In My Dreams I Hold a Knife by Ashley Winstead

Chapter 5

October, freshman year

We stood in the abandoned field behind grad student housing—in the hiding place we’d thought was secret—and stared at the wreckage. There were no clues to whisper what happened. There was nothing but twenty students gripped by silence, even the squirrels frozen in the trees, even the dry, dead leaves muted underfoot.

We were a single day out from the Homecoming parade, and our pride and joy—the float we’d spent weeks building—was crushed. Decimated. Themed Duquette Royalty in what Courtney assured us was a playful but not arrogant reference to East House’s five-year winning streak in the Battle of the Freshmen Halls, the float was an elaborate, fourteen-foot replica of East House, styled as a castle, complete with real, intricately woven vines.

Or it had been. Now the entire structure was caved in, as if it had been hit with a wrecking ball. The coup de grâce was supposed to be a short round of fireworks we’d planned to set off from each of the turrets, the ammunition generously paid for by Mint’s parents and currently stowed in his backpack, ready to be tested. But the turrets were smashed, hanging at odd angles like broken limbs.

We were supposed to dazzle the Homecoming crowd into handing East House its sixth first-place win, and cement our place in campus history. I’d worked for weeks drawing the entire thing, from the castle to each flower that surrounded it, directing others where and how to paint.

All of our work, for nothing.

What the hell happened?

I searched my friends’ faces, seeing my panic mirrored. We’d worked with other people from the dorm, sure, but this competition had been ours. Our stroke of genius, our leadership. Our excuse to see each other every day, on top of every night. In such a short time, we’d become the kind of friends who were less separate, distinct people and more limbs you couldn’t live without. This attack felt like a personal affront.

Mint, standing near the head of the float, dropped his backpack full of fireworks. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, causing Frankie, hovering behind him like a shadow, to shift out of the way, eyeing it warily. Beside me, Caro braced her hands over her face, shielding her eyes from view.

Coop stepped close to me and lowered his voice. “That float was a piece of art.”

I dropped my eyes, feeling the loss of my work more sharply now that someone had named it. “It was just a little painting. Not important.”

Jack picked up a piece of limp, broken vine and cradled it. “What in the world could have done this? It’s like the float was hit by a bulldozer.”

“Wrong question. You mean who could have done this.” In the crowd of stunned faces, Heather’s alone was mercenary. Heads turned in her direction.

Courtney put her hands on her hips, her slim elbows making razor-sharp angles, even under the bulk of her coat. “We all know exactly who did it. It was those freaks from Chapman Hall. Led by twin weasels Trevor Daly and Charles Smith. They want to win so badly they decided to take out the competition.”

There was a murmur of agreement. Trevor and Charles were loudmouths and well known for pulling pranks only they thought were funny. Like stealing girls’ underwear out of the laundry room and stringing it up on tree branches.

“Hey, now,” Mint said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his peacoat. “Trevor and Charles are rushing Phi Delt.” He offered this like it was a talisman of protection against accusations, an endorsement that couldn’t be argued with. Phi Delt was, after all, the best frat on campus. It was where everyone knew Mint would end up. They were rushing Frankie and Jack, too, but that was mostly because they came with Mint, like a package deal.

“How did Trevor and Charles even know where to find our float?” It had been my idea to hide it behind the grad student apartments, tucked on the edge of campus, where undergrads rarely ventured—an idea I’d been proud of until this moment.

Frankie rubbed a hand across his reddening face. “I might have…mentioned something during beer pong…about blowing things up and grad students yelling at us…”

A chorus of groans and What the fuck, Frankies echoed around our small group. And that was definitive proof the situation was dire, because normally the whole dorm loved our resident football star.

“Frankie, you and your big mouth.” Jack blew out a frustrated breath. “One secret, man. I dare you to keep one secret in your whole entire life. Do it, and I’ll die of shock.”

“Do you see?” Heather was transitioning into her favorite mode: high theatrics. I could picture her striding across a stage, lifting a sword, bellowing Now we are at war to a rapt audience. “They knew we were the dorm to beat, and they knew where to find our float. This is sabotage.”

One of the guys who lived a few doors down from Mint and Coop had drifted to the back of the float. Now he started laughing, pointing at the crumpled castle wall. “Mint, you gotta see this. They left you a message.”

