Chapter One

This party feels like a panic attack.

I can't breathe through the clouds of cigarette smoke. Vibrations from the stereo shake the ground beneath my boots. The green and blue strobe lights are disorienting.

"Rose!"

Gemma's voice cuts like a dagger through the music. She flashes a smile that lights up the dark chamber of drunk high school students. They clear a path for her. A pink striped jumpsuit hugs her body tightly. She looks superhuman in comparison to the other girls. Judging by the glares, they know it as well as I do.

"Drink," she says, shoving a cup into my hand.

Clear liquid spills out of the lid and drips onto the carpet. Months have passed since I've had alcohol, but I don't hesitate. It burns, sharp as fire, as it drips down my throat.

"Want to dance?" Gemma asks.

"No," I say, even though there's no point in arguing with her.

She pulls me into the middle of the cramped living room. A boy to her right shoots me a dirty look. Gemma scowls at him, her thin nose and sharp jawline further defined in the purple light.

"Ignore him," she whispers. She lifts my hand into the air and twirls me like she did the first night we met. When I saw Gemma Shao at our homecoming dance freshman year, I was speechless. It took me hours to work up the courage to ask her to dance. Our horrible attempt at a line dance sparked a friendship that's lasted us through to today: the third week of our senior year of high school.

"Is there any more to drink?" I ask.

Gemma snatches two more cups. This time, the alcohol goes down easily. I hold the empty cup into the air like a trophy and Gemma laughs.

Suddenly, the music stops. The room is silent except for one, booming voice.

"Whichever idiot parked in my driveway; you have forty-five seconds to move it before I sit my drunk ass in your driver's seat and do it myself!"

Elliott King, the host of the party, towers over the stereo system. His black tank top shows off several tattoos scattered across his arms and shoulders. I remember entertaining the idea that he might be illiterate after peer-reviewing his essay on Pride and Prejudice.

"Now!" he demands.

A short haired girl jolts to the door. Elliott grabs the solo cup out of her hands as she leaves, downs the beer in one gulp, then screams, "Let's fucking go!"

The music starts up louder than before. Elliott reaches for the closest girl he can find, pulling her in for a public make-out session that threatens to resurface my drink. Gemma and I take shots of what I think is vodka, then dance and sing until my throat is sandpaper.

"Water," I mutter, forgetting the other parts of the sentence.

Cups litter the carpet around us. I stopped counting after four. Gemma, noticing my lack of coordination, smiles. This isn't something she sees often.

"I'm on it. Stay here."

As soon as her hands leave my shoulders, I lose my balance. I grip the granite countertop of the large kitchen island to keep myself upright. Gemma makes her way toward the fridge but doesn't get more than a few feet before a group of guys stop her to chat.

My spit barely makes it down. I'll get it myself.

When I let go of the counter, the room spins. Red, blue, and green lights mix into a messy rainbow so bright it burns. I manage to make it to the corner of the living room before the nausea hits. My hand slaps over my mouth.

I tap on the shoulder of the first person that walks by: a tall, muscular boy in a football jersey. His shaggy brown hair barely reaches past his shoulders. Only one word escapes my lips.

"Bathroom?"

To my relief, he smiles warmly.

"Sure. Follow me."

He snakes through the crowd. There's a number printed on the back of his jersey: eighteen. My lucky number. He guides me out of the living room, across the foyer, then toward the main staircase. I take a deep breath of air less tainted by smoke.

"You're Rose Berman, right? We had Math together last year."

My stomach sinks to the floor.

Of course. Harris Price. Star quarterback of the football team. The only varsity athlete in advanced calculus. I swallow down the sick taste that accompanies the memory of what happened in that classroom.

"Yes," I whisper.

If Harris notices my discomfort, he doesn't react. He grins as he leads me upstairs. One of my hands grips the railing, the other instinctively falls onto his back to steady myself. His shoulders tense, but he doesn't stop moving.

"This way."

We creep down the long, towering hallway of Elliott King's mansion of a house. He hosts parties here almost every weekend. The walls are bare of any family pictures, and most of the expensive furniture is destroyed. I wonder where his dad is tonight.

To the left, an open door reveals a group of freshmen passing around a joint. One of them waves. Harris, uninterested, continues down the hallway. He stops at the last door on the right and ushers me in with his hand.

"Thank you," I utter, relieved.

A queen-sized bed and a night table face me.

It's a bedroom, not a bathroom.

