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A RUMSON HALL DORM ROOM DOESN’T quite possess the necessary décor for a festive poker evening, but somehow, Salem and Matt have made do, tracking down a round table that’ll work well enough for our purposes and, improbably, a case of poker chips. “Buddy of mine at MCC lent it to me,” Matt said proudly, referring to the nearby community college.

Jason Hammond and Brent Cage from across the hall are already in the room when I arrive, but as we get ourselves situated and start passing around snacks, more and more people show up. Landon and another guy from the basketball team whose name I don’t catch. I meet Nick Ontiveros, whom Jenna’d suggested to set me up with, and wonder if that’s somehow her doing. Even Archie shows up, immediately gracing me with a scowl as he takes a seat across from me at the table. (Duncan, unfortunately, is nowhere to be found, which is a shame—I would’ve loved taking his money, even now that he keeps his mouth shut around me.)

We’re already three hands deep into Texas Hold’em by the time the girls show up and make themselves at home on Matt’s and Salem’s beds, and, in Ashleigh’s case, on Landon’s lap. None of them feign an interest in playing, but Isabel does perch over me and go, “Ooh, is having five aces good?”—which I can tell would piss the crap out of Archie if he weren’t torn between his annoyance at the joke and his gratitude for the view down her shirt.

Meanwhile, I’m keeping things low-key as I pick up everyone’s tells, because this is not a sophisticated group. Archie straight-up smiles and frowns, and tries to hide it quickly. Salem’s foot taps when he can’t wait to make his next move, but if he knows it’s going nowhere, he starts scratching his name into the table with his thumbnail, as if he’s already checked out of this hand. Landon compulsively checks his hole cards—there’s always someone who does, and depending on at what point they do it, it’s a dead giveaway—but even if he didn’t, Ash can’t stop herself from smiling when he has an obviously good hand. Brent can’t remember all the rules, so if he looks confused, he either doesn’t have anything or might have a flush but forgets that’s a thing. Matt always reaches for his chips too early when he’s got a good hand—rookie mistake. Jason’s the only one who’s halfway decent at bluffing, but unfortunately for him, he keeps tilting his cards so they reflect perfectly in his glasses.

I take the fourth hand with three jacks, then bluff my way to a win for the fifth.

“What’d you have?” Archie asks, trying and failing to keep his voice casual as I rake in the pile of chips, including a sizable contribution from him that makes me wonder what he was holding before he panicked after my second raise.

I stack up my winnings. “Your mom.”

“Real mature. Did it beat a straight?”

“Did you seriously fold with a straight?”

He curses under his breath, and it makes the win that much sweeter, especially when Salem says, “Damn, Skeevy.” We ante up and Matt deals again, and as soon as I see the two and three of spades, I have a good feeling. I never lose a hand when I have the two of spades, which is why I used to wear a Claire-crafted bead version around my neck. I’d even thought about putting it on tonight, because much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind in Greentree. But I figured it probably no longer carried the luck it used to.

Clearly I don’t need Claire and her jewelry, because I end up with a flush. I raise steadily, but Archie’s already decided that I’m constantly bluffing, so he jacks up the pot, and I’m only too happy to keep going.

“How do you know how to do this?” Priya asks, fascinated.

“My dad and I used to play a lot.” True, but I don’t mention how frequently we used to play with cousins at family gatherings, using jelly beans or Jolly Ranchers as currency. Or the poker nights I used to have with some friends at Greentree I haven’t spoken to in months. Or the fact that I’m ranked in the top three hundred of my favorite poker app.

No one does better at poker than a girl being underestimated by a table of guys. Ask me how I know.

Finally, Archie calls, and curses under his breath when I display my row of spades.

“Damn, she took you, Buchanan.” Jason laughs, and the other guys whoop and cheer as I rake in his chips. Even Salem cracks a grin.

“Might’ve been worth being nicer to me that first day,” I say sweetly, and Archie’s scowl is a thing of beauty.

Everyone needs a break after that, so I grab a handful of chips and a can of Coke, then open up the window between Matt’s and Salem’s beds for some fresh air. The cool breeze feels glorious on my skin as I sink onto Salem’s (neatly made!) bed and take a drink of the lukewarm soda, the perfect antidote to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I’ve already made enough money to cover my spending at the mall, and it feels so good to see Archie choke.

“You better not spill that in my bed,” Salem commands, but the corner of his mouth is quirked up.

“Come on,” I say as he sits down next to me, taking my can and helping himself to a sip without so much as wiping it off. “That’s not all you have to say to me, is it?”

He fixes me with those mysterious gray eyes, as if I’m offering up a riddle and the answer can be found plainly on my face, if you just search hard enough. Finally, he concedes. “I will never underestimate you again, Everett Riley.”