We moved en masse to look. Drawn across the back of the float in lurid red paint, lines marred by drip marks, was a stick-figure boy cradled in the lap of a stick-figure woman. They were surrounded by crude dollar signs. The boy had a dialogue bubble protruding from his mouth: My mommy bought me this float. Underneath the stick figure, in ragged letters, were the words and all my friends, followed by East House cheats. Love, Chapman.

“How do we know that’s supposed to be Mint?” Caro whispered.

“Please,” Heather scoffed. “Of course it’s Mint.”

I chanced a look at him. Even though we were friends now, looking at him hadn’t stopped feeling dangerous, like each time I was skimming too close to the sun. But he wasn’t looking anywhere except at the painting, even with Courtney standing so close behind him, her shoulder brushing his every time he moved. It seemed Mint and Courtney were an inevitable pairing—like to like—so I tried to ignore the way their closeness rubbed at me, stirring old, bitter feelings.

But something was wrong with Mint. In the two months I’d spent watching him, I’d never seen his face look like this, with tracks of scarlet blooming down his cheeks and neck. His skin looked painful, hot to the touch. His eyes darted around, taking in the snickers and soft laughter.

Coop rested a hand on Mint’s shoulder. “You’ve been immortalized. And here I thought it’d be your name on a building or something.” His mouth quirked. “The likeness is chilling, you have to admit. I told you to double down on leg days. Those calves are looking a little thin, man.”

Mint wrenched his shoulder away. “Get the fuck off me.”

His anger was a lightning strike, completely unexpected. Coop took a half step back and raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, easy.” Behind Mint’s back, he found my eyes, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

It was a message for me alone, a look to make a private space between us. He was always doing that. It didn’t matter if we were at a party, packed wall to wall; or if I was leaving a lecture hall, adrift in a sea of people, only to spot him reading on a bench; or if we were having lunch and he was the last to arrive, setting his tray at the opposite end of the table. He always found me, and for that first, single moment when our eyes met, we existed in a separate place. A private room he’d built to tell me something I could never parse before the moment was over.

“It’s not funny,” Mint said sharply. I looked away from Coop, drawn to Mint’s hands, which he’d clenched into fists. “It’s a lie.”

“Obviously,” said Frankie, ever loyal.

“Fucking losers.” Mint kicked the float, right in the center of the painting, and it cracked, wood splintering. “Liars.” A hush fell over the group as he kicked again, still red-faced. And then Frankie was kicking, too, until the side of the castle gave away completely and the painting turned into a gaping hole.

For a few seconds the only sound was Mint’s hard breathing. Then Jack said, “I guess we’re not salvaging the float.”

One of the girls from my floor sighed. “I can’t believe I wasted so much time on this. What a disaster.” She tossed her hair, turning to walk away.

“Where are you going?” asked Caro, her face the portrait of betrayal.

The girl gave her an incredulous look. “It’s the night before Homecoming, Caro. I’m not missing parties just to cobble together some pitiful makeup float and lose tomorrow anyway.”

“Me either,” someone else said, and that was the death knell, the curtain falling. There was murmuring, and then everyone was shifting, adjusting backpacks over their shoulders. In twos and threes they walked away, muttering about Chapman Hall and dick-swinging contests and pranks gone too far.

It left only the eight of us, doing our best not to look at the hole in the float.

“Can you believe them?” Caro asked. “One setback and they jump ship. Where’s their loyalty?”

Jack sighed and sank to the ground, perching among the dead leaves. “I hate to be the one to say it, but I think we’re screwed.”

Heather dropped beside him and leaned in close. Jack’s cheeks turned rosy, and he glanced around to see if we were watching. After two months of being friends, I knew that particular shade of pink meant Jack was happy with Heather’s affection but would melt if anyone mentioned it. Heather called this shyness Jack disentangling from years of repression, a line she’d cribbed from one of her Intro to Psychology books. At night when she and Caro and I sat around talking, waiting for our face masks to dry or watching mindless TV, Heather told us secrets Jack had told her, like that he’d never been kissed, never been allowed to have a girlfriend. But she was patient; she made the first move with him, over and over, fresh each day. Heather was like that. She was a girl who did things I’d never known were an option.

