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more than an iPod could play some old vinyl record. I’m so busy trying to think of a way to tell her she’s wrong, it doesn’t even occur to me to tell her to buzz off, mind her own business.

“He’s damaged goods,” she tells me. “Broken. Incapable of love.”

She turns away before I can pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth.
Boyfriend.
Still, the word refuses to show its face in the sweet summer-night air.

The night is black enough to make me feel blindfolded as we drive back to the resort. Clint’s truck jiggles and jostles down the paths so forcefully, I have to grab the dash to steady myself.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice chipping away at the awkward silence that’s followed us from the festival. “She’ll get there. I know this truck looks rough—”

“No—I love your truck,” I say. Or more truthfully, I love being inside it. Because sitting next to Clint, I’m lightheaded with anticipation. Adrenaline burns my lungs, in a way that it hasn’t since I last ran out onto the court.

God, I’ve missed this feeling. And
I want more
. Clint snorts a laugh. “Yeah, it’s real classy.”

“Seriously,” I insist, nerves making me babble. “I can practically see all the camping trips you’ve taken in this truck. The fishing trips. Nights you spent stretched out in the bed, hands behind your head, stargazing

…”

My voice trickles off as I glance through the windshield toward the sparkling white stars. I zero in on one of the specs in the sky:
the
Chelsea Keyes Star
. Its twinkle turns to a slit-eyed glare as it accuses me of horrible things. True things.

But instead of feeling embarrassed, I imagine putting that stupid star in a slingshot and shooting it straight into another galaxy. 112/262

When we get to cabin number four, Clint throws open his squeaky driver side door. “I’ll get it,” he says when I grip my own door handle.

“Wait.” He races to the passenger’s side, where a matching squeak sings out, almost as if to answer the first.

In slow motion, I steady myself by reaching for the metal handle on the door with one hand and putting my other hand on Clint’s shoulder. I start to take a step out of the truck; as I lower myself to the ground, I come far closer to Clint than I’d intended. I actually slide down the front of his body—when my face reaches his, our lips meet. At first it surprises me, the wet touch of his lips. Shocks me so much I almost start to pull away. But something inside me—some instinct—fights the shock, presses my face closer to his. As I’m balancing there, one foot dangling above the ground, one hand on Clint’s shoulder and the other still on the door handle, Clint’s mouth opens against mine. He wraps his arms around me. As our mouths close, he parts my lips open again with his tongue.

Our kiss is a Midwest summer storm, swift and frightening. It’s dark clouds and the sweet smell of impending rain all at the same time. It’s knowing I should run inside, take cover, but not being able to pull myself away from the danger, the thrill.

He’s holding me—but he’s lowering me, too. By the time our mouths part again, he’s already put me down on the ground. He snatches his arms away. By the time I open my eyes, he’s hurrying around to the driver’s side.

“Clint—” I try, but he’s inside the truck and it’s starting to roll away.

“Clint—” I repeat. The door’s still open on the passenger’s side, and all I can think to do is slam it shut for him before he speeds away. Clint

protective equipment

Ipractically kick the gas pedal to the floorboards. Instead of revving and racing forward, the GMC just kind of flinches, as if to ask,
What’d
I ever do to you?

The black sky beyond the windshield doesn’t just swirl, it weaves itself back and forth, reminding me of the pigtails Rosie used to wear. That sky’s telling me I
ought
to be full of remorse. Instead, my mind insists on
imagining
… I’m seeing my hand reach right up a sundress to smooth the indentation of a surgical scar. A horn blares behind me. But I’m speeding away from the resort so fast, the orange lights of the cabin windows zip straight out of my rearview mirror. Still, though, that horn gets closer, almost like it’s challenging me. The horn blares again as a truck flies around me, passing me, nearly clipping the front bumper of my pickup.

I hit the brakes; so does the blue Chevy ahead of me. In the glow of my headlights, two doors open and Greg and Todd step out, talking at me at the same time.

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“… been looking for you …”

“… had to drop Brandon off at his cabin …”

“… you at Willie Walleye …”

“… never saw Kenzie so mad …”

“Got
two,
” Todd says, laughing as he shakes his head at me. “
Two
women on the line. From zero to sixty in two seconds, flat.”