Satisfied, I smile smugly and take back my Coke for another long drink, burying my sock-covered toes under his warm thigh. “Took you long enough. But you know I’m not giving your money back, right?”

“Wouldn’t even dream of asking.”

And, you know, I believe him.

We’re not really a God family, so it’s hard to explain why my first thought when I wake up on Sunday morning is I should go to church.

Maybe I feel a little bad about taking all that money off my classmates.

But only a little. Certainly, the devilish feelings don’t stop me from putting together another cute outfit and donning some makeup again. Plus, my bonus winnings from last night are burning a hole in my pocket with all sorts of thoughts on how I could spend them.

I decide to pass on church, especially since I’m starving, so I bring my remaining homework to the Beast and sit in the corner, stuffing pancakes slathered in whipped cream and berries in my mouth while I tackle geometry. People slowly trickle in while I work, but between day students being home for the weekend, the actually devout being at chapel, and everyone else doing a Sunday morning sleep-in, the room might be even calmer than yesterday. The only real sounds are the hissing of the coffee maker and the slamming of a stapler nailing new weekly announcements to the bulletin board, all of which are going to be emailed to us anyway.

The math is relatively easy, and without the distractions of text messages or tablemates, I sail through both it and my breakfast. But I have no other plans today anyway, so I decide to stick around and nurse a glass of OJ while I move on to English.

As if just thinking about Mrs. Frank conjures him up, I hear the familiar thud of Salem dropping into the chair next to me, followed by the heavy thump of his ratty messenger bag landing on the table. Even if I hadn’t recognized the bag, “Looking so studious over there, Skeevy” would’ve given him away immediately. “Studying how to take even more of Archie’s money?”

“Would that I could. I’m surprised you managed to roll out of bed at this hour, though it’s pretty clear you did exactly that,” I say, indicating his faded black Soundgarden T-shirt and pants that have somehow been worn to colorlessness. “I see you’re also on the study-while-you-eat plan.”

“AP Psych quiz,” he confirms. “Envy me.”

I do, not that he realizes. Of course he got into the class I’d most wanted to take, which was already full by the time I enrolled at Camden. Taking a minimum of two AP classes this year was part of the deal with my parents for coming here, and chem and APUSH were two of the only ones available to sophomores. Annoyingly, Salem is in the latter with me, too, and I don’t understand it, considering this is the first time I’ve ever seen him study. “So brilliant,” I mutter, pointedly turning my focus to the thick book in front of me. “What story are you doing for English?”

“‘Masque of the Red Death.’ Haven’t started writing yet, though. I figure that’ll be Thursday night’s problem.”

“Salem.” I shut the book as quickly as I’ve opened it and fix him with a serious Look. “My part of the deal will not allow me to let you put off a huge assignment until the last minute. Come on—we can outline together.”

“Hard pass, Skeevy. I’m just here for breakfast and a quick chapter review.”

“I thought you weren’t a breakfast person.”

“I’m a black-coffee-on-Sunday-mornings person,” he says, and then he goes and gets himself some, leaving me inexplicably tempted to go through the bag he left behind. I wrinkle my nose when he returns and the bitter scent hits me. “I guess coffee is not your thing.”

“Not even a little,” I confirm. “Aren’t you, like, thirty years too young to be drinking that?”

“I’m an old soul.” He purses his lips and blows at the cloud of steam that wafts from the cup. “Is your talent gonna be nagging people to death or what?”

“Talent?”

He nods toward the bulletin board. “Talent show. You haven’t seen the fifty thousand flyers already pasted up all over campus this morning?”

“I have not. Will you be showing us how to roll fifty joints in under a minute?”

“Ha ha. I am now…” He starts ticking off on his fingers, then loses count immediately. “Nearing forty-eight hours completely sober, thank you very much. But oh, right, we already got to see your talent last night. I assume you’ll be whooping some poker ass onstage for everyone’s viewing pleasure?”

“Lemme guess,” I say, putting my fingers to my temples like a psychic. “ You’ll be doing some incredibly emo performance on an acoustic guitar whose name is… Jenny. No, Betty. Yes, your guitar’s name is definitely Betty.”

“Since when do I have a guitar?” His lips twitch as he brings the coffee back up to them for a sip.

“Oh, come on. You are the stereotype to end all stereotypes. Of course you have a guitar. And if I knew anything about the music you listen to, I’d tell you exactly what you’ll be playing.”

“If you want a crash course in music that doesn’t suck, all you have to do is ask, you know.”

“Oh, do you know someone who could give it?” I ask sweetly.

He just rolls his eyes and goes back to his cup o’ bitterness, and I turn back to my homework. I expect him to do the same, but instead he whips out a worn paperback from his bag—I immediately guess it’s going to be Kerouac or Vonnegut and am sorely disappointed but also relieved when it turns out to be Colson Whitehead—and we sit in strangely companionable silence for a while. But it isn’t long before the gears in my brain start turning again as I think about how I can use the talent show to my advantage.

