“OMG!”

“They’re gorgeous!”

With one hand, Mr. Rose held up a simple black satin sheath dress, its waist cinched with a thick red satin sash. In the other hand, he offered a black blazer with a red tie. The Honeybees cheered.

Mr. Rose, apple cheeks pushed up into a full-face smile, beamed. “The school board heard your fashion protests and decided—finally—that the Singing Honeybees should look like five-time regional champions!”

Once the students had dropped back into some semblance of order, Mr. Rose handed out the plastic-wrapped garments. When he got to Sawyer he paused, giving her the sympathetic smile she was so quickly growing tired of seeing. He rested a soft hand on her shoulder, cocked his head. “Are you doing okay, Sawyer?”

Sawyer took her dress and offered him a small smile. “Yeah, I am. Thanks Mr. Rose.”

“You know, I’d like for the Honeybees to add a small tribute number to Kevin in our set list. He was such a big part of the Hornet community.”

Sawyer felt a lump growing in her throat and she nodded. “That sounds nice. Kevin would have liked that.”

“I’d like to feature you in a solo for that number.” Mr. Rose’s eyes were kind, his puffy gray eyebrows high, expectant. “Would that be okay with you?”

Sawyer nodded mutely, dread, excitement, sadness, and anxiety welling up inside her all at once. “Thank you, Mr. Rose,” she finally managed.

Mr. Rose passed Sawyer and Chloe, continuing his costume distribution to the other Honeybees. Chloe leaned in, excitement evident on her face.

“A solo?” she asked breathlessly. “Oh my God, that’s awesome! It just sucks that—” Chloe avoided Sawyer’s eyes, looked at her own hands folded in her lap. “It just sucks that Kevin couldn’t be here to hear you.”

Sawyer tried to form a response or a cohesive sentence, but nothing came out.

Mr. Rose took his spot behind the piano, and the Honeybees did their warm-ups. At the last note, he beckoned to Sawyer. She made her way to the front of the class, feeling the heat of all eyes on her. When she turned, it was just Maggie, her eyes narrowed, challenging. Sawyer offered a small noncombative smile that Maggie ignored.

We used to be friends, Sawyer heard herself plead silently.

Maggie’s hate rolled off her in waves.

When the bell rang, Sawyer and Chloe gathered up their backpacks and new uniforms, and headed toward the door. Maggie, arms crossed in front of her chest, stopped Sawyer dead in her tracks.

“A solo?” she said. Her eyes raked over Sawyer, the distaste evident.

“Can you move, please? I need to get to my locker before fourth.” She was too tired to deal with one of Maggie’s jealous rages.

But Maggie remained in Sawyer’s way.

“Do you think I’m going to fall for you and your stupid little ‘woe is me’ act? Doubtful. You don’t deserve this solo, and you didn’t deserve Kevin. A real girlfriend wouldn’t be able to pull herself together, let alone do a solo.”

Sawyer wanted to fight back, but she was exhausted and emotionless. Maybe Maggie was right—she didn’t deserve to be Kevin’s girlfriend—didn’t deserve to be at the blunt end of his anger, a small voice inside her head nagged. Sawyer shook it off and shoved Maggie aside with more force than she meant.

“Lay off, Maggie.”

“Get over yourself,” Sawyer heard Chloe growl. “Sawyer doesn’t need to play the chick who can’t get herself together—you do it too well. It’s just too bad you’ve been doing it ever since Kevin dumped you. When was that exactly? Nine, ten months ago now? Little long to be carrying a flame, don’t you think?” Chloe flicked a lock of Maggie’s long hair, then wrinkled her nose. “It’s probably time to drag your obsessively depressed ass into the shower. It’ll make us all feel better.”

Chloe shoved past Maggie and linked arms with Sawyer, steering her down the hall.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sawyer said, hiking her backpack over one shoulder. “I can handle Maggie.”

Chloe’s blue eyes went wide and baby-doll innocent. “Oh, honey. I didn’t do it for you.” She blinked, a wry smile spreading across her passion-pink lips. “I did it for me.”

“Hola, señoras.” Mr. Hanson was the school’s sole Spanish teacher, but at barely thirty years old, he looked more like a student than a faculty member. He edged his way between Sawyer and Chloe and grinned, while a hallway full of girls drooled. “Perdon, perdon. Ah, Sawyer! Has estudiado para la prueba?” he said, looking expectantly at her.

Sawyer felt the redness bloom in her cheeks and shifted her weight. “Um, si, señor.”

