“That kid’s a weird one.”

Sawyer whipped around, sending a spray of ice water careening out of the bottle over her wrist, slapping her already soaked T-shirt and leaving a wet trail on Cooper’s chest. “Oh, crap.”

Cooper’s eyebrows went up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sawyer’s heart was in her throat, still doing a choking pound. “You didn’t,” she squeaked. “Okay, maybe you did.” Her eyes went to his wet chest. “Sorry—sorry about your shirt.”

Cooper was dressed almost identically to Sawyer: he was wearing the green and white Hawthorne High track uniform, fearsome, fisted, fighting hornet smack in the middle of his nylon tank top. Sawyer took a second to notice Cooper’s chest—and his broad shoulders, the bubbly muscles in his bare arms. “Why are you wearing a track uniform?”

“Because this is what the track team wears…right?”

“You’re on the team? You’re a runner?”

“I was at my old school. I thought I’d give the track team a try here. Coach let me on without trying out. My old times were pretty good, I guess.”

Sawyer studied Cooper, the way the thin material of his shorts fell over his tanned legs; they were thick with well-defined muscle. He didn’t have the powerful, sinewy legs of a runner.

“I know,” Cooper said on a smile, “I don’t look like I can run.” He seemed to be reading her mind, and Sawyer felt an involuntary shiver run through her. A dark cloud passed over Cooper’s face. “Are you okay? Let me get you my sweatshirt.”

“No.” Sawyer put her hand on Cooper’s arm. “I’m fine. I’m just wearing a refreshing beverage.”

Cooper slid back into that easy smile. “I prefer to drink mine, but whatever works for you. So, Ms. Nonbeliever”—he jutted his chin toward the empty track—“a friendly jog? Or an all-out race?”

Sawyer nodded and breathed deeply, testing out the ache in her diaphragm. The water seemed to have done the trick, and she had never been one to back down from a challenge—according to her father, it was both her best and her worst trait. She leaned over and set the water bottle on the bench, looking at Cooper through the dusting of long bangs that fell over her forehead.

Then she bolted.

She was on the track in a split second, legs pumping, wind slapping against her face when she heard the tail end of Cooper’s “Hey! Cheater!”

She vaguely heard his footfalls as he entered the track, could hear his huffing breath as he closed in on her. He was panting by the time he came up on her left shoulder.

“Is this how you win all your races?” he panted. “By cheating?”

Sawyer kept up her steady pace, her breath shortening. “So you know I win all my races?”

“And now I know how!” Cooper balled his hands into fists and put his head down, going head first into the oncoming wind, his sneakers kicking up bursts of red clay dust as he passed Sawyer by a hair. Then it was a shoulder, then a full body length. Sawyer felt the fire in her legs, felt her lungs expanding, and she blew by him. She crossed the finish line and hooked her arms over the bleacher gate, blowing on her nails when Cooper finished a few seconds behind her.

“What took you so long?” she said without looking up.

Cooper knotted her in a playful headlock. “Cheaters. Every one of you Hawthorne Honeys!”

Sawyer backed out of the headlock, laughing. “Honeys?”

A blush flitted over Cooper’s cheeks. “Honeybees. I meant honeybees.”

“We’re hornets!” She gave Cooper a hard hornet sting with her index finger, and when he came at her, she cringed. It was automatic; muscle memory burned in from dating Kevin, from never knowing just what it was that would set him off. She burned with shame.

He stopped. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

“What?” Sawyer felt a nervous twitter rush through her. She licked her dry lips and forced a laugh that sounded false even to her. “I was kidding. Let’s get some water.”

Cooper followed her out to the center of the field, Sawyer suddenly stiff with embarrassment—was she afraid of everyone now? Cooper stayed silent, walking behind her.

They headed back toward the locker rooms, and Cooper sucked the last of the water from his bottle, stuffing the empty in his bag. “I guess this is where I leave you.”

Sawyer cocked an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I don’t usually shower in the girls’ locker room.” His eyes went over her head, gesturing at the Women’s Locker Room sign.

“Oh,” she said on a sheepish grin, “right.”

They stood in awkward silence for a beat before Cooper nodded, gave her a mannish chuck on the shoulder, and promised to beat her next time around the track. Sawyer grinned and was grinning still when Cooper disappeared into the men’s locker room; she went into hers.

