Angelo-pervy, wassa-matta-wit-you Angelo. Angelo who was born with a

head of hair full of industrial-strength hair gel and a gold Italian

chain, who always has your back unless he’s the one messing with you.

He’s the asshole of your friends, but he’s your asshole friend.

He grabs my hand and puts me into an I’m-not-kidding headlock.

I can feel it in my spine, the magic that’s tattooed in my blood,

in the ancient-as-hell dagger sheathed on my back. I elbow him and

flip his arm around. I push him against the lockers, but not enough

that it’ll hurt him too badly. Just to show him that I can. “What’s

the matter with you, bro?”

His eyes are glassy. I wonder who else has suffered his wrath, and

it’s not even first period. I let him go, and he shakes his head as if

he’s been sleepwalking. “I don’t know, man. I feel, like, jittery, you

know?”

I let the tips of our foreheads touch like we’re in a huddle

before a meet. “Nothing you could’ve done.”

“Yeah, but you’re my boy. We’re a team. My team needed me

yesterday when you were getting attacked by some punks.”

“We took care of it,” I say. I don’t know if I’m saying this for

his comfort or for mine. It’s even worse because beneath his trademark

dude-scented body spray is the smell of his guilt, like wet dirt being

turned in a grave.

“All right, you vultures. Get out of here!” Layla’s voice breaks

up the crowd. She doesn’t always wear makeup, but she’s wearing it

now. It looks pretty on her, but I can tell that she’s trying to cover

up the puffiness from crying too long.

“Thanks,” I say. I feel stupid standing and waiting for her to say

something else. To tell me it’s good to see me. Maybe this was what it

felt like when she thought I was gone. Like I’m freaking thirsty and

no amount of water will fix it. Only her. Only Layla can fix me.

She shuts her eyes and shifts the weight of her bag. “I don’t know

about you losers, but I’m grounded till I’m married and popping out

babies. In that order.”

“I’m free third period.” Angelo raises his hand. Normally, Layla

would punch him in the gut, but today she’s going to let it slide. The

bell rings, and everyone scatters except for us.

“Are you okay?” I ask, taking one step toward her.

She nods once but doesn’t look at me. “Maddy’s in the fourth-floor

bathroom with her friends. She invited me to hang. I just don’t like

smelling like smoke.”

“You need to go get her,” Thalia tells me. She links arms with

Layla and gives me a reassuring smile. I want to stay with Layla, but

I want to go get the pearl. I leave them at the entrance of homeroom

and keep walking straight ahead to the next stairwell. I look back

once to see if Layla is looking too, and she isn’t. She’s pulling

farther and farther away, and I don’t know how to get her back.

•••

The fourth floor is the ghost floor.

It’s the only part of school, other than part of the basement,

that never got renovated. You instantly know where the bathroom is,

because all you have to do is follow the thin trail of smoke. The

thick wooden door has a little W tacked on like an afterthought. I

press my ear against it, but all I can make out is mumbling, some

laughter, more mumbling.

“Knock, knock.” I push open the door slowly.

There’s a sudden rustle of kids gathering their things together

and putting out their cigarettes.

“Chill. I’m not Quinn.”

“Sorry, we thought you were Umberto,” one of Maddy’s friends says.

She relights the end of her cigarette, and the little red light flares

with every pull. “He came by before to clean the bathroom and gave us

a five-minute warning.”

Umberto is pretty easy to bribe as long as he knows he won’t get

caught.

Maddy sits between two other girls. One girl has a short black bob

and wears tons of pearls around her neck. The girl on the other side

is less dramatic, with long chestnut hair and rectangular glasses. She

digs her hand into a bag of neon sour worms. I can smell the sour

sugar from here.

Maddy stands, clearly uncomfortable that I’m in her space. “Are

you lost, Tristan?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to speak with you.”

The girls scoff and snicker and grin at each other. Am I really

that bad?

She looks like a blond Wednesday Addams with that dress and those

stockings. She shoves me with her shoulder on the way out.

“Guess I deserve that,” I grumble.

We stand just down the hallway, where the cigarette smoke only

lingers.

“So talk.” She cocks her head to the side, so her braids look like

uneven weight balances. I wish I had practiced. I wish I knew what to

say that would make her hate me a little less. I came to school to

find her, and now here she is.

“How long have we been friends?” I start.

“Since we started high school.” She doesn’t even hesitate. “Why?”

“I know what I did was stupid. It was wrong. It proves that I’m an

asshole.”

There’s a tug of a smile at her lips. “Keep going.”

“And I’m sorry I’m the reason-”

“Trist, don’t flatter yourself. I know it looks like I changed

drastically after we broke up when you kissed that skank at the beach,

but that wasn’t why. Not entirely. I’m tired of being the Amish lady’s

daughter, the girl no one can believe you’d ever date.”

My stomach turns into nuts and bolts. “I wish I could change what

I did, but I can’t. The truth is that you deserve better than me. I

was so caught up in how sweet you are, and how honest and different

from other girls. I thought, why not? Maddy’s pretty, thoughtful-”

“Plus, I blew you.”

My voice cracks, “Yes, you did. And, thank you. It was nice.

Great, I mean. But, you know-”

She sighs. “Spit it out, Tristan. Do you want to be with me again?

Is that it?”

Fine, now or never. “The necklace I gave you. It wasn’t mine to

give. It was my mom’s. A real important family heirloom, and she asked

me about it yesterday. So I kind of need it back.”

She stares at her Converses. They’re all drawn on with black

Sharpie. The laces on her right side are untied. I bend down and tie

them for her but keep my eyes on her face. She has no idea how much I

have riding on this. How much I actually need her to help me now. How

I really wish I’d never hurt her.

“Tell your mom I’m real sorry,” she says. “I’ll pay for it. I lost

it. I-” She doesn’t finish. She walks away.

It feels like the hallway gets longer and she’ll never reach the

bathroom door again. When she does, she glances over her shoulder to

make sure I’m still crouched here.

I am.

I take the stairwell down one flight of stairs, but it’s blocked

by three couples making out. They don’t even budge as I step between

them and down to the third floor. Someone slams into me, pushing me

against the hallway door.

“Watch it!” Some guy holds on to his pants as he runs away from

two bigger guys. The halls are filled with more students cutting class

than usual. A poke on my ass cheek makes me jump. When I turn around,

I see it’s a girl I hooked up with once at a party, maybe during

freshman year-Samantha? She walks around me and stands in my way. She

puts her index finger on my chest. Her eyes are glossy. Her smile is

wide and manic. She leans close to my ear at the same time that I lean

away.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you, Tristan.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“It’s Jessica .”

“Thanks, Jessica. Listen, I have to go.” I try to step around her,