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Outside, they walked along the dark, empty roadside, which was surprising to Rose because she thought everyone around here drove. But she was glad this boy didn’t have a car. Rose could never justify getting into a stranger’s car. But a walk? She could do a walk.

“I’m Hart, by the way.”

“As in…?” She pointed to the center of her chest, and it triggered a dimple to deepen in the center of the boy’s cheek.

“H-A-R-T,” he said.

She smiled. “Rose Pauly. Can I ask where we’re going?”

“Someone’s throwing a party. A last-day-of-school thing.” Hart heaved the bag of ice farther up his hip, carrying it like a big blocky baby. “You’re new here.”

“Just moved today.” She hadn’t really looked when she chose the candy bar, and now she read the label. Malt-flavored. Awful. Rose pinched open the wrapper and chomped down. The night filled with the sounds of crickets, tree frogs, and her loud crunching.

“Are you a senior?” Hart asked.

“I will be in the fall.”

“Me too. That can’t be easy, switching schools in your last year.”

There was a perfectly dumb explanation that involved her parents’ messy divorce and her dad’s rash decision to pick up and move. But the last thing Rose wanted to do was ruin Hart’s mood and her own by telling the story. So, she let the minutes lapse silently, until they stretched to their breaking point and she only nodded and agreed. “No, yeah, it sucks.”

“Well, if it helps, you’ve already made a friend.” He moved the bag to the front of his chest, hugging it to himself and planting his chin on the ice like a triumphant flag at the top of Everest. “Me.”

Rose didn’t know what it was about the moment—this cute boy, and his smile, and his earnestness, and his random bag of ice—but it all came together in a heady alchemy, bewitching her. She was glad for the night and the canopy of trees shrouding them so Hart couldn’t see how deeply she was blushing.

They walked until the trees thinned and eventually gave way to houses. They reached a street sign and turned into its corner, entering a world of light and the sound of life, but Rose already missed the quiet road where it was just the two of them.

“I’m really sorry about your shirt,” Hart said. “I’ll get you a new one.”

She knew that someone who carried around one-hundred-dollar bills could afford it. But a wardrobe change was the furthest thing from her mind. “You don’t have to.”

She didn’t need him to lead the way anymore. The house with the party sat in the middle of its block like a broken pinata, with kids spilling into the yard and parked cars cramming the curb. These would be her future classmates, she knew. And as Rose ventured closer to the house party, dread rose up steadily within her like mercury in a thermometer. She was about to present herself to her future schoolmates for the first time, and she’d be doing it looking like they’d preemptively thrown overripe tomatoes at her.

Hart hitched the ice up and stepped onto the yard, but Rose held back. “Actually, I think I’ll just walk home from here.”

“What? No, I’ll find you a new shirt.”

Rose hedged, but Hart kept walking, and as though they were already tethered to each other by a thick rope, she followed in step. They stopped in the doorway, parting slightly to let a girl glide between them. Along the side of Hart’s neck, where an artery pulsed, moisture glistened, and Rose wondered whether it was sweat or condensation from the bag of ice. She had the sudden— ridiculous —urge to lick the spot in order to tell the difference. When he smirked at her, Rose averted her gaze like she’d been caught mid-dirty thoughts.

“Let me unload this thing,” Hart said, glancing down to the bag of ice. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He left Rose in the foyer, and she instinctively tried to stay out of people’s way. She didn’t want to accidentally smear Red 40 on anyone, let alone be seen in this shirt, but it was already too late for the latter. Two boys by the living room credenza snuck glances at her, their eyes roving down the front of her body—and then turned to each other to snicker. When Hart passed them on his way to the kitchen, they slapped him on the back and seemed to share a joke with him, because it made him laugh. But before Rose could think about what this meant, and what kind of people Hart hung out with, someone new stepped into her view.

The girl who suddenly stood before her was so striking that Rose had to take a step back, just to take her all in. Her beauty grabbed you by the throat, which was remarkable, considering the state she was in. Her clothes clung to her body but were rumpled like she’d rolled out of bed in them. Honey-brown hair limp and disheveled, with flyaway strands floating around her face as if electrified. Her eyebrows were enviably thick, yet unkempt. And beneath them her eyes were rimmed with smeared shadow and eyeliner that still looked better than any meticulous smoky-eye Rose had ever attempted. But the eyes themselves were the most arresting thing. Blues, greens, and flecks of gold melded together to form opal. And Rose’s first thought was of all the colors she’d need to adequately paint them.

Her second thought was that the eyes looked so angry.

“Why are you here?” came the girl’s raspy voice.

“What?”

“Why do you—you can’t keep—”

Rose tried to form words, a comeback, anything, but she was too confused. Whatever tried to come out of her mouth stumbled and tripped, dead in its tracks.

