Mom burst out laughing again.

“I want every Cole man in this bed right now!” She patted the mattress.

Lev came running down the hallway, cannonballing onto the giant bed. We were all in now, laughing and talking. Mom ordered pizza, and we played twenty questions with the loser picking up the pizza from the door.

I didn’t think about Luna. Or FUCKING JOSH. Or that first second every morning when I woke up and wanted to throw up because Luna had taken a dump all over what we’d had.

This was good.

This was for the best.

All I needed was my family—not another deserter who’d give me up.

After another grueling morning workout, I chugged down an entire bottle of BCAA water and slam-dunked it into the trash can on the way to my locker.

“Coming through. Beep, beep. Make way for the royal QB1, his highness Knight Cole.”

The rest of my team pushed people down the hallway, half-joking, but half dead-ass serious.

Some freshman turd mouthed something about my saliva and rummaged in the trash to retrieve my empty bottle. I couldn’t give two fucks if he tried to replicate my DNA and make a ninja turtle out of it. It was becoming harder and harder to care about stupid things when your mother was one day closer to dying.

The football team dispersed, each player to his own locker. I reached mine, glancing behind my back. After making sure the coast was clear, I produced the letter I’d received this summer and opened it. It was wrinkled from being read five thousand times, but I read it again. It wasn’t the first letter I’d received about this shitty matter, but it was the one I loved being tortured with the most, because it offered action.

Meet me.

I dare you.

I didn’t know why, but I especially liked reading it on days Mom felt like crap, one of which happened to be today.

Of course, drinking a bottle of whiskey before practice had helped, too.

“Dafuq am I going to do with you?” I muttered at the letter, scanning the scandalous words. I shoved it back inside my locker, buried it in textbooks.

Slamming my locker, I saw Poppy’s face. She stood right behind the door. Her sister, Lenny, was next to her.

“Hullo,” she said in her Mary Poppins’ accent.

“Yo.” I balanced my books under my armpit, ready to start for the lab.

There weren’t many things I hated more than chemistry, but seeing Vaughn’s smug face across the hall morphing into something that strangely resembled intrigue was one of them. He slammed his locker and came to stand next to us.

What does the fucker want now?

Vaughn being Vaughn, he just stood there for the first few seconds, like a fucking creeper, staring at the three of us. No hi. No good morning. Nothing. Asshole had the social skills of a Post-It note. It went to show that high school students were a special breed of idiots, because dude was actually popular.

“Hey, Vaughn.” Poppy smiled at him, mock-punching his arm.

Her sister rolled her eyes at the gesture. They were polar opposites, Poppy and Lenny. Poppy was more like a toned-down version of my friend Daria. She liked pretty dresses and putting highlights in her hair and knew how to distinguish one Kardashian from the other. Lenora was a different breed of chick entirely. Her wardrobe consisted of black shit only. She wore a lot of eyeliner and had a septum piercing. If you’d told me she’d lost her virginity in a satanic ritual on someone’s grave, I wouldn’t bet against it. Seemed legit. What worked for Lenny was the fact that she was small and pretty, so she looked cute more than scary—like something Tim Burton would keep as a pet.

Lenny stared at my locker behind my shoulder, not acknowledging my best friend.

“So, wasn’t that milkshake fab? Thanks for taking us to La Jolla. We’ve never been before,” Poppy chirped.

“It’s La Jolla, not outer space. Proportions, Violet,” Vaughn deadpanned.

“It’s Poppy.”

“Same shit.”

“Not really. You could make an effort and remember,” Poppy cried.

I saw her point, but trying to reason with Vaughn by being butthurt was like trying to worm your way into a serial killer’s good graces by running naked in an empty field after handing him a machete.

“You’re right,” Vaughn yawned. “I’ll remember next time.”

“You will?”

“Yeah. Heroin is made out of Poppy. Coincidently, you bore me to death.”

Don’t laugh, asshole. Don’t you fucking dare.

“Someone’s touchy. Is it shark week, Spencer?” Lenny asked Vaughn conversationally, examining her chipped, black-painted nails.

“Burn,” I coughed into my fist, laughing.

“Nope, but if it’s blood you’re after, I’m your guy.” Vaughn still didn’t look at Lenny.

Lenny didn’t look at him, either. Was I witnessing a mating dance between two assholes?

Dear God,

If you are up there—which I’m not betting on, because why would you take my mom if you are?—please don’t let these two reproduce.

The planet doesn’t need a third world war.

Yours,

KJC

“Are you threatening me?” Lenora seemed about as outraged as a used napkin.

“Do you hear something, Knight?” Vaughn turned to me, frowning. “I hear buzzing. Like a fly, or a cockroach.”

“A cockroach doesn’t buzz,” Lenny noted. “Learn your insects, Spencer. You’re about sixteen years behind on your material. Go on, Poppy. Get it over with so I can go back to my blissful existence sans this wanker.”

I pieced together the picture, looking between them.

Vaughn was obsessed with all things British. Spaced, Never Mind the Buzzcocks, and The Mighty Boosh. He listened solely to British music. The Smiths, Kinky Machine, the Stone Roses. Sure, his heritage was English, but Vaughn cared about his heritage like I cared about the welfare of the Hawaiian blob fish. Plus, Lenny had an Instagram. It could have been her account he’d been checking that time. She was a prodigy artist, specializing in insane shit. And he was…well, an insane shithead. Oh, and an artist, too.

Lenora was most famous in the hallways of All Saints High for getting on top of Christ the Redeemer to take a picture of the Rio view. Apparently, she’d also taken a thirty-year-old Brazilian model as a lover during her vacation this summer.

Vaughn and Lenora were a match made in hell, but they made sense.

“Just bloody do it.” Lenny poked Poppy’s ribs.

“Are you playing this Friday?” Poppy twiddled her thumbs, not even looking at me.

“Oh, Christ.” Lenny sighed, flinging her backpack on one of her shoulders and pinning me with a look.

“She wants to go out with you. Alone. On a real date. With flowers and a Kate Hudson film and possibly some heavy petting. Are you in or are you out?”

Good luck to Vaughn, because if there was one person to eat him alive, that would be this little ballbuster.

Last time Poppy asked me out, I’d dragged Hunter along, so she got the hint and brought Lenny, too. Lenny had nearly stabbed Hunter with a fork, and then Vaughn had given me the stink eye when he heard about the outing. He’d asked why I hadn’t asked him.

“When was the last time you went on a date?” I’d stared at him like he’d grown two spare heads and a pair of wings.