Rage takes control, balls my fist, sends my knuckles racing for Todd’s face. His jaw cracks against my hand when my punch lands on the side of his face.

Chelsea

violation

I’vebarelysteppedinsidethecabinwhenalow,“Hey,Chelse,”makes me yowl like Scratches does when I sneak up on him.

“Brand?” I croak.

“Yep.”

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can make out the silhouette of his head above the edge of the small living room sofa. The ratty sides of his Vans glow in the strip of moonlight that filters into the room from a nearby window. Judging from the smell wafting from the plate in his lap, he snagged some sort of barbecued late-night dinner before leaving Willie Walleye Day.

“What’d the two of you do, come home by way of Brazil or something?” he asks.

“You waiting up?” I tease, trying to sound cool and nonchalant. But the truth is, Clint’s mouth still burns against my own. I touch my top lip, thinking maybe he’s even left some sort of print behind, the way girls stain boys’ mouths with their lipstick.

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“Yep,” Brandon says again, his voice muffled by a mouthful of whatever he’s eating.

“What for?”

“Because you are the most transparent person on the planet,” he snaps.

It crosses my mind that maybe he even saw us through the front window.
Does he know I just kissed Clint?
My whole body feels as stiff as a petrified tree.

“There a reason you left today without taking your cell?” he asks, leaning into the moonlight to toss his paper plate onto the small wooden trunk that serves as a coffee table. He glares at me, disgusted, as he tosses my cell onto the coffee table, too.

“It gets crappy reception out here—you know that,” I insist.

“It’ll work in town—you know
that
,” he challenges. I flinch as he frowns at the little purse that’s still wrapped around my wrist, a purse that’s in no way too small for my cell. My Whac-AMole anger pops, even though I’m attacking it with my rubber mallet like a mad woman.

“What are you, my conscience?”

“Do I need to be?” he asks, his upper lip bulging out over the top row of his braces. “Greg and Todd had to stop by the lodge before they dropped me off.” He tugs a wad of paper from his back pocket. “Know what these are?” he asks. He flicks his wrist; small squares of paper scatter across the coffee table, next to the stacks of batter-smeared notebooks Mom’s been writing recipes in.

I shake my head at the small pieces of paper.

“Messages. From Gabe. He’s been calling the lodge looking for you.”

My stomach dips down, and I feel a sick tingle travel the length of my arms.

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“How come you got back
after
me, even though I played at the festival all day?” Brandon asks. No, accuses.

“You obviously just got here yourself—haven’t had time to completely finish your dinner,” I counter. “Besides, it’s not late. You couldn’t stay too late—you had to get out of there before the
real
band showed up for the street dance.” I’m speaking so quickly that my excuses trip and pile all over each other, becoming as indistinguishable from one another as a heap of football players after a tackle. I touch my mouth again. It’s a dead giveaway, I know it is. So is the way my eyes are surely pleading with Brandon not to say anything else. But he’s my little brother, and if there’s anything little brothers never do, it’s bite their tongue.

“What’s the deal, Chelse—” he starts.

I actually stomp my foot and shoot out a s
hhh
at him.

“Are you—”

“I’m
nothing
, okay, he’s my—we just went—because—kayaking—”

These words come out pathetically, even though I’m trying so hard. Kind of like when you shake and shake a nearly empty bottle of shampoo, pumping furiously, and all that comes out are a few watery drips of foam.

“It’s not like
you’re
not seeing people,” I say. “Going out. I’m on vacation, dope.”

“A vacation from Gabe, you mean?”

“
Brand
,” I hiss.

“I don’t like this, Chelse. Gabe has been with you through all the shit, you know? He stood by you through everything, after the accident. And now you’re—”

“Calling him tomorrow.”

“No way,” Brandon barks. “You’ve called him later at night than this. I know how you guys are—used to be—at home.”

“There is no ‘used to be’ about me and Gabe.”

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“Then prove it,” Brandon says.

“There is
no cell reception out here
,” I growl.

“You really think you’d have to fight a hundred people to use the pay phone in the lodge? Place is completely empty right now—”

“Why don’t you lay off? I’ll call him when I want to,” I shout. But Brandon shakes his head, shouts back. “You’d have complete
privacy
right now. Why
wouldn’t
you want privacy to talk to your boyfriend on his—”

“There a problem in here?”