“Come on, there has to be something we can do to fix the float. Or at least a plan to get back at Chapman.” Heather dropped her head on Jack’s shoulder. He sat straight as a rod.

“Let’s just burn Chapman to the ground and be done with Homecoming,” Coop said. “Shit’s lame.”

“Coop’s right. I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Courtney turned to Heather, her red-painted mouth pulling into a frown. “I told you from the beginning that winning a glorified arts-and-crafts contest wasn’t going to put us on top of Chi O’s list. And now we’re not even going to win. It’s humiliating.”

Like Phi Delt, Chi Omega was the best on campus. The sorority boasted a perfect rush record. Every year, each girl they offered a spot took it, gratefully, knowing a place in Chi O meant four years breathing rarefied air. It was rumored none of the other sororities came close to their record, not even the second-best, Kappa.

I’d learned quickly that social life at Duquette revolved around two things: football and Greek life. Winning a football championship was life or death, the stakes only outmatched by getting in to the right house. In some ways, it was antiquated—the football and Greek life like something out of Pleasantville—but in another way it was timeless: these were just more ways of being sorted. And as every student who’d fought or sunk their way to Duquette knew, life was nothing if not a constant cycle of compete, rank, sort. Hierarchy, that was normal. What was strange was how deeply you could come to need it; how eventually, over enough time, you would long for someone to come and put you in your place.

“Courtney,” Frankie snapped, “can you shut up for one second and let us think?”

Courtney’s eyes flew open. No one talked to her like that.

I slipped away to where Mint stood, arms folded tight over his chest, and—taking a quick, steeling breath—brushed a hand over his shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

He didn’t pull away from the touch, but he didn’t look at me, either. “I overreacted. It’s just that Charles’s family knows my family, and I thought—”

My heart drummed.

“You know they’re just jealous, right?” I decided to chance it, leaving my hand on his shoulder, my eyes on his face.

He turned to me, the movement sharp. “Jealous?”

I was caught. Warmth bloomed through me like sunlight. “Obviously.”

He smiled.

“Jessica.” Courtney’s icy voice broke through. “I know you’ve got to take your best shot at Mint while he’s down, but now is really not the time for flirting.”

It was like she’d reached across the grass and slapped me. Or worse—like she’d wrenched my top off, leaving me exposed, my intentions and desires naked for everyone to see. I recoiled, pulling my hand from Mint’s shoulder, eyes stinging with hot humiliation. But before I could draw one shaking breath—to say what, I didn’t know—Heather cut in.

“Courtney, stop being such a bitch.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. Heather was dogmatic about right and wrong, saw the world divided up smoothly into good and bad. I’d attributed this to the fact that her life had been uncomplicated, devoid of obstacles, for eighteen years. The easy sailing had allowed her to believe the world was black and white, no gray. Heather could afford to think this way because she didn’t need to claw, constantly, for what she deserved, or live her life in the gray just to understand the people she loved. It was yet another luxury, like her beautiful clothes and her purses.

Still, Heather and Courtney were a pair—best friends, roommates. That’s where her loyalties should lie.

“Are you serious?” Courtney looked as stunned as I was. A kick of wind blew her glossy, magazine hair around her shoulders. “You’re choosing her?”

There it was, a line in the sand. I could do nothing but blink at both of them.

Heather was quiet for a beat, then said: “Yes. Stop punching down.”

She’d chosen me.

Courtney’s mouth fell open. She searched the circle of faces, looking for an ally, some measure of sympathy. Her gaze lingered on Mint. But whatever she saw had her swallowing hard, then rolling her eyes. “Fine, whatever. I’m bored. Have fun wasting your time on lost causes.” She glanced at Heather. “I guess I’ll see you later, or something.” It sounded more like a question: Will I? In that moment, Courtney looked young and unsure.

Heather nodded curtly. “See you at home.” But when Courtney walked away, she found my eyes and smiled.

I filled with light. Forget Mint; this was like looking into the sun. Heather had defended me. Picked me. Who had ever done that?

“You guys.” Jack’s eyes were wide with excitement. “I just got an idea. A way to get back at Chapman and reenter the Battle. The only problem is, it’s slightly illegal.”

And just like that, the last half hour was washed away, the slate wiped clean. We grinned at each other.

“Spill,” Frankie said.

Jack winced at Caro. “Okay. You know how Charles is obsessed with Caro?”

