this.

If we were underwater right now, I’m sure the sea would be boiling around me.

“Oh, dear.” Aunt Rachel sighs, sinking into the empty seat at the table. “What happened?”

“We just—”

“Shut. Up,” I snap at Doe. She has no right to speak at this point. She forfeited the right to defend herself when she kissed a human! Turning careful y and calmly—though probably more abrupt and furious—toward Aunt Rachel, I take a tight breath and say, “She. Kissed. Him.” Clearly, ful sentences are not an option at this point.