“I’m so tired of it,” the girl moaned, her gaze narrowing with a deliberate, pure fury. “It’s the same thing over and over and over again. This stupid party—and then you show up.”

Rose’s words finally crawled their way out. “I think you have me confused… this is my first time being here.”

A mirthless chuckle left the girl’s lips, swaying the wisps of hair that fell around her mouth. “No, it isn’t.”

All those gorgeous features on her face set in an unsettling animosity toward Rose. And the confusion that Rose felt morphed into something with a sharper edge. “Did I insult your mother or something?” she asked.

It was a typical kind of New York comeback. But because this was the worst night of Rose’s life, the words landed with a deafening crash on the party floor. It may as well have been Rose’s death knell, for the way everyone in her radius suddenly stopped to look at her.

“Hey, she’s allowed to be here.” This from a boy, cutting through the crowd. He looked much younger than everyone else here, but he moved through the space with authority. “This isn’t like one of your exclusive shindigs, Heather. This party is a democracy. All are welcome here.”

The girl—Heather—eyeballed the boy, bemused. “You’re new.”

His features drooped. “I’m Lowell Chamberlain. One grade below you. I let you borrow my…”

Heather stopped paying attention to Lowell, which was just as well, because he’d trailed off. She zeroed in on Rose once again, this time like she wanted to do some damage.

What happened next felt like choreography. Lowell, the boy who’d defended Rose, put a gentle hand between her shoulder blades to guide her away. Meanwhile, some big guy with a square face linked an arm around Heather’s middle, pulling her in the opposite direction. It all played out like a Victorian dance with partners and predetermined moves. But before Heather left, she leaned in close enough for Rose to get a whiff of her mouth. Strawberry-lip-balm sweet and red-wine bitter. “You’re a dead girl,” Heather whispered.

The cryptic words hit Rose like ice water, freezing her in place. But the most unnerving thing about the comment was that she could not parse Heather’s intention behind it. It wasn’t spoken with malice, and it didn’t sound threatening. It was a flat, inscrutable statement. Before she could even react, Lowell was already whispering into Rose’s ear, like he was informing her of an aerial terror attack. “Heather’s mother died three months ago.”

All at once Rose held a breath, and let it out slow and defeated. Shit.

“Yeah,” Lowell sighed. But he seemed concerned with something much more devastating. His face, spotty with red bumps across his forehead and chin, froze in alarm. He grabbed a fistful of hair at the top of his head, brown curls poking out between white knuckles. “I can’t believe I actually used the word ‘shindig.’ I’m such a loser.”

To comfort him, Rose had to lie. “‘Shindig’ is a great word.”

Lowell rubbed his eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses, one lens greased with a thumbprint. “You don’t even know how much I was psyching myself up to talk to Heather Hargrove, and when I finally do it’s to piss her off and use the word ‘shindig’?” A grimace creased his face like he’d swallowed something sour. He pressed himself to the nearest wall, sliding down like a bird that’d flown into a glass pane. Rose would come to know this as a typical overreaction for Lowell, but right now, she was concerned enough to crouch down with him and make sure he was okay.

“I insulted her parties,” Lowell said. “How am I supposed to get invited to one now?”

“I think she was really drunk. She probably won’t remember you said anything.”

“She doesn’t even know who I am,” Lowell said. “I always gave her extra scoops at the store last summer and she would wink… I thought she winked at me. Maybe she just has astigmatism? Damn it!”

This was Rose’s first meeting with the person who would become her best friend. But in that moment, all she could do was tap him on the shoulder awkwardly, afraid that if she tapped any harder, he might crumble. Maybe it was time for her to go. She stood, shouldered her way through the pumping crowd until she was back in the foyer. Which was just when Hart showed up again.

“I found this in one of the dressers upstairs,” he said, handing over a Persian Blue tee. Rose stretched it out to read what the white block letters spelled. FBI: FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR.

If there was ever a sign to go, this was it. “I think I’m gonna head out.”

“You sure?” Hart asked. “The party is—”

“Yeah, I ruined some kid’s night. And that girl already hates me.”

Hart followed the path of Rose’s pointed finger all the way to Heather, perched on the armrest of the living room sofa. He let out a breath. “So, you’ve met my sister.”

Of course , Rose thought. Her first night in her new hometown and she felt, in so many big and small ways, Dead on Arrival.

She made up her mind. “It was nice to meet you, Hart.”

Walking down the steps of the wraparound porch, Rose set out to leave behind the worst night of her life. But what she thought of as the worst night of her life would turn out to be the most important. She’d met her first love, her biggest enemy, and her best friend, all in the span of an hour.

And she still hadn’t even heard about the garden.