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“I still look great.”

“You look like death.”

“High-fashion death.”

She rolls her eyes. “The jury’s still out.”

We slip back into comfortable silence, the kind that’s existed forever between us.

Inside Zombie, Ian’s shuffling around. I watch him hang a new menu he’s doodled on, talk to Trixie, fix his glasses, sip a steaming matcha latte. I haven’t said anything to him since lunch today. I asked him for a fry. Red-faced and stammering, he passed me the whole tray. And he didn’t say anything after the last bell when he hooked a finger in my belt loop and tugged me into an empty classroom. He spoke in kisses.

Ian sees me through the glass. My smile feels never-ending.

“I’ve seen that look before,” accuses Lucy.

“On yourself?”

Lucy gasps, then kicks me. “I have never.”

Oh, but she has. It’s true, Brook Henry’s unbearable levels of puppy love when it came to Lucy started the second she stepped on campus freshman year. But peak Brook-infatuated-Lucy was scary: hardcore stares and notebook poetry and forcing me to watch endless YouTube videos of Olympic swimming events.

“I tried to ask Brook about it.” I freeze. “But he says it’s nothing. I’m seeing things,” she says, and my limbs finally relax. Unspoken trust lives.

“It really is nothing,” I say. She squints. “We’re friends.”

“A likely story.”

We leave it at that. I know why Ican’ttell her, but that doesn’t make keeping this from Lucy any less difficult. I used to tell her everything about Dimi, even when things were starting to fray, when I could tell she hated him. This is new for me, dating—or non-dating—someone who isn’t out. I’m more aware of every touch or look because that might tip someone off. I can’t walk up to Ian at his locker and kiss him in the middle of Maplewood’s morning traffic jam.

Someone clears their throat. Standing over us is Darcy. While the rest of Maplewood’s student population usually looks like theWalking Deadafter school, Darcy always seems ready for another eight hours of social awkwardness and pop quizzes. In her peach sweater and khaki skirt and blonde hair strategically pinned up to show off her cheekbones, she’s a preppy candidate for sainthood.

She shoots me a half-wince, then turns to Lucy. I guess I should be thankful she didn’t publicly damn my sexual deviancy to passersby.

“We need to do something about this Mad Tagger situation, as a collective,” she says, huffing.

“What about them?”

“He struck again.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “Again?”

“Yes!” Darcy shrieks. Her skin’s blotchy-red. “My posters for a prayer circle to be held before the dance were vandalized.”

I quickly grab my drink to stop myself from snorting. Anyone could’ve defaced GTFO’s posters. Darcy has a select group of minions and an army of non-fans.

“The class presidents should convene and stop this madness.” Darcy makes a face like a disgruntled cartoon lion. “Clearly Principal Moon and Chloe’s dad are clueless.”

“O-okay,” says Lucy, slowly, “but what’re we, you know,teensgonna do to stop a criminal? We’re not Dumbledore’s Army.”

“It’s obviously a student. We could sniff out the culprit.”

I guffaw. “Did they forget to wear deodorant?”

Darcy’s glare is like a vampire on steroids. I raise surrendering hands. It’s one thing to combat Darcy, President of GTFO and Queen of Cardigans, in the halls of Maplewood. I can guarantee a small measure of safety there. But public Darcy doesn’t seem quite as determined to keep a clean slate with the law.

“Okay, Darcy,” Lucy says. “Maybe we can plan something?”

“It’s already being coordinated. We can’t let homecoming be desecrated by…” She pauses, directs that venomous glare at me. “…people who don’t understand the purpose of traditional values.”