But the noise in here is deafening and it’s bothering me a lot more than I thought it would. I need a break. I consider making an excuse to go out to the car, then I remember Jeremy drove me here.

“I’m going to run back to my classroom,” I sort of yell into his ear. “I left my flash drive and I need it for this weekend.”

I wind my way down the over-full bleachers and make it to the floor, where there are dozens of people pressed up along the sides of the gym. I hurry past the opposing school’s marching band, which is just beginning to cue up their version of “Crazy Train.” Once I make it out into the hall and beyond the locker rooms, the pounding in my head begins to lessen a bit. The dim lighting helps a little, too.

I unlock my classroom door and slip inside. I’m probably not supposed to be here when school is technically closed, but I can’t help but revel a little in the complete quiet. At least until my gaze falls on Smith’s empty desk in the back of the room.

I could have asked Officer Rains about him—it wouldn’t be unheard of, considering he’s on my class roster. I just couldn’t muster up the courage. Besides, it isn’t really shocking news when a kid from Franklin stopped attending. If anything, it’s routine.

For a few minutes, I just sit at my desk, thinking about Smith and wishing I wasn’t. I should probably head back to the gym, but the silence is so much better than the din and discord of the game.

I feel bad that I told Jeremy I’d come at all. Because he’s still clearly interested in dating me.

But the truth is that I came to the game hoping that Smith might show up.

And the truth is that I’m disappointed that he hasn’t.

Which is the exact moment when I glance out the window and see Smith’s truck parked in the faculty parking lot.

He came for me. I just know it.

I don’t put a lot of thought into my next actions because, really, I haven’t exactly been putting a lot of thought into anything lately. In fact, it isn’t until I’ve made it out of my classroom and to the closest exit and out into the crisp night that I realize I’ve probably locked myself out of the school. I hesitate for half a second, then look out at Smith’s truck.

Fuck it.

As I get closer, I can see that the truck is parked next to a familiar-looking red Mustang. I see the driver’s side door of the truck pop open, and Smith climbs out. This is the first time I’ve seen him since our night together last weekend and I feel my heart sort of seize up as he shuts the door, then turns to lean against it. A part of me—a really big part of me—wants to run toward him. Instead, I watch from the darkness as the driver climbs out of the Mustang.

And then everything inside me—my breath, my blood, my heart—freezes.

J. D. Fenton seems even bigger and broader than I remember. Now, he walks toward Smith and they bump fists. J. D. is grinning and I feel a slimy sensation travel through me.

“You got what I asked for?” Smith is asking.

J. D. digs a plastic bag out of his back pocket and hands it to him.

“Told you I’d come through, man. You need more, you know where to find me.”

Smith nods, then unrolls the bag and examines the contents. From the little I can see at this distance, I know for sure it’s not pot—not unless they’re growing marijuana in the shape of little white pills.

A wave of fury washes over me, hot and thick—less like water and more like lava. Before I can fully consider my actions, I stomp out onto the asphalt. They both look up at me with identical expressions of surprise. Then J. D.’s morphs into a sneer.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” he snarls at Smith.

As I approach, I realize that J. D. is intoxicated or high or both. He’s sort of stumbling as he sidles closer, and his eyes are bloodshot. Smith glares at me and I steel myself for his irritation, prepared to hand it right back to him on a fucking silver platter. What I’m not prepared for is the look in his eyes—the dark blue is as piercing as always, but this time his gaze is filled less with anger and more with something else. Something like panic.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I snap at him. I motion to J. D. with one hand. “You think buying drugs is a good choice for you?”

Smith takes a step closer to me. His teeth are clenched together in a tight smile.

“Go the fuck back inside,” he growls. “Now.”

I glance over at J. D., who is swaying a bit, but still half smirking at me. I can feel my anger flare up, and I take a few steps toward him.

“You shouldn’t be on school property, J. D. You’ve already been kicked out of Franklin—do you really want me to have to get the police involved?”

J. D. throws his head back and laughs. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are filled with derision.

“You can’t do shit to me and you know it.”

He starts to stumble in my direction, but Smith yanks me back.

“Get out of here, Cyn, please,” he breathes, then raises his voice so J. D. can hear him. “I don’t need some bitch teacher interfering in my life.”

“Funny how the tables have turned,” J. D. slurs. “Asher may have protected your ass before, but no one’s sticking up for you now.”

I glare at him, then at Smith.

“I’m going to get your brother,” I hiss at him.

“Shit—Cyn, don’t!”

Smith reaches for me, but I manage to slip through his grasp. Then I break into a run.

“Fucking A—I’m gonna get you, you fucking nosy bitch,” J. D. hollers. Seconds later, I hear the roar of an engine and a peeling of wheels, and I start running even faster. I’ve just made it to the edge of the parking lot when the light hits my body, bathing me in brightness. I can’t help but turn toward it and squint. For some reason, the headlights don’t look like headlights. They look like something singular, like a flashlight. Or a freight train.

There’s no way he’d actually hit me with his car, would he? Then again, if he’s drunk or high, who knows what J.D . Fenton would do . . .

There’s long, low growl coming from the Mustang, then the screech of rubber as J. D. slams on the gas and the Mustang comes barreling in my direction.

“Hyacinth!”

Smith’s voice booms, a thunder rolling over my consciousness. He’s charging toward me and I don’t know where to move. His gaze locks on mine, and the terror I see in them is scarier than anything I can imagine.

I’m not looking at the Mustang when it hits me.

I’m looking right into Smith’s eyes.

There’s a sensation of being crushed, of losing breath and blood and life, all in mere seconds. And then there’s nothing but air. The sounds are the only thing I can concentrate on, because every other body sensation seems to be frozen around me.

Then I slam to the ground, and all those body sensations turn into excruciating, horrendous pain.

Smith is at my side in an instant, pressing his hand to my head. I hear the scream of the Mustang as it peels out of the parking lot and roars away from my broken body and Smith’s frantic voice.

“Cyn, can you hear me? Motherfucking hell.”

He leans closer to me. I feel his warm breath fan over my cheek.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here.”

I try to groan, to say something, but my mouth refuses to open. He strokes my face, and everything begins to fade into the distance. I start seeing images flash through my mind.

Body paint.

Cave walls.

Hamlet scripts.

A chalkboard eraser.

Smith’s mouth.

Smith’s eyes.

Smith.

Smith.

Smith.

Then, the sirens in the distance are the last thing I hear before everything disappears in the night.

***

“Miss Hendricks?”

The voice sounds like a student and I wonder if I’ve fallen asleep at my desk. I try to blink, but my eyelids feel immobile. More than heavy, they feel glued down. Like I’ve been drugged.