Instead, he keeps looking at me as he cocks a brow.

Panic pulsates through me. How long has he been watching me? Maybe I should ask. Just say, hey did you just see me jack like ten items from sweet old Benny? But on top of that conversation being extremely awkward, Grey and I aren’t in the same social circles in our high school, and I don’t know him well enough to guess how he’d react. All I really do know about him, aside from the fact that he was blessed with the gorgeous gene, is that he’s popular and has a bunch of friends who are constantly making fun of people. He sometimes joins in with them and acts like an asshole, but he has been quieter this school year.

It’s difficult to see him as the more reserved guy he’s pretending to be, though. I’ve witnessed him act like a cocky jerk several times before, including once to me during sophomore year when I asked him to go to the Girl’s Choice Dance. It took all of my courage to walk up to him and ask. He gave me a once-over and told me no fucking way, but then, two days later, said yes to Cindy Pepperson, a cheerleader who was a year older than us and had huge boobs. I realized he had a type, and I didn’t fit the criteria.

The worst part was he told the entire school about the dorky, prude girl who asked him out, and I was mocked for the entire school year. Back then, I was different, though. Back then, I still wore outfits approved by my mom . . . okay, which I guess I kind of am now.

My gut churns. I don’t want to go back to that girl.

I start to back away from Grey, figuring it might be better just to make a run for it. His head slants to the side as a mixture of curiosity and concern rises in his expression.

My heart thuds in my chest. What the heck is that look for?

“Did you find everything you needed for your mom’s party?” Benny appears at the end of the aisle right beside me.

I swallow the lump wedged in my throat. “Yep, I think so.” I hold up the paper cups and plates I’m carrying and show him as I peek over at Grey, wondering if he’ll out me to Benny.

Grey’s expression is neutral and completely unreadable, and my discomfort amplifies.

“Luna, I think we need to talk.” He throws a swift glance in Grey’s direction, and then his eyes land on me. “Could you come to the front of the store with me, please?”

Oh. My. God. He knows.

God. No. No. No. This can’t be happening.

Vomit burns at the back of my throat as I nod.

Benny motions for me to follow him as he heads for the register near the front door.

I follow him with my adrenaline soaring. What am I going to do? My parents are going to kick me to the street if they find out. Do I have time to empty out everything from my pocket?

As I’m squeezing past Grey, he reaches out and discreetly but quickly tugs my jacket off my waist.

“What are you doing?” I whisper as he puts on the oversized grey jacket like it’s his own.

Before Grey can answer me, Benny twists around with a stern look on his face. “Luna, I need to see you now, please.”

Nodding, I hurry away from Grey, but I can feel his eyes boring a hole into the side of my head. Once we make it up front to the register, Benny instructs me to empty out my pockets, and I do what he asks, taking out my cell phone, a pack of gum, and a ten-dollar bill.

Puzzlement etches his face as he sorts through my stuff then looks down at my waist, his confusion deepening.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something.

“I’m so sorry, Luna,” he says, running his hand over his bald head. “I thought maybe . . . You know what, never mind. I think I’m losing my mind in my old age.”

“It’s okay.” I feel so sick with guilt my stomach burns.

I hurry and pay for the paper plates and cups then bolt out the door and back to my car. By the time I turn on the engine, my heart is pounding so hard I swear it’s going to give out on me, and my guilt is choking me.

I’m the worst person that’s ever existed. I really am. And now Grey knows that. Even my closest friends don’t know I’ve been shoplifting for years. Not because I need stuff, but because for some messed up reason it gives me a sense of control.

I consider waiting until Grey comes out of the store to get my jacket back. I could ask him why he did what he did—why he helped me out—and if he has plans of telling anyone what happened. But when I see him exit the store with my jacket on, I chicken out and hide in my car.

“This is so messed up. What the hell am I going to do?” I crank up the music. “Breathing Underwater” by Metric blasting through the speakers as I let out a deafening scream that swallows up the answer.

F lames blaze against the walls, melting the paint and wallpaper away. Smoke funnels the air so thickly I can’t see straight. I gasp for air as I roll out of bed and get down on all fours. The floor is hot against my palms as I crawl in the direction of my bedroom door.

“Mommy!” I cry as I blindly try to find my way out of my room. “Mommy, help me!”

The bright fire crackles as it sweeps across the room, singeing the floor, the ceiling, everywhere. My eyes burn against the brightness, and my skin feels like melting wax.

“Mommy!” I shout, turning in the opposite direction as the fire blocks my path.

So much smoke. I can’t breathe.

No one’s coming for me because I’m a bad girl. No one helps bad girls. My mom’s words echo in my head, and I realize in horror that it must be true. No one’s going to rescue me. The fire is going to kill me.

I fall flat on the floor as smoke circles around me. I gasp for air, but with every breath, my lungs feel smaller, like they’re shrinking.

“I can’t breathe . . .” I choke out as my eyelids drift shut.

Pain, so much pain. Just let me die.

Suddenly, I’m lifted from the floor.

“Hang on, Luna. I’m going to get you out of here.” The voice is so familiar, so comforting.

I open my eyes as I’m carried away and search through the smoke, trying to see their face, but all I see is smoke and flames.

Everywhere.

My eyes snap open, and I bolt upright in bed, dripping with sweat. It takes me a second to process that my room isn’t on fire, that I’m safe. Then I flop back down in my bed and stare up at my ceiling. I haven’t dreamt about the fire in a while. My bet is that the sudden recurrence has to do with the fire my mom made me light in the backyard.

I hate that the nightmares have resurfaced. I don’t like being reminded of that night almost fourteen years ago when I thought I was going to die until a fireman carried me out of the house. Or, at least that’s what my parents tell me. I’m not so sure. Whenever I dream about what happened, it feels like I knew the person who rescued me. I have no clue why my parents would lie about something like that, though.

I try to go back to sleep, but my mind is too wired, and I end up staying awake until the sun rises. It’s fall break, so I don’t have school for an entire week. I hate when we get long breaks because it means staying home with my mom. She won’t let me out of the house, so I have no choice except to spend time with her, cooking, cleaning, and listening to her lectures on why I need to be a better person and how disappointed she is that she even has to tell me this, that I should just know. She won’t let me have my phone, either, so I lose all communication with my friends. Thankfully, I managed to send them a text before I handed the phone over, so at least they know what’s up.

Toward the weekend, she brings out the photos of her sister, Aunt Ashlynn, during her rebellious days. In most of them, she looks around the same age as I am and resembles a younger version of my mom. She has freckles on her nose like I do, and for some crazy reason, I find comfort that I share a trait with the rebel of our extended family.