I flinch, look up to find Dad standing in the doorway, a solid black silhouette like those outlines of heads and shoulders I always see on TV, at target ranges on prime-time police dramas.

But I’m the one that feels like the world’s aiming right at me. Clint

out of play

Todd reels backward, his shoulder thumping against the bed of the truck.

“Damn it, Morgan,” Greg shouts, pushing me away from Todd, sending me stumbling backward. “This is getting old. You think
we
didn’t lose somebody, you stupid asshole?” He pushes me again. I’m already off-balance, so my feet tangle and I trip. The seat of my Levi’s smacks against the dirt road.

“Not like I did,” I shout.

“I’m not
talking
about Rosie, I’m talking about my
friend
,” Greg says, towering over me. “You’re here, but you’re not. You hide away in textbooks, in fifteen stupid summer jobs. And I’ve had enough.” He kicks my foot, then lunges forward and grabs the collar of my shirt.

“You want me to beat the bullshit out of you? I’ll do it, Morgan. And I’ll feel good about it. Gimme a reason.”

His face is less than a foot from mine. The hand that isn’t gripping my collar is clenched into a fist.

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I finally swivel my arm, pull his hand off my shirt.

“Ass,” I spit, standing and dusting the dirt from the back of my jeans.

Todd’s still wiggling his jaw back and forth, testing it to make sure it works.

“We got a six-pack and we’re headed to the lake,” Greg says. “You gonna follow us or not?”

Calm hasn’t taken hold of me completely, but looking at Todd’s face, red from where I hit him, I instantly feel bad. And I’m really not sure what I’m so pissed about anymore. Not sure why
any
of it—Chelsea telling Mom at Pike’s she has a boyfriend, or Kenzie flirting with me, or Todd making assumptions—should make me so angry.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” Todd says, squatting to get a look at his face in his truck’s side mirror.

“Whatever,” Greg says. “Anything’ll help you look better.”

“Don’t I even get any sympathy?” Todd asks. “I bet some pretty girl at Pike’s would give me sympathy.”

“No Pike’s. Not tonight,” Greg says. “Just drive.”

I shake my head, climb into the cab of the GMC. I follow the Chevy, under the moonlight, already tasting the tinny cold of a can of beer. Chelsea

double dribble

No,” I snap at Dad. “There’s no problem.”

Brandon reaches for my cell and all the paper messages, but I snatch them away from him so furiously, I accidentally scratch him.

“
Hey
,” Brandon yelps.

“Chelsea,” Dad chastises. “What’s
wrong
with you?”

“I need to make a phone call,” I snarl through my teeth, glaring at Brandon.

“Don’t be too overjoyed about it or anything, Chelse,” Brandon mumbles. “I mean, he’s only your boyfriend.”

“A phone call,” Dad repeats, oblivious to what Brandon’s just said.

“At this time of night. You can’t do it tomorrow?”

“
No
, I can’t do it tomorrow.” Every last drop of my pent-up anger comes out in my words. “What do you care, anyway?” Suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m not talking about phones. I’m talking about the last few months. I’m talking about the way I’ve been watching some crummy 122/262

recording in my room late at night, because one of the things I ache to remember is what it was like when he cheered for me. Dad takes a step into the moonlight, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t understand you, Chelsea. Ever since the accident—I tried to give you time. I tried to make excuses for you. If anyone had a right to feel badly, it was you. But this—this doesn’t make any sense anymore, Chelse. The way you lash out—”

“The way
I
lash out—”

“Yes, the way you lash out. Just like you’re doing to Brandon right now. And the way you mope—”

“The way I
what
?”

“You don’t even try, Chelsea. The old you would have found a way—some way—to keep going.”

“What?” I bellow. “I didn’t quit! It was
taken
from me.”

“You’re no one I even know anymore,” Dad says, reaching for Brandon’s hand. The way he examines it, you’d think I’d done permanent damage.

I can’t stand to be in the room. I stomp out of the cabin onto the porch, where I swear the kiss I’ve just shared with Clint has a lingering smell … like a fresh pan of Mom’s white-chocolate brownies. The hot sweetness still clings to the air. And I’m a girl on a strict diet who’s just downed the whole batch. Guilt overpowers me.