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No reason to tighten my fingers on his hand.

I try to remind myself of other things: the way he treated my brother, who was the one who sold drugs, not the one who gave them to Mariana; his DUI, which clearly was covered up; the body in that trunk, a girl who deserves answers; and most of all, the way it felt when he dumped dirty water on my head and told me I don't belong.

But my heart betrays my better instincts. I like the way this feels. For the first time since I came to Coleridge, standing here in his arms, I almost believe there's a place for me here.

Then he drops my hand and turns towards the front of the ballroom. My eyes follow the direction he's looking. The microphone Holly made the announcement into is still there, and the music has tapered off so someone can speak, but it's not Holly who steps up to the mic.

It's Georgia Johnson.

And I don't like the look of the smile on her face.

"Before things get underway, I wanted to give a special announcement. From us at the Rosalinds," her smile grows sharp, "to one of our former members."

My stomach drops. Looking over at Cole, hands twisting in my skirt, I beg him, "No."

He doesn't look at me. "Watch the performance, Brenna. You need to know the consequences of your actions."

"Why do you want me so badly to leave?" I ask, in a voice that's softer and weaker than I'd like. "What have I done that makes you hate me so much? Is it because I'm poor?"

Georgia has pushed a button on a little remote control, and a screen is dropping down behind her. There's a murmur going through the crowd; people don't understand what's going on. Even Holly looks clueless and curious.

But I know.

And I feel their gazes.

Blake's cold, incurious stare.

The triumphant expression on Tanner's face.

Something sad in Lukas's eyes, like this isn't what he wanted.

And Cole, looking straight ahead, sure and confident in his actions.

They're going to do everything they can to destroy me. They don't seem to know that I've already been hollowed out in the middle, my heart stolen and buried in a coffin next to my brother's bruised body.

I can handle this. I can face it.

It's like I said: let them do their worst. No one reasonable will hate me for my brother's name, or for the accusations against him. I'm standing next to a boy who is accused of drunkenly crashing a car with a body in the trunk.

If he gets to stay at Coleridge, despite everything, then I'll buckle down and stay too. Even though I hate it here. Even though it's not where I belong. I'll stay just to prove that I can.

I dig my hands into my dress and force my eyes forward, putting the most neutral, uninterested expression on my face. It doesn't matter that all my friends are about to find out that I'm a liar. I don't care.I don't care.

"Ah, finally. Our screen is ready for the show!" Georgia throws up a hand in celebration, turning on the projector, which puts a shockingly familiar photo up for everyone to see. "Let's meetBrenna."

It's a picture of six-year-old me, gap-toothed and freckled, my arm thrown around my brother's shoulder. I can hear people wonder:why is someone who isn't even one of the Rosalinds anymore getting a slideshow dedicated to her? Is it her birthday?It was, in fact, a few weeks ago on November 8th, but that was BrennaWilder'sbirthday; Brenna Cooke was born in the middle of April.

My thoughts are racing.

"You may think you know Brenna, but you haven't heard it all. Did you know she has a twin?"

I move, blindly, back from the screen as another photo shows up, one that makes my heart twist. Cole reaches out and grabs my elbow, holding me tight, keeping my close.

He leans in and murmurs in my ear, "It all ends now if you promise to drop out."

"Never," I vow, already imagining myself graduating from Coleridge in a cap and gown. "Just tell the administration that I lied about my name if you want me out so bad."

"No. I want you to leavevoluntarily.It's the only thing that will work."