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Peeling open the lid, I see a pair of boots, kind of like hers, but hers have straps that let her foot peek through, whereas these are completely covered. There’s a heel, but the sole is rubber. I love the buckles and the zipper.

“Coco says that sometimes they give young women their first pair of heels at their quinceañera,” she tells me, “and you said you didn’t have one, and I never had a sweet sixteen, because they’re sooooo archaic—but maybe I would’ve liked to have one—maybe…” She pauses and then rejoins her original train of thought. “Anyway, I thought we could wear heels tonight.”

I glance at hers again and then mine, remembering the custom. She’s right. Sometimes, your quince is when you get your first pair. A symbol of being a woman, etc.

I’ve actually had heels. These wouldn’t be my first pair, but… I pick one up, examining it. I would wear these.

I smile to myself. She’s not bad.

“We might have to run at some point,” I point out.

It’s entirely possible.

She just looks at me, her bottom lip kind of sticking out. “But I want to wear heels.”

I laugh. I guess it’s pointless to argue.

She picks up the bag and digs inside, pulling out the jersey I didn’t see.

It’s a blue and black Rebel football one. I gape at her. “Where the hell did you get this?”

I grab for it, but she snatches it away. “You gotta wear the heels, though.”

I snatch it out of her hand and roll my eyes. “I’m going to break an ankle,” I grumble, taking the jersey and new shoes to the bed with the rest of my clothes. “But fine.”

I dress, and she lends me some makeup from her purse. Once my hair is dry, I pull it up into a high ponytail and tease it up, feeling like I’m putting on armor for war.

I pull on my new shoes and look down at myself, legs looking so much longer in jean shorts and heels. The blue on the jersey brings out my skin tone, and I’m excited for Hawke to see me done up a little. I loved how he looked at me at that pool party.

But…

Something’s off. There’s nothing exactly wrong, but it’s not my style. Dylan stands at my side, and I look at her, and she looks at me, and she says, “I feel like we should switch.”

Oh, thank God. Black is my color.

We giggle, whipping off our clothes. She gives me her tights and shirt, and I toss over the jean shorts—which are hers anyway. I pull out my hair, dab on a little more plum lipstick, and when we emerge, Hawke and Stoli are already waiting in the great room.

“Dylan, what the hell are you wearing?” Stoli barks.

She sashays past, pulling her hair up into a ponytail with the huge Weston football jersey hanging on her lean body.

But all I see now is Hawke, sitting on the couch and looking over his shoulder at me. His eyes trail from my new heels all the way up to my face.

I feel the tight shorts and the way the shirt grazes my stomach like it’s his fingers.

I stare at him, my hair hanging over both sides of my face. Heat rises in his eyes.

“Take it off!” Stoli yells at her.

“Nope,” she chirps. “It’ll be funny.”

We leave through the bakery and out the front door this time, the sun already set and High Street in full evening craze. The streetlights glow, cars drift past, and a line forms at the movie theater. Packed restaurants sit diners at the outside tables, and I look up, the stars like confetti across the sky.

Grudge Night.

It’s only six, and the sun won’t be up for twelve hours.

Twelve hours.

An ’82 El Camino drifts past us, and I know Hawke and Dylan don’t know who’s in the car when the passengers look at us and we look back at them, but they know those are Weston kids inside. They hold my eyes a little longer, one of them swiping his finger across his throat, smiling while he does it.

The Rebels are already here.

“Did you warn Hunter?” I hear Hawke ask Dylan.

Her reply is clipped. “He saw the message.”

I draw in a deep breath, feeling the balmy night in every pore, and the hot cement under my heels. The smell of flowers from the potted plants that decorate the storefronts fills the air, and I can hear my pulse in my ears.

“Let’s go,” Hawke says.

But then I hear a rumble, spotting a black car with rust around the edges of the doors and the paint worn through, revealing the old blue underneath.

I grab Hawke, stopping him. “1972 Dodge Charger,” I whisper.

He follows my gaze, seeing the classic vehicle crawl past us, the tinted windows hiding who’s inside.

The hair on my neck rises, and I turn, looking up at the roof of the hideout. A form stands there, their face hidden in the trees, but I make out the arms and the hood. I know they’re looking down at us.