Mint cracked a laugh. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, no,” Caro said.

“Hear me out. What if, since Chapman destroyed our float, we stole theirs?”

“Silly Jack,” Coop said. “You had me at illegal.”

I tried to smile at Coop, but he wouldn’t look my way.

“We know Chapman’s hiding their float behind Bishop.” Bishop Hall was a dorm for seniors, so one of the Chapman freshmen must have had an upperclassman connection. “All we need is for Caro to get into Charles’s room and take the keys to their float. Then tonight we steal it, turn it into the East House float, and tomorrow we ride it to victory.”

“Brilliant,” Frankie breathed. “We can even use the fireworks.”

I rolled my eyes. “So the whole plan hinges on Caro being James Bond for a night. No pressure.”

“Yeah, forget it,” Heather said. “Caro can’t prostitute herself. She hates Charles. He’s a lacrosse douchebag.”

“A Phi Delt lacrosse douchebag,” Coop corrected. “Which means it’s okay.”

“No, wait a second.” Caro took a deep breath. “I’ll do it. For you guys.”

I squinted. “You sure?” Sometimes I worried about the depths of Caro’s loyalty.

Frankie clapped. “We’re going to be legends.”

“One small hiccup,” Mint said. “I’m pretty sure I remember Trevor saying the Chapman float theme is Duquette in Paradise.”

“Meaning?” Heather asked.

“Meaning it’s a rolling beach, palm trees, sand, and everything. They were planning to ride it in bathing suits.”

“It’s October,” I said.

“Yeah, well, clearly they’ll do anything to win. Point is, we’ll look pretty stupid riding in sweaters.”

“Shit. Well. Thank God we’ve been working out all semester.” Frankie looked around at us and frowned. “What? Why are you all looking at me like that?”

Coop patted Frankie’s shoulder. “It’s sweet how your mind works.”

“As soon as they realize their float’s missing, Chapman will know we took it,” Jack said. “We need to hide it somewhere they won’t find it before the parade starts. Let them panic, waste their time searching.”

“They won’t dream we had the balls to enter it,” Heather said. “But we should get to the stadium early anyway. Be out in the middle of the parade before they even realize.”

Coop bit his lip. “I know a place we can hide it. Old abandoned field a few blocks away. Pretty shady, but they won’t think of it. I can guarantee.”

Caro snorted. “How can you do that?”

He only shrugged. “I know which Duquette students know about it, and which don’t.”

“Whatever. Coop’s creepy field works for me,” Heather said.

“Okay, then.” Jack slung an arm over Caro’s shoulder. “Text us when you have the goods and we’ll put this plan into action.”

***

We skidded into the near-empty parking lot outside the basketball stadium as soon as the cheerleaders moved aside the orange cones, signaling the parade was moments from starting and floats should line up.

Heather scanned the parking lot as we bumped along. “Excellent. No Chapman Hall spies.” A smile curved her lips. “Probably still pulling their hair out, running around campus.”

We were early enough that there was only the grand marshal’s float ahead of us, which by tradition was always first, and always filled with rowdy football players. After a few minutes of tense waiting, watching every float that drove into the parking lot behind us, music swelled from the other side of the stadium. A voice boomed over the loudspeakers, saying something I couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded rousing. Suddenly the cop directing parade traffic straightened to attention. He pointed at the grand marshal’s float, then looked at us and waved us forward.

It was too late to turn back now. Before today, I’d never imagined committing grand theft auto, then flaunting it for the world to see. Now here I stood atop a stolen float, shivering in—of all things—a black bikini, about to reveal myself to the entire student body and the alumni. And all I could think about was whether the cops serving as parade organizers would be gentle when the jig was up, and they wrestled me down.

What price, glory?

Mint nodded at Jack in the driver’s seat, who gave him a thumbs-up, and then we were puttering forward, out from behind the cover of the basketball stadium and onto the parade route.

Caro squeezed my hand. “This better be worth it.”

I glanced at her. Caro had sacrificed more than anyone. “How long did it take you to get the keys from Charles? I tried waiting up for you, but I fell asleep. How’d you end up doing it?”

Caro’s cheeks flamed. “It took a long time,” she mumbled. “And never mind how.”