“Bueno!” A wide smile spread across Mr. Hanson’s face, his eyes crinkling with the effort.

“Ohmigod, what did he just say to you?”

Sawyer shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea. My stock answers are si, no, or the often used ‘how do you say menstrual cramps in Spanish’?”

Chloe wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”

“They never ask you to translate that sombrero thing if they think you’ve got cramps.”

Chloe watched the back of Mr. Hanson’s head as he disappeared into Principal Chappie’s office. “Screw French. I’m transferring into Spanish.”

“You were bound to waste it on some French Canadian anyway.”

“Don’t you love him?”

Sawyer glanced over her shoulder, caught the last of Mr. Hanson’s dark hair as he disappeared into the office. “Don’t you think he’s a little overeager?”

“Please. Half my teachers don’t even know my first name. Hanson’s like, fresh out of teacher school, or whatever, and still hopeful. He still believes in us.” Chloe batted her eyelashes sweetly.

“Whatever.”

“Besides, I heard he gave Libby a ride home the other day.”

Sawyer unzipped her backpack. “And I’m sure she thanked him appropriately.”

Chloe crossed her arms in front of her chest, bored now. “Are we still on for tomorrow night?”

“You mean our convocation?”

“Ooh, convocation. SAT word?”

Sawyer laughed. “My ticket out of suburban hell. Let me call you about tomorrow, though. Dad and wife number two are finding out the sex-slash-species of The Spawn. I’m sure they’ll want to do something educational and emotionally satisfying out of their Blended Families/Blended Lives book.”

“Ah, another evening rubbing placenta on each other and worshipping the moon?”

Sawyer sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come over and watch your parents’ passive aggression as they avoid each other while showing their extreme disappointment in your choices?”

Chloe folded a stick of gum into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Hell no. Wednesday is fried chicken and mac-and-cheese-as-vegetable night at the double wide. That dysfunction is all mine. And they’re not my parents—Lois and Dean are my guardians.”

Sawyer cocked her head, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Not mom and stepdud anymore?”

“Hopefully not. Haven’t seen Dean in over a week. And I’m using the guardian thing so hopefully Lois will finally cave in and admit that I’m adopted.”

Sawyer grinned. “Except that you are the spitting image of your mother.”

“Sawyer Dodd, that is a horrible thing to say.”

“Of course. A thousand apologies. I take it back.”

“Better.” Chloe blew Sawyer an air kiss. “I’ll be waiting by the phone with greasy fingers for your call.”

“I’ll have the ambulance on standby,” Sawyer called over her shoulder.

She grinned, watching her best friend skip down the hall. For the first time in what seemed like forever, things felt normal and light again.

“Excuse me.” Logan Haas smiled shyly at Sawyer and she stepped aside, letting him get into the locker under hers. Logan bore the unlucky high school triumvirate of being slight, short, and nearsighted, but Sawyer liked him.

“Hey, sorry,” she said.

Logan stacked his books, slammed his locker shut, gave Sawyer an awkward salute, and headed down the hall, eyes glued to his shoes. Sawyer spun her combination lock and yanked the door open, her lips forming a little o of surprise when she did so. Amongst her neatly stacked binders and books was a short, fat envelope in a pale mint green. Her name was printed on it in a handwriting font. She took the envelope and looked over both shoulders; no one milled about, red-faced or smiling, indicating that they had slipped the note in her locker.

She tore the envelope open and pulled out a matching mint green folded card, a tiny plain oak leaf embossed on the bottom. When she opened it, a clipped newspaper article slipped out. Sawyer didn’t have to read the headline to know what it said: “Local High School Student Killed In Car Wreck.” She swallowed down a cry and read the note on the card.

It said, simply,

You’re welcome.

TWO

Heat, like a live wire, raced down Sawyer’s spine. The note was signed, “an admirer,” and that word, admirer, clawed at her. Her fingers started to shake, and she flicked the note back into her locker and slammed the door shut, pressing her forehead against the cool metal.

It’s nothing, she told herself. Someone probably sent flowers—everyone sent flowers. Each hour after Kevin’s death was reported a new bouquet seemed to show up—gaudy, pitiful, with drooping spider mums and cheap, glittered ribbons in the Hawthorne High School colors. Each bouquet reminded Sawyer of Kevin—especially when they died.

She suddenly hated flowers.

“I’m sure that’s what it is,” Sawyer mumbled.

“Tick tock, Ms. Dodd.” Principal Chappie tapped his mammoth wristwatch as he strode by, giving students his principal snarl and tick-tock warning.