I don’t have any talents other than cards; that’s just an unfortunate fact. But if watching old teen movies on sick days has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t need a genuine talent if you just show off hotness, and amazingly enough, I think that’s a thing I’m learning how to do.

If the talent show is a regular thing at Camden, I’m willing to bet Isabel, Jenna, Priya, and Ashleigh have some sort of routine at the ready, and what could possibly make me look cooler or hotter than joining them? Maybe it’s a long shot, but they’ve already taken me shopping and picked out my freaking underwear; is it really so beyond to think they might be willing to include me in this too?

“What’s going through your head right now?”

Salem’s question startles me out of my plotting, and I look over to see him watching me suspiciously over the edge of The Nickel Boys. “Nothing to worry your pretty head over.”

“Why does that feel like the most dangerous thing you could possibly say?”

Dangerous. That’s certainly a word no one’s ever used about me.

Looks like I’m making some progress.

With my homework behind me, I dedicate the afternoon to figuring out how to approach Isabel about the talent show while also thinking about what I could possibly offer. Then, of course, there’s the task of actually tracking her and her friends down, but turns out I didn’t need to worry about that; they find me first—or at least, one of them does—thanks to Camden’s all-day Sunday dorm-intervisitation policy.

“So this is your Rumson lair.” It takes me a minute to realize that the person speaking those words is standing in my doorway and talking to me. I left my door open because I’ve become accustomed to the background noises of squeaky sneakers and trash talking, even when I’m playing solitaire. I certainly never expected to find Jenna London in front of it.

Of the four girls, Jenna is definitely the scariest. I don’t know if it’s the black hair / ice-blue eyes combo or the fact that she smiles like she’s about to sink her teeth into your neck, but I physically have to push my tongue against my teeth a few times to loosen it up enough to respond. “Home sweet home,” I finally choke out.

She doesn’t enter, just lets her gaze travel over the room like she’s giving the world’s most hideous outfit a once-over. “Maybe you should use some of last night’s winnings to hire a decorator.”

I’m pretty sure it’s a joke. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to laugh.

I settle on a wry smile, but she seems to be over me anyway. There’s a light tapping on my doorjamb and she moves on, leaving me no clue what she was doing here in the first place, or where she’s off to next.

Okay, not the most promising start to getting myself included in their talent-show shenanigans. Or finding out if those shenanigans exist to begin with. Frankly, it’s impossible for me to imagine Jenna doing anything that requires looking like she cares about something. The only thing I’ve ever seen bring her joy is making fun of her friends.

Come to think of it, that’s the first time I’ve seen Jenna without Ashleigh, Priya, and Isabel. Maybe that’s what was so unsettling about her presence here.

I don’t have any more time to think about it before my phone rings, and I give it a quick glance only to freeze when I see the word “Home” light up my screen.

I’ve only spoken to my parents a couple of times since I got here, but those calls were always from cell phones—a quick dutiful check-in from my mom on her way home from work, or my dad letting me know he’s thinking of me while mixing up a stir-fry. They almost never use the landline, and I can’t help thinking it’s because it’s not them at all, but Sierra trying to weasel her way into reaching me.

I let it go to voicemail, even though I would kill to hear “Hey, kiddo” in my dad’s voice right now.

My mom and Sierra have always had this bond. They both love going out to have parts of their bodies polished and waxed and sugared and whatever. They have the same dark, wavy hair that makes them look positively unrelated to me and has left me watching enviously while one braided the other’s hair on many a rainy afternoon. And my mom loved how Sierra had so many boys to talk about—the guy she sat next to in French and the stranger she flirted with at the pharmacy and the line of them asking her to prom every year. It may be stupid, but part of the excitement about finally getting a boyfriend was being able to have silly conversations with my mom about Craig over cups of hot chocolate, just like Sierra did.

But of course, my sister took that too.

My dad, though… We may not have as much in common as Mom and Sierra do, but he always had the time and patience to teach me card games and tricks, and even a little cardistry—his favorite hobby. Every skill in my arsenal, from poker to canasta, comes from him. And even now, when I’m so happy to be an hour away from them all, I wish he and I could just squeeze in one game of gin rummy.

God, I hate how many things Sierra took away from me. It’s like every day, I discover a new one.

I wait for the notification that a voicemail has been left, but my phone remains silent for the rest of the afternoon.

The talent show proves to be a surprisingly popular topic of conversation at Camden. Apparently, it’s some kind of institution, and it’s one of the few nonmandatory events that every single student attends. At dinner that night, Heather, Kayla, and Kayla’s roommate Maya are more than happy to give Sabrina and me a rundown.