Strange—

“Wave, idiots!” Heather, who looked completely at home in her bright-yellow bikini, glared at us, waving enthusiastically at the crowd.

The crowd. Hundreds of people, lining both sides of the street as far as I could see. From the moment we rolled into view, I could see them pointing and laughing at us, the ridiculous college students dressed for the beach in the middle of a North Carolina fall.

“Do you hear that shouting?” Frankie flexed for the crowd. “They love us!”

And actually, he wasn’t wrong. Everyone I waved to grinned and waved back. Kids were cheering on Mint as he pretended to swim through the waves. The Chapman students had cleverly packed the back of the float with red and white confetti, and now Coop was tossing it, raining it down on everyone we passed, letting kids fight over handfuls. I’d even stopped feeling cold. The adrenaline heated my blood, making me forget the chill in the air as we zoomed down the street. Blackwell Tower, the end of the parade route, couldn’t be too far ahead.

We were actually pulling this off.

“Trouble!” Heather yelled, pointing ahead.

It was the Chapman students, rushing to the side of the road.

“Thieves!” yelled Trevor—who, to Courtney’s credit, actually did look like a weasel, small and furrow-faced. “Those assholes stole our float!”

“No shit we did!” Frankie pointed to the banner we’d left hanging up front, crossing out Chapman Hall Champions and writing East House Seven.

“You destroyed ours first!” Heather shouted.

“Caroline!” That shout came from Charles, who stood on the sidelines in a red-and-white lacrosse jersey, blinking up at her. “I trusted you!”

“Uh-oh,” Caro said, ducking behind me.

“We won’t let you use our float to win!” One of the Chapman students broke through the parade barrier and ran into the street, directly in our path, followed quickly by more. They were trying to block us from reaching the finish line at Blackwell. If they stopped us, we’d hold up all the floats in line behind us. The entire parade would come grinding to a halt.

Jack leaned over, shouting from the driver’s seat. “What do we do?”

“Just hit one,” Coop yelled, still throwing confetti in wild handfuls, the red and white paper everywhere, but mostly strung like tinsel through his hair. “The rest will learn!”

In a flash of desperation, a thought seized me. It was crazy and might lead to nothing but trouble, but there was something about being surrounded by Coop and Frankie, Mint and Heather and Caro, that made me feel like nothing bad could really happen.

“The fireworks,” I said. “Shoot the fireworks to scare them.”

Frankie didn’t ask questions; he simply ran to where we’d hidden them behind the palm trees.

“Aim up,” Mint called. “And be careful, you don’t want to—”

How it happened, none of us would ever figure out, no matter how many times we replayed it. One minute, Frankie was fumbling with the Roman candle; the next, his bathing suit was smoking, the firework was whistling upward, we were all shouting, and Frankie was doing what he later swore was the only thing he could think of: yanking his burning bathing suit off his body. He kicked it away right as the Roman candle exploded in the air, cracking like gunfire. The crowd gasped; the Chapman students ran, fleeing the street.

“Someone cover Frankie!” Mint yelled. Frankie was wide-eyed, frozen in shock, hands cupping his middle. For once, Coop was obedient, tearing a giant leaf off a palm tree and shoving it at him. For a second, Frankie just looked at the leaf. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

“Let’s hear it for the Crimson,” Frankie yelled, darting forward around the perimeter of the float, hands high in the air, while Coop chased him with the leaf. The crowd lost it when Frankie turned his back to them.

“Show-off!” Jack yelled from the driver’s seat. He put his foot to the gas, and the float lurched forward.

It was utter chaos.

“More fireworks!” Heather called. I whipped around, pulled by the laughter in her voice, and sure enough, she was beaming, looking out over the running Chapman Hall students and the shrieking crowd like this had all been perfectly executed.

“Are you crazy? We’ll burn down the float!”

Ignoring me, she lit a Roman candle. It sailed into the air in a perfect arc, cracking open into a sparkling flower. She shrugged. “I shoot fireworks with my dad every Fourth of July.”

Of course. Father-daughter time, that mysterious thing.

We turned the corner, revealing Blackwell Tower—and, in front of it, the massive stage where the chancellor gave his Homecoming address. We were so close.

Coop stepped to my side, his face wreathed in a halo of confetti.

“You look like a maniac,” I told him. “A school-spirit angel.”