I turn around. "I really need—"

Harris shoves me forward. I stumble into the side of the bed, piercing pain shooting through my knees. Amused laughter erupts from the corner. I look up to find a huddle of seniors watching us. A blonde girl giggles at the shock on my face as she leans her head onto Elliott King's shoulder. He's eyeing a thin line of white powder on the table in front of them.

"You brought Berman?" barks the blonde.

She takes a hit off a joint, then passes it to Elliott. He winks at her before pulling in a cloud of smoke. The fog fills up the small space and I cough.

"I thought she might be fun," Harris replies. He takes a step toward me. I take a step away from him. My ankles hit the bed frame and I fall backwards onto the mattress; the sudden movement makes the liquid in my stomach rise to my throat.

"I need to go," I moan, sitting up.

Harris acts like he doesn't hear me. Or maybe I'm not speaking loud enough. I say it again, with conviction this time. He rubs his rough hands over his brown hair and flashes a sly smile. From my position on the bed, his height is amplified.

"You haven't been at school in a while," he says.

I wince. I thought that after two months of summer break, gossip about what had happened in calculus would have finally died down.

"Well," I say, "I'm back."

A flash of heat raises my body temperature, and the blonde girl notices. She twists her face as she stares at the sweat pooling around my bangs.

"Do you think she's possessed?" she jokes.

"Maybe she needs some pot?" Elliott suggests innocently.

Much to the girl's annoyance, he offers up the joint to me. Instead of taking it, I bend over and puke onto the checkered brown and white rug. Which probably costs more than anything in my house.

Shit.

I freeze. The smell of what I've done wafts upwards, threatening to make me puke again.

"Well, fuck," says Elliott "You couldn't have aimed for the trash?"

Harris chuckles. The rest of the group joins in, creating a chorus of laughter at my expense. The quarterback, undeterred by my sickness, creeps closer. He takes a seat on the bed beside me and places his hand on my shoulder. His skin is ice cold. I lift my eyes to meet his. Nothing. They're clear as glass, void of any emotion.

"You know, I think the psycho thing is kind of hot," Harris comments as if noticing me for the first time.

The corners of his lips curl like a butcher ogling a slab of meat.

"Isn't that what everyone calls you? Psycho?"

"Don't bother. She's a prude," the blonde girl retorts.

Maddy Davis. She moved here only a few months ago from Virginia. Elliott whispers something in her ear that makes her giggle.

Harris's hand moves from my shoulder down my left arm like he's marking my skin. I open my mouth to defend myself, but my words disappear when his fingertips touch my neck. He gently grabs a piece of my dark brown hair and twists it.

I stop breathing.

"You're not a prude," says Harris, unashamedly exploring my curves.

I feel naked in this tight black dress. I shouldn't have listened when Gemma suggested I wear it. Gemma. She's one floor beneath me. I will her to save me from this humiliation, begging her to somehow hear my thoughts . . .

She doesn't.

I want to scream. I should scream. But my throat is raw, incapable of making any sound except for a whimper.

"Are you?" Harris asks.

The walls of Elliott's bedroom are covered in posters, and I focus on one hanging to the left of the bed—a jazz musician playing a guitar. I count the strings on it.

One.

Harris places his hand softly around my neck.

"Stop," I finally manage, my voice uncooperating.

Two.

Harris's hand travels down to the top of my chest where he traces my collarbone with his index finger. His hands are calloused and prickly.

"Stop," I say louder.

Harris shakes his head. Instinctively, I try pushing him away, but as my palms meet his shoulders, he knocks me flat on my back.

This time I know I'm shouting.

"Stop!"

Three.

It all happens so quickly. A pair of inked hands grabs the back of Harris's jersey and pulls him off of me. I sit up when Elliott slams him into the table, shattering the glass.

Maddy dives away from the commotion. "What the hell, Elliott?" she exclaims.

Tiny pieces of glass litter the floor around the two boys. Blood pools from a fresh cut in Harris's arm and drips onto the puke-stained rug. He pulls himself back onto his feet, his anger rising.

"Never thought you'd play the hero, King," he spits.

A hint of amusement flashes across Elliott's face. He doesn't seem afraid. In fact, he relaxes. Like this is his usual Saturday night. He crosses his arms and lets out an annoyed groan.

"Get out," he commands.

It's a stark contrast to the comical tone I'm used to when he cracks a dirty joke in class. Harris kicks over a piece of the broken table, spilling more glass shards onto the rug. White powder sticks to the saturated fabric.