“Mr. Hoffman emcees it every year, and every year he messes up half of his jokes. Still unclear whether that’s some sort of meta joke or if he’s taken one too many footballs to the brain.” Kayla pauses to sweep her braids behind her shoulder and take a delicate bite of her Bolognese, which is apparently also a Camden institution for Sunday-night dinner. “There used to be this awesome band that always closed down the show, but they graduated last year, and supposedly they got a contract at an indie label, but no one knows if that’s really true or not.”

“I heard that fell through,” says Maya, “but there are plenty of people who perform every year and are epic.”

“It’s really fun,” adds Heather, neatly wrapping spaghetti around her fork. “You guys should think about performing. I was too nervous to do it as a freshman, but I’m definitely gonna do it this year.”

Salem’s not listening to a single word—he’s parked himself next to me with earbuds in his ears and a book open in front of him—but Sabrina and I listen with rapt attention as Maya tells us more acts we can expect to see, including a senior who sings opera, a freshman who’s rumored to be a speed-painter (no idea what that is, but assuming it’s as advertised), an impeccable hip-hop routine from the Dance Club that Kayla assures us will star Ashleigh front and center, and, incredibly, a junior ventriloquist.

“This all makes me feel very talentless,” Sabrina jokes, and I’m glad someone else said what I was thinking, but one thing I will not be doing is making myself sound subpar. I may not have a talent for the show yet, but I will come up with one. And this seems like the perfect opportunity to dig into whether Isabel and her friends have anything I can somehow glom on to.

“Does anyone else do dance routines?” I ask casually. “Or, like, a lip-syncing kinda thing?” Yes, I Googled “talent show ideas for people without talent.” Lip-syncing is shockingly popular. And also not a thing I am good at. But I figure if there’s anything I can pick up in a couple of weeks, that’s a solid one.

“God, that’s the cheesiest,” Sabrina cuts in, dragging her fork through the sauce on the plate. “When did we start pretending that required multiple brain cells?”

Well, so much for that.

“Oh, the way my cousin does it is definitely a real talent,” Heather says earnestly, turning to Kayla. “Remember those videos I showed you? She’s so good.”

Kayla nods and smiles, and all I can think is that there exists a girl so pure of heart, she proudly shows off her cousin’s lip-syncing videos, and I made out with her boyfriend.

Yeah, I’m once again the Girl Who Wasn’t Chosen, but once upon a time, I was also a Nice Girl—maybe not Heather level, but nice. Sweet. And we’re both living proof that sweet is not enough. Even if it gets the guy, it doesn’t keep the guy. Because the guy will always eventually get lured away by shameless flirting and sexy clothes and, above all, a willingness to do what the sweet girl won’t.

Even if the girls are sisters.

Ask me how I know.

“A freshman did tap last year,” says Maya. “She slipped and fell on her butt in the middle. It was not pretty. Let’s just say she does not go here anymore.”

Okay, so maybe I’d been so fixated on how I could look impressive that I had forgotten that I could even more easily make a complete ass of myself. Whoops. “Yikes,” I say with a goofy swipe of my forehead before remembering that I am being uncool and I need to shift the attention elsewhere immediately. “So what are you guys thinking of doing?”

“I’m thinking about singing,” Kayla says with a hint of bashfulness in her voice. “Or maybe doing a monologue.”

“Ooh, I was thinking the same!” Heather’s warm brown eyes light up, and I watch as she, Kayla, and Maya spin off into a conversation about how much they love drama and music and theatre and lights and camera and action. (Well, maybe not action.) If I didn’t feel like an outsider before, I certainly do now.

“Do you know what you’re gonna be doing, Evie?”

I blink at the sound of my name; apparently, I’ve been watching them without really listening. But now Kayla’s just asked me a question and Heather and Maya—and Salem and Sabrina, who definitely think I don’t notice them peeking over like the little weasels they are—are looking at me with curious interest, and I have no idea what to say, other than that I do not want to concede that I am wildly unimpressive in front of these people.

“I may do something with some friends” comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I regret it immediately. Faster, if possible. Because I can see them all trying to figure out who exactly my friends are who are not seated at this table, and frankly, that is a very good question.

The silence that drags out after that is almost worse than if they’d actually just asked, and I’m trying to recall everything I know about physics to see if I can make myself melt into the floor when Salem finally says, “Just warning you that if it’s baton twirling, I’ve heard Hoffman likes to jump in and relive his high school glory days.”

“Noted,” I say with a grin as everyone else jumps in with jokes and guesses about what various staff talents would be. It’s tremendously gratifying when I make everyone, including Salem, crack up with the mental image of Mrs. Frank breakdancing, to the point where I almost forget that now I really have to go and beg Isabel to do something with me.

Almost.