He handed me a lighter. “Come on, we both know you want to.” When he glanced at me, the look was back, and it was just the two of us, the rest of the cheering, laughing, exploding world fading into the background. It was the return of that look, more than anything, that had me flicking the lighter, touching flame to the firework.

“Jessica the rebel,” Coop shouted, as the Roman candle shot up.

I watched through my fingers as it crested and opened, raining light like glittering gemstones.

The float neared the stage. And, for the first time, we came face-to-face with the chancellor, standing in the center of it, gripping a tall microphone. Even from here, I could see his face was purple.

“Will all students,” he bellowed, “who wish to remain enrolled in this university kindly cease fire.”

***

We were heroes. Not to the administration, of course, who’d escorted us straight into the chancellor’s office in Blackwell, where we’d had to wait an hour just to be yelled at about indecent exposure, illicit fireworks, complaints from irate Chapman Hall students. The chancellor kept questioning Coop, the only one of us who’d refused to put on a shirt, like he was the dark mastermind behind the whole thing. But there was still Mint, with his family’s clout, and Frankie, the football star, to contend with. So in the end he gave us two months’ community service and a stern warning to stay out of trouble for the next three years.

No, the administration hated us. But the students…

We walked into the Phi Delt Homecoming party that night, the seven of us together, arms laced, and stopped dead in our tracks. Hanging from the staircase in the foyer was the banner from our float, the one where we’d crossed out Chapman Hall Champions and painted East House Seven.

“Holy shit,” Heather breathed. “They saved it.”

The frat house was madness, filled with more people than usual, regular students plus alumni, the latter mostly slick, polished lawyers and bank managers in dad jeans. A guy standing at the top of the staircase near the banner spotted us and pointed with his beer. “East House Seven!”

Everyone in the foyer turned, their eyes like spotlights swinging in our direction. “It’s those streakers from the parade!” someone shouted. “The ones who tried to shoot down the chancellor!”

Cheers and whistles exploded across the room. “You shoulda won the Battle!” someone yelled from the back.

A Phi Delt senior rushed forward, grabbing Frankie. “Man, you guys have balls of steel.” He slung an arm over Jack’s shoulders, then winked at Heather and me. “But seriously, what’d the Chance say? You’re not kicked out, are you? ’Cause you clowns were born to be Phi Delt.” He punched Mint’s shoulder. “And you. Fucking troublemaker, who knew? I love it.”

The brother dragged the boys away in the direction of the bar. I raised my eyebrows at their backs. If Frankie and Jack weren’t being rushed on their own merits before, they certainly were now.

“Come on,” Caro said, tugging my hand. “Dance floor!”

I turned, realizing I hadn’t seen Coop since we walked in—where had he disappeared to, and so fast?—but Caro was already pulling me.

It turned out it wasn’t only the boys who were famous. When we stepped onto the dance floor, the crowd parted, dancers turning to tell us they loved our float, our bikinis, that we were a breath of fresh air, subversives taking on the administration and skewering Homecoming traditions. We laughed at their compliments, but we didn’t correct them, didn’t say, We were only out for revenge; everything else was an accident. We just smiled and drank what they handed us.

Only Courtney wasn’t impressed. She glared at us from the corner of the dance floor, surrounded by her usual coterie of girls who were dressed like knockoff versions of her. They whispered, pressing close, wanting her shine to rub off on them. I almost felt sorry for her, but then again, I could afford to now. It could have been the East House Eight, but she’d bet wrong. Now we had the glory, and she was cut out. I could already feel the divide growing between us, invisible but solid.

Heather paid no attention to Courtney, spinning on the dance floor with her arms outstretched. We’d switched dresses tonight: she was wearing my pink dress that tied in the back, and I wore a black dress I’d coveted since the day I saw her buy it at the mall, though I blanched even remembering the price tag. When we were getting ready, she’d asked, Want to borrow? And it hadn’t even been a question. Immediately I’d turned to her closet, looking right where this dress hung, fabric whisper-thin and shimmery. But I couldn’t admit I wanted it until she’d said, I’ll wear one of yours. An even trade. Then it had been okay. She’d pulled my pink dress on, and said, Perfect fit, with a little smile. And then, to her reflection, tugging on the bow, Charmingly down-market.

