So, in bed each night I compile lists, known variables and possible outcomes, fantasy scenarios where I liberate Aiden from the detention centre and come up with infallible evidence that stops Affinity from hunting him down. I have all kinds of rash confidence plotting a felony in the dark but then sunlight dismantles my courage. Jamie and Kitty pick me up for school and their smiles disintegrate my resolve. How can I do it to them?

How can I not when my brother is running out of time?

Miriam has promised we’ll visit him this weekend. She doesn’t like me pushing the issue but I know she’s losing sleep over Aiden as much as I am.

Another glass of champagne. I focus on the sweet burn fuming in the back of my nose. Not a second thought for Miriam’s warning when she dropped me off, “Remember, no alcohol.” Let it seep into my bloodstream and dissolve the fear of the unknown, the fear of the inevitable. One night’s reprieve isn’t too much to ask, is it?

I screw my nose up at my reflection – my faint spray of freckles. Sure, I’m pale but at least I have colour in my cheeks. Tonight, the green in my eyes trumps the blue and the flecks of black and gold seem pronounced. I tuck my hair behind my ears and straighten up, surprised by the rush to my head. I frown at the empty glass. “That was quick.”

It takes a moment for the dizziness to ease, then I peel my sweater over my head and unbutton my jeans. In my black lace bra and briefs, I turn from side to side, evaluating the scars on my arms. Kitty’s right: they work as Halloween accessories. The rest of my body is bruise-free, a rare thing, and I am grateful, enjoying a break from the endless training of previous months.

The chocolate-brown shorts are alarmingly short and the sleeveless shirt has the give of a rubber tube, leaving red marks on my arms in the fight to get it over my head, the thick elastic thwacking my ribs. I suppose breathing isn’t everything, and wowsers – hello, boobs! I keep my back to the mirror, unsure that champagne will cut it as fuel for courage. I probably need the whole damned bottle. I fumble for a full five minutes trying to figure out the straps and clips that go around my waist and thighs. There’s a knock on the door. I grab the handle too hard and crush it, a brief groan of metal. Damn it. “Don’t come in!”

“I won’t,” Kitty calls. “I’m just leaving the boots and extras right here.” She pauses before adding, “You’re a good sport, Evs. Jamie’s a lucky boy.”

“Go away!” I rub my palm, feeling the bruise on the inside of my thumb knuckle and scowl at the concentric dents in the doorknob, a match for my grip. Am I that wired? Kitty won’t be mad; I’ve broken plenty of the Gallaghers’ doorknobs, but I slide my fingers into the grooves hoping I haven’t damaged the inner workings of the handle. It turns – I hear the clunk of the latch – and I snatch up the remainder of the costume, shutting the door before Kitty can get a good look at me. By the time I lace up the boots, pull on the black fingerless gloves with their Velcro strips, and find homes for the fake artillery – silver guns, grenades and all – my head is spinning. It isn’t that long ago I was loading my pockets with live ammunition. I swallow and turn to the mirror. “Holy crap. Tomb Raider.”

I grab Kitty’s brush and rake it through the length of my hair, steeling myself against the memory and the assault of my reflection. I yank against snags until they tug away at the ends, until my hair crackles with static, trying to keep my mind on the night ahead. The key to surviving public humiliation is in projecting confidence … or is it indifference? Mom – well, the mom I grew up with – had loads of catchy advice for moments like this. Not being able to remember her words exactly makes my chest ache. I put the brush down and stare at the sink hole, waiting for April’s voice in my head, the wry twist of her mouth, the way she moved her hands when she talked. I can’t be forgetting things already – she hasn’t even been gone a year. My throat thickens. Sometimes I think it would take a frontal lobotomy to avoid the landmines in my head, loss and worry waiting to blow.

Laughter from the bedroom rises above the bassline. My pulse steps up its tempo. Kaylee, Imogen and Lila have arrived. I’ll have to leave the bathroom. “It could be worse,” I tell myself. Though I can’t imagine what that might look like. A bikini?

RULES

From the top of the stairs the scene in the foyer looks like a deranged film set. The Gallaghers have gone all out with decorations. The lighting is low with wreaths of fairy lights and blood-red candles burn in candelabras. Cobwebs matt the stair banisters and drape from the chandelier, tarantulas and bats and all.

The whole effect makes the plastic decorations April used to haul up from the basement year after year seem pathetic. I ignore the numb ache in my chest. Miriam – my real mom – made a big deal of my first New Hampshire Halloween, like I was seven not seventeen, overcompensating for the distance from home and the absence of my used-to-be-mom. I’m glad Miriam went to her friend’s place tonight, instead of joining the Gallaghers. Glad and guilty. Whatever. I need the break.

The boys mill about at the bottom of the stairs talking, laughing, posing for photos. Dracula, the Phantom of the Opera, a centurion-looking guy and Batman. A lot of capes. Is Jamie wearing a hat? I can’t quite make out his costume with the other girls in front of me. Leonard and Barb come from the dining room with trays of food and non-alcoholic beverages and smiles. My heart squeezes for Mr and Mrs Gallagher and everything they’ve been through. After surviving the last few months with their daughter being stalked by a genetically engineered killer, a high-school ball is a change in pace. They’ve even gotten into the spirit of things. Leonard looks dapper in a pinstripe suit and spats, his hair slicked back and a cigar to complete his Gomez Addams. Barb wears a raven wig and an ink-black sheath dress as Morticia.

Seeing the Gallaghers enjoying themselves gives me an instant hit of happy. I stand behind Kaylee as we take in the view and can’t help grinning at the back of her strapless gold bustier, caramel shoulderblades divided by the spill of her caramel hair. It wasn’t that long ago she was calling me Morticia. She’s warmed up since the start of the semester, forgiving my odd manner and the way I hogged Kitty’s time, though I’m not sure she’s over my crime of taking Jamie off the market. I smile to myself. At least her jaw-dropping Xena get-up makes me appear reasonable by comparison. Lila’s Sailor Moon skirt is blessedly skimpy on the hemline too. Only Imogen has proper coverage in her romantic gown and I wish I had thought of something flowing or knee-length, back when there was time for creative control.

Wolf-whistles rise below us. I snort and shake my head then grip the balcony rail with the tipsy rush of blood. The rail creaks. Oops. I loosen my hold but don’t let go. I picture careening into the girls, sending them tumbling like bowling pins. It makes me giggle.

“I know, right?” Lila says, thinking my laughter is because of the boys. “You think there’ll be pageant questions to answer at the bottom?”

I wave my hand down my body. “I call swimwear.”

She pats my arm. “Swimwear would be lucky to have you.”

Booze may not fix everything but it has at least dampened the instinct to cringe and hide. I love not caring and wonder if I should store vodka in my locker at school, which makes me snigger because everything seems funny.

“Come on.” Kitty leads the way.

In a champagne fug, I need eyes on feet to navigate the stairs. Were there always this many? Why do they feel so steep? The heels on my boots aren’t that high. I don’t release the banister until I find the last step and I’m sure of gravity. Then the screen provided by Imogen and Kaylee parts. He’s right there, lips tugging at the corners, eyebrows raised. Jamie.