Elliott takes another step toward Harris. Elliott might be an inch shorter, but his arms are twice the size, and so is his presence. He lifts his chin, daring the quarterback to make a move, but to my surprise, Harris doesn't.

"Fine," Harris concedes, "but don't expect any more favors from me."

He turns to me, and I scoot backward on the bed.

"Tell anyone about this and you're dead. Got it, Psycho?"

I nod once, then Harris storms out of the room. Maddy rises from her spot on the ground. She hops over the mess on the floor like she's puddle jumping, then pauses in the doorway.

"Come on, Elliott."

His feet stay planted. "I'll meet you downstairs."

Maddy huffs before disappearing into the hall. Only after she leaves do I notice my hands are shaking. Elliott comes to the side of the bed and crouches down to my level. The power that radiated from him only moments ago is gone. He's calm, his blue irises dripping with concern.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

I can't tell if he's being sincere. His pupils are dilated, the whites around them bloodshot. I glance between him and the white powder stuck to the rug. I've heard rumors about Elliott's drug use but seeing it close up is more disturbing than entertaining.

"Rose?"

He sounds like he's talking to a child. I lift my chin, desperate to prove I'm not a kicked puppy.

"No, I'm fine."

I stand up from the bed, ready to get the hell out of here, but my body moves in slow motion. I should thank him for helping me, but my brain is screaming, and my throat hasn't recovered.

I hold on to the walls as I creep out of the disaster of a bedroom without another word from either of us.

Somewhere in the crowd is Harris, chatting girls up like he does at pep rallies. I don't look up from the floor of Elliott's house until I'm safely outside.

The wind blows my thin dress. Atlanta usually isn't this cold in September. I rub my hands against my arms to keep the goosebumps away. A few classmates from the party follow behind me, engaged in their own loud conversation. Is the story already making rounds? I stop to listen.

"You guys want to go back to my place?"

"Totally."

For the first time since entering Elliott's bedroom, I exhale. His house is only steps away from my own. We've been next door neighbors ever since the third grade when his family refurbished the abandoned mansion.

Climbing the stairs to my front door, someone grabs my shoulder.

Cold hands. Sharp nails.

Harris followed me!

He squeezes, and my blood stops flowing. I gasp from the pain, throwing my palm over my mouth to silence my scream. My heart pounds against my rib cage. When I work up the courage to face him, my hand curls into a fist in the same way Elliott's did.

Nobody is behind me.

The street is empty. I shove my key into the door. Quickly step into the foyer and turn the bolt. The sound of my father snoring from the recliner settles my nerves. I take a deep breath, tiptoe around him, careful not to make any noise. The clock on the coffee table reads a quarter to midnight.

I was only gone for an hour. It felt like an eternity.

The stairs creak, but my father's snoring doesn't falter when I reach my bedroom. Next to the stack of unfinished homework on my desk, my phone vibrates. I should have brought the damn thing with me.

Gemma: I got your water. Where r u?Gemma: Helloo?Gemma: Did you leave?

Crap.

Rose: Hey, sorry. Got sick and went home.

Three dots appear on the screen as she types. Everyone must know what happened by now. Gemma won't even get to hear it from me.

Gemma: Feel better. Nishi kissed me!

The adrenaline cascading throughout my body finally slows its course.

News hasn't spread. Not yet, at least.

A sour smell wafts from the bottom of my dress to my nose. I saunter into the bathroom, pausing when I reach the mirror.

I look like absolute shit.

My curls are bunched together in dark, matted knots. The choppy bangs across my forehead are soaked with sweat. Red blotches clot the pale skin on my neck. I trace the outline of one with my pointer finger.

I put the shower on the hottest temperature. The water is probably burning my skin, but I can't feel it. I can't feel anything except Harris's fingers tracing my arm. I scrub every spot he touched until it's raw. Even then, no matter how hard I scrub, the outline of his dirty fingers won't fade.

Behind me, Maddy laughs. Harris smirks viciously. Elliott lunges. The violent symphony of the glass shattering replays again and again and again.How did I not notice that Harris's eyes had no color in them when I spotted him? Why did I assume he was safe to follow?

Salty tears drip onto my lips. I sink down to the floor of the tub, tucking my head between my knees. I've been warned a thousand times by my friends, my father, even my mother before her death, that something like this could happen. It could happen to anyone.

Anyone,I thought, except for me.

I stay seated on the shower floor until the water runs cold.