ing of him was better than thinking of Logan.

And besides, now that Josh had an opportunity to get Cassidy out of his system, maybe he’d start paying attention to me. So Josh it was. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and he thought I’d grown up a lot since last year.

This thought gave me a small twinge of guilt. Josh thought I’d matured because I wasn’t insulting anyone, and the only reason I wasn’t insulting anyone was because of Logan’s bet. Could Logan be right about the other things he’d said too?

I shook the thought off. I didn’t think only of myself. I didn’t.

As we walked toward the photographer I gave Josh’s arm another squeeze. He smiled back at me. Which was a form of paying attention to me, which meant the evening was bound to get better. Logan was definitely so, so wrong. I wanted to turn back to him and say, See, someone thinks I’m nice enough to date. Plus he’s in college, so therefore he’s smarter than you.

Before we reached the photographer, Chelsea and Mike strolled up to us.

She gave me a hug, complimented me on the prom decorations, and then gave me a quick critique on who looked stunning, who looked so-last-season, and who looked like a hooker with a corsage. Then she turned to Josh. “Have you seen the new improvements here at PHS?”

“Improvements?” he asked.

“Vintage Samantha Taylor artwork.” Chelsea took Josh’s hand and pulled him toward the drinking fountain, where a couple of posters hung on the wall.

We all parked in front of one of my posters while Chelsea lifted a hand toward it in appraisement. “Notice the subtle shading and fine craftsmanship behind the lettering. One day when she’s president of the United States, this will be worth money.”

Josh gazed at it with placid interest. “It’s really nice.” What else could he say?

“It’s much better than the paltry competition’s,” Chelsea said, pointing with a grand wave to one of Rick’s posters.

It was then I looked, really looked, at the other poster. It was one of Rick’s newer ones, and I hadn’t seen it before. It read: RICK DEBROCK RULES THE SCHOOL. VOTE FOR RICK

ON ELECTION DAY.

But that’s not what caught my eye. What struck me was the e’s—they were tilted upward like sloppy i's.

I continued to stare at the poster. In fact, for several moments that poster and my thoughts floated and twisted together, the only things existing in the universe.

Rick had made the flyers.

I knew this now, but still I couldn’t fathom it. How had he known my SAT score?

Surely Cassidy wouldn’t have told him. Cassidy and Rick belonged to two completely different high-school stratas. They didn’t talk to each other. They had absolutely no reason to associate with each other.

Then it all fit, like puzzle pieces snapping together to finish the picture.

Chelsea had a reason, or rather Chelsea’s little sister did. Adrian had gone out with Rick. Suddenly, like a movie playing in my mind, I remembered exactly the time and place I told my friends about my SAT score.

I don’t know what was stronger, my anger or my disappointment. I turned to Chelsea.

“You told Rick my SAT score, didn’t you?”

Her eyes riveted to me, and her smile vanished. “No, I didn’t.”

Now I was even more certain. “Yes, you did.” I put my fingers across my mouth and felt my hand shaking. In a low voice I said, “I can’t believe this, Chelsea—I trusted you.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, and both Josh and Mike stared at us, unspeaking.

Then, as if it were almost an apology, her voice dropped. “I didn’t tell him. I told Adrian. I didn’t know she’d tell Rick about it.”

“You didn’t know?” My anger now outweighed my disappointment. “You just expected little Miss Black Death to keep that information to herself?”

Chelsea folded her arms, and her lips pursed into a rigid line. “Look, I didn’t know Rick would make those flyers.”

“You could have at least told me what you’d done, and then I wouldn’t have . . .”

Then I wouldn’t have done an ugly thing myself by taking down Amy’s posters. Then I wouldn’t have blamed Cassidy for the past two weeks for betraying me.

With her arms still folded, Chelsea said, “I didn’t tell you to go on a poster-tearing rampage. You guys did that all by yourselves. If I had known you were going to destroy Amy’s stuff, I would have tried to stop you. But what was the point in telling you the truth after you’d already done it? I knew it would just make you feel bad.”

“How noble of you.” I turned and walked away from her, my dress making angry swishing sounds with every step I took back to the photographer.

I hadn’t seen Josh’s expression during my exchange with Chelsea, and now with him walking beside me, I was afraid to know what it was. We took our place in the back of the picture line, and for a moment neither of us said anything. Then slowly, as though he was talking to himself as much as talking to me, he said, “You tore down Amy’s posters?”

And wham—I was no longer mature, or nice, or anything good. I was the same critical, insulting, immature girl he’d known last year. It was practically a vindication of Logan’s words, and that one sentence hurt just as deeply.

I wanted to shrug the whole thing off and say, “You know how it is. All’s fair in love, war, and high school.” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t act like what I’d done didn’t matter when I knew, inside, that it did.

“I made a mistake. I thought Amy wrote something horrible about me, and I retaliated.”

“You weren’t sure it was Amy, but you retaliated anyway?

“I thought I was sure.”

“Did you talk to her?”

Of course I didn’t talk to her. She wouldn’t have told me the truth— Well, actually she would have told me the truth, but I wouldn’t have believed it was the truth. I couldn’t tell Josh this, though. I couldn’t admit to being blindly suspicious along with being vindictive. “I said it was a mistake.”

“A mistake because you retaliated or a mistake because you retaliated against the wrong person?”

Either. Both. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to think about it anymore. How much guilt should a person have to endure while waiting to get prom pictures taken? I didn’t answer, but I couldn’t think about anything else.

Why hadn’t I just taken that flyer into the office and let them handle it?

Josh didn’t press the point. We stood together in line, silently apart, until the photographer called out it was our turn. Then we went and stood side by side, hands clasped, under the archway. I smiled, knowing the picture would turn out awful anyway. It was a fitting symbol of the evening.

After the pictures Josh and I went back to the dance floor and danced for a few more dances. The music blared out a quick tempo, and even though I tried to dance to the beat, my arms and legs felt stiff and clumsy.

Once, I noticed Logan dancing with Cassidy in a far corner. He looked perfectly happy. And why shouldn’t he? He knew he’d been right about everything all along.

For the second time that night I came close to beautifying myself with tears and runny mascara. I wanted to go home; instead, I kept dancing with Josh. Every step I took, every note I heard, all seemed to echo the words in my head, “It’s true . . . It’s true . . .”

Finally, mercifully, the prom ended. I decided not to suggest one of the after-prom parties. Instead, when they turned up the lights, I yawned and commented on how late it was.

Josh drove me home, and we didn’t talk much in the car. I knew he wanted the evening to be over as badly as I did, so it almost surprised me when he got out of the car at my house and walked me to my door—but that was the thing about Josh, he was a perfect gentleman.

He paused on the doorstep. “Thanks for asking me out, Samantha. I had a nice time.”

He wasn’t even a good liar; still I smiled at him anyway. “Thanks for coming. I’ll give you your copy of the pictures as soon as I get them.” If I didn’t burn them first.