It was that word—down-market—that made something click when it hadn’t before. Made me remember what she’d said to Courtney when she defended me yesterday: Stop punching down. Meaning I was Heather’s friend, yes, but that’s how she saw me: beneath her.

I wore her black dress anyway. So maybe I was.

The song changed to something Frankie liked to play on repeat in his room, and Jack came swinging around the corner, clutching a bottle of whiskey, his perfectly combed Mr. Rogers hair mussed over his forehead like he’d been roughhousing.

“It’s my song,” Frankie said, skidding onto the dance floor behind Jack, losing his balance so fast Jack had to grip him to keep him upright. Without losing a beat, Frankie whirled to Caro and lifted her by the waist. “Has anyone told you you’re tiny?”

“But mighty,” Mint said, stepping up behind them with another bottle of whiskey, his cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Drunk. “Our East House spy.”

“Sweet saboteur!” Jack crooned.

I eyed Mint, nodding at his whiskey. “The Phi Delt brothers sure love you.”

He shrugged, but couldn’t contain his grin. “They love all of us. You’re probably a lock for Chi O, by the way. After today.”

What a stark contrast. Yesterday, I’d been old Jessica Miller. Today, I was the girl in the expensive dress, one-seventh a star, a future Chi O pledge. I thought of Duquette’s promise: We will change you, body and soul. Maybe it was happening.

Heather spotted Jack and stopped spinning, her eyes focusing like he was the only person in the room. She walked to him and stretched out her hand. Jack looked uncertain for a second, then took a deep breath and walked toward her, reaching out.

“The whiskey,” she said. He froze, nearly fumbling the bottle as he snapped his hand back and replaced it with the whiskey. Even the darkness of the room couldn’t hide the high color on his cheeks.

Heather took a swig from the bottle, then held it out again. She was smiling her cat-and-canary smile. “For courage,” she said.

What was she up to?The perennial question.

Jack made for the bottle, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him in. Right in the middle of the dance floor, with all of us watching, Heather kissed him, whiskey bottle in one hand, Jack’s face cupped in the other.

“Finally,” I groaned, and Frankie whistled so loud I was sure Jack would wrench away and bolt. Mint turned to me, grinning, and opened his mouth to say something, but just then the music hit a crescendo, the bass vibrating through the floor, and Frankie yelled, “This is my favorite part!”

Instead of speaking, Mint grabbed my hand and spun me, the black dress fanning out in a perfect circle. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Caro laughing with Frankie; Jack and Heather finally pulling apart, their heads still close.

“Where’s Coop?” I yelled, against the rising music.

Mint turned and pointed to the back door, which led off the dance floor to a courtyard. “Where else?”

I looked. Sure enough, there stood Coop, in the corner of the courtyard with two other guys. He was deep in conversation, listening to one of them talk. Absently, he pushed a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. I watched a strand curl up rebelliously, but he didn’t seem to notice. Only me.

Here I was, in the middle of a crowded party, in a private room of my own.

But my looking pulled at him, and he turned.

“Coop!” yelled Caro, jumping in time to the music, even as it sped. “Come dance with us!”

“Don’t be a loser!” Heather yelled.

Jack lifted his bottle. “We have whiskey!”

“I’ll get naked again,” Frankie boomed. “If you ask nice.”

Coop laughed and shook his head, turning back to his conversation. I took a deep breath and yelled, “Come on, Coop.”

He turned and raised his brows. I raised mine. A challenge. Suddenly he was slapping one of the guys’ hands, passing something between them, and walking in the door, cutting across the dance floor. Caro and Frankie whooped; Jack grinned with the whiskey bottle outstretched. And inside me was a feeling I barely recognized, one I didn’t have words for. The closest might have been Look what I can do or Oh, what have I done.

But Coop didn’t come to me. He walked straight to Caro, pushed past Frankie to grab her hand and spin her, making her laugh. The feeling inside me turned into an arrow—

Mint seized me just as a boy burst from the foyer onto the dance floor, wearing our banner over his shoulders like a cape, and everyone jumped back, clapping. The song was climbing toward its climax, toward the top of the hill, and we were laughing, the seven of us, jumping, arms brushing. I could see their faces, shining in the dark. And I think I knew, even then, that it would never get better than this. I think some part of me could sense—even here in our triumph, in our wild, perfect beginning—the small seeds of our destruction.