The locker room was empty when Sawyer walked in, her half-dry track shirt stuck to her jog bra, her cheeks red hot and flushed. She slipped out of her clothes and into a towel and flip-flops, grabbing her shower bag and turning a shower on as hot as she could get it. When steam poured out of the stall, licking her knees and pressing against her chest, she slipped inside, letting the hot water rush over her, soaking her skin. She imagined it seeping into her aching muscles, dripping over her head and into her brain. She wished she could wash away the violent memories of Kevin, but knew the memories ran deep—so deep that she cringed even when she didn’t want to—and soon the water that rushed over her cheeks was salty with tears. She slumped against the shower stall and doubled over, letting herself cry until her stomach ached, until her skin was red and raw and overheated from the searing water. Finally, she turned the shower off and re-wrapped herself in her towel, shuffling to her locker.

That’s when she stopped dead.

The locker room was silent—so quiet that it seemed to hum with the vibe of desertion—but Sawyer’s locker seemed to scream. The word whore was spray-painted in an angry red across her locker door.

NINE

Sawyer stumbled back, foot over foot, clutching her towel around her but feeling the icy chill of the cold locker room air as it crept up her naked thighs. She swallowed repeatedly and knew that she would have to open her locker—what she would find, she wasn’t sure—wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Steeling herself, she used numb fingers to spin her locker combination, slowly pulling open the door. She let out a great whoosh of calming air when her locker contents appeared undisturbed—the usual jumble of school clothes tossed in a careless heap, a sneaker jammed with her bra, her jeans inside-out and balled up.

Looking over her shoulder, she quickly shuffled the wrinkled clothes out, putting her hand through the hole in her jeans.

Hole in her jeans?

“Holy shit!” Sawyer spat out the words—in anger or sheer surprise, she couldn’t be sure—and held what was left of her jeans out in front of her. The waistband was still intact—the rivets, the zipper, the zippy little 7 logo—but that was it. The denim was shredded and wagged in long, primitive tongues, the fabric edges already starting to fray. The crotch was torn out completely, and one of the pockets fluttered down like a broken moth when she shook the tattered fabric. She dropped the jeans and went for her T-shirt, her sweater—both had met the same fate, as had her running clothes. Her bra was a mess of overstretched cotton, the inner pads busted embarrassingly open, spilling out their little tufts of fluff. Her panties were gone.

Sawyer’s stomach twisted, and she felt the need to vomit; she doubled over, hand still clutching desperately to keep her towel closed, and dry heaved, coughing until her eyes watered, her nose ran.

“It’s just a stupid prank,” she whispered when she could catch her breath. “A stupid prank. Probably Maggie.”

She used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes and nose, and stood up straight, feeling the burning anger roil through her.

“Bitch.” She said the word through clenched teeth, yanked out her sneakers, and slammed her locker shut. She listened to the phone ring after she speed-dialed Chloe.

“Speak and ye shall be heard,” Chloe said, smacking on something on her side of the phone.

“You’ll never guess what that—that bitch Maggie did!”

“Regale me.”

“First of all, I’m in the locker room. Second of all, I’m wearing a towel.”

“Okay…”

Sawyer took a lung-cleansing breath. “Ask me why I’m wearing a towel.”

“I’m assuming it had something to do with a shower, but why, Sawyer, are you wearing a towel?”

“Because Maggie shredded my clothes!”

“Shredded them?”

“Shredded. Think coleslaw. Sans mayo.”

“She shredded your clothes? Were you wearing them at the time?”

Sawyer sunk down on a bench, scooching forward so her towel would blanket her naked skin against its cold aluminum. “No, I was in the shower. I ran late today and Maggie was there—here—before I got in the shower, then when I got out, she had spray-painted my locker and shredded my clothes.”

“Like coleslaw?”

“Like coleslaw.”

“That bitch!” Chloe spat.

“I know.”

“We have to stop her. We have to fight back—fight fire with fire.”

Sawyer hung her head. “I don’t want to do that,” she muttered. “Maybe I’ll just put a complaint in with Principal Chappie.”

“A complaint? As in a note in his complaint box? That’s a horrible idea, Sawyer. Horrible! That’s not fighting fire with fire; that’s fighting fire with paper. Fire kicks paper’s ass!”