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“Does that give him a pass? Andrew Cowen is Brook’s friend, too, but he’s a suspect.”

“So? If they’re both connected to Brook, why isn’t he on the list?”

Rio makes an annoyed noise. “Brook Henry is the living definition of a stuffed teddy bear. There’s no way he’d do it.”

“Cute and cuddly doesn’t eliminate potential criminal status,” I argue. My heart is pulsing strongly, like a warning. I need to shut up.

“Do you have any reasons why Ian’s innocent other than the Brook connection?”

Yes, waits on my tongue. That almost-kiss vibrates against my mouth. The ghost of his hand in mine chills my skin. “No,” I whisper.

“Then he stays,” says Rio, firmly.

“But…” I can’t finish. I can’t tell Rio, my best friend, about Ian. About Ian and me. Not that there’s anIan and me, but still. Besides, Ian’s just a face in a bizarre line-up that also includes Principal Moon, Mr. Riley, and Chloe’s dad. The whole wall is a love letter to old-school murder mysteries, ransom-note-style.

Music talks for us. It’s a happy, clappy song, so I can’t complain. I should be at home studying or working on the Essay of Doom. But why? Weekends are for being anything other than yourself. Weekends are for irresponsibility and treating the world like that bowl of uncooked cookie dough you’re not supposed to eat, but you do.

“Sara came by another GSA meeting,” I mention to escape the tension of our previous discussion. Rio hums, scrutinizing a photo with a pen pressed to her pale pink lips. It’s obviously an invitation for me to keep talking. “Another failed attempt to get us on the homecoming bandwagon.”

“Uh huh.”

“She doesn’t get it.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s just… strange.”

What I don’t tell Rio is how, after the meeting, Sara lingered in the back of the classroom, staring at all the other students. Her rehearsed, pyrotechnic-expression remained, but there was a hollowness in her eyes. She didn’t say anything to anyone.

Sara is a homecoming-princess-in-the-making. Quiet isn’t her style. That twitch of her mouth and her searching eyes replay in my mind, as if a fraction of her wanted to be there, to belong to thisthingshe hasn’t figured out how to be part of. It’s been haunting me for a few days, especially sinceIdidn’t say anything toherabout it. I should’ve.

“Mr. Riley is talking about doing a group event for the club.”

“Uh huh.”

“Something for Halloween.”

“Uh huh.”

“I thought maybe bowling?”

“Uh huh.”

Ignoring her robotic responses comes naturally. When Rio’s in a headspace, I don’t dare enter. My feet are in the air, and I stare at my pink-and-yellow polka dot socks.

“Would you like to go?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “We could dress up, eat pizza, go bowling—”

“You’ll fall and bust your ass. I’ll happily record and post it on Twitter.”

We’re not looking at each other, but I can tell her smile is as wide as mine. It’s that third-grade-best-friends feeling. These smiles are heart-shaped mementos pinned to the scrapbook of my brain.

“Sara’s dropping mad hints about homecoming.” The wall Rio’s bed is pushed against is decorated in those cheap glow-in-the-dark stars and planets, a parting gift from Jo-Ann Fabric. I haven’t decided if I like them or not. “I think she wants me to join the committee.”

“You’re anti-committee.”

“Well, duh.”

“Then there’s nothing to discuss,” says Rio. “Unless…”