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Prologue

MADDIE

“What’s your deal, dude?”

“Not a dude,” one of my best friends grumbled at my question, not looking up from the mushy meat she poked at.

Private school or not, cafeteria food would always suck. And honestly, I was fairly certain ours sucked worse than public school. We didn’t get pizza day or nachos or little ice cream cups served with a wooden stick we were supposed to use like a spoon. We got organic meatloaf made with quinoa and lentils.

Not that I blamed the staff for the culinary abominations. They needed to prepare food in bulk that would still accommodate the demanding nutritional and health-focused criteria the school touted. They put in a valiant effort, but it was also a wasted one.

The seniors were technically the only ones allowed to leave campus for lunch, but that didn’t stop others from going, too. The ones who did stay ordered delivery or brought gourmet food from home.

I was in that last category. Unlike most, my lunchbox wasn’t filled with sushi rolls or chopped salads. My mom gave me a traditional kid lunch of a sandwich and junk snacks.

“You’ve barely said three words all day,” I said when Wren’s silence stretched. “And I’m pretty sure Billy was gonna ask you to homecoming, but you walked away when he was mid-sentence.”

She’d been crushing on Billy since we were basically babies—back when he thought spilling her chocolate milk onto her lap and yelling that she peed herself was flirting.

Though truth be told, he probably still thought that.

I’d assumed the confirmation that her interest was reciprocated would snap Wren from her funk, but she just lifted a shoulder. “He talks too much.”

“You’re over the Billy thing?”

And bything, I meant obsession.

“No,” she muttered. “Just not in the mood.”

Digging into my lunch bag, I pulled out my sandwich container and opened it to take half before sliding the other across the table. “Cafeteria mystery meat is hazardous to your aliveness. Fourteen’s too young to die… Especially when you haven’t gone to a dance with Billy yet. Bucket list.”

She rolled her eyes but shoved her tray to the side and grabbed the sandwich.

I pulled the small bag of chips out and opened them, putting it between us to share. I nudged my Diet Coke can closer, too.

She added the carton of oat or almond or whatever milk to her discarded tray before snatching up the can. She slowly opened it, careful not to chip her glittery pink nails.

We ate silently, my eyes on her and hers on the table.

When we finished, I unraveled half of my Fruit by the Foot and tore it off. I started to hand her the still rolled portion, but when she went for it, I lifted it out of reach. “I’m not gonna force you to talk. Though, fair warning, Greer will definitely try.”

Like I’d summoned her, the third in our friendship tripod flopped down in the spot next to me. I’d assumed the beautiful overachiever had some club meeting, but it must’ve been band practice that’d taken up part of the period. Her drumsticks clattered on the table next to her lunchbox. “What will I…” Her unnecessary question trailed off when she saw the turmoil that was clear as day on Wren’s face. “What is it?”

It had pretty much been written in the stars that the three of us would be besties since we were second-generation friends. Our moms had been tight since college. They’d pledged the same sorority, served as maids of honor in one another’s weddings, and had gotten pregnant within months of each other with their only children. My dad and Greer’s dad ran a plastic surgery practice together, and we all lived on the same street.

The only exception to that last part was when we were ten, and Wren’s parents’ marriage went down the shitter. But that’d just meant that Wren and her mom had temporarily moved closer by staying at my house.

According to a drunken gossip-fest we’d overheard, the OGs—what we called our moms—had even narrowly avoided serving jail time together during the messy divorce process. Not thatI wanted them to do that, but it would’ve really added to the illustrious friendship. They’d shown their displeasure with Wren’s dad by using his expensive golf clubs to shatter his computer, realtor awards, stock of liquor, and anything else breakable in his office.

He’d had it coming.

Actually, he had worse coming. They should’ve beatenhimwith the clubs, too.

The fact he’d cheated with his dumb-as-a-rock receptionist was bad—and cliché—enough. But he’d made it that much worse by declining any sort of official visitation with Wren. He’d blamed his hectic work schedule, as if she was a baby who needed supervision.

But then he’d really gone for thatDad-of-the-Yeartrophy by setting his attack dog lawyers on Dina.

Years of her putting her own life on hold to support him, and he hadn’t wanted to pay spousal or even child support. He’d fought her over the money. Their investments. The cars.