I go upstairs into the bedroom where I left my bag and begin to change. Though there is no trace of grit on my skin or dampness anywhere from my plunge in the Dead, my clothes just feel wrong. They scratch at my skin almost as if they were full of river. The sun is beginning to set, casting orange streaks on the river across the way. I watch it as I kick off my mud-crusted boots and peel my shirt and jeans off.

I stand there in my bra and panties, rifling through my bag, looking for my lip gloss. I never go anywhere without slathering my lips in the stuff. When I find it, I step to the mirror and smudge the bubble-gum-pink color into my lips. Then I find my brush and run it through my hair, letting the hair fall loose down my back. I stand back to look at myself. Two days away from civilization, and I still look presentable. Awesome. I’m about to reach down and find my shirt when I see it.

A face among the dark trees outside.

I gasp and turn, reaching for clothes, and that’s when I make out the figure that is standing there, watching me. Jack. He knows I see him, and yet he doesn’t shy away. He doesn’t move, almost as if he is a part of the landscape. He keeps staring at me, this look—of approval? No, of wanting—on his face. His eyes are full of fire, so full I’m suddenly aware of this burning sensation that starts in my chest and radiates down between my legs.

What is wrong with me? From what Trey said, I should know Jack is bad. Trey said he’s the enemy. Still, I can’t help thinking that there’s something about him I want so deeply. I drop the shirt to the floor, only because I know it would please him. I want to please him. I want it with everything I am. My fingers are not my own; they feel like they are attached to puppet strings as they reach behind my back and undo the clasp of my bra.

There’s a faint noise in the hallway. I whirl around to see that the door is open an inch. It shudders a little, and that’s when I see an eye in the opening. Refastening my bra, I recognize it just as the door opens fully and Hugo steps into the room, hitting me with a wave of foul-smelling air, a mixture of old alcohol, vomit, and morning breath. He hasn’t even cleaned himself up; he has the worst five o’clock shadow and his hair is sticking up straight at the very top, kind of like a Mohawk. Gagging, I grab my shirt and hold it over my chest as he drawls, “Hey, you.”

“What are you doing in here?” I shout. “Get out of here!”

He’s running his tongue around his mouth like it’s his toothbrush. He eyes me like he’s got something on me. “Why were you … Who was out there?”

I turn back to the window. Jack is gone. In that instant, everything I was doing just seems so stupid. What was I doing? I’m starting to blush, something I don’t want Hugo to see, or else he’ll know. He’ll know he’s gotten to me. So I grab my hairbrush and hurl it at him. “Get out!” I scream.

He ducks away and it smacks against the wall near the door, leaving a crescent-shaped dent in the plaster. “Ice Girl my ass. More like Psycho Girl,” he calls behind me.

Psycho Girl, I think, as I put on my new T-shirt and jeans, carefully looking out into the darkening forest every so often. But Jack never returns. Maybe he was never there in the first place. I’d hate for Hugo to be right, but this time, he probably is.

I’m lacing up my hiking boots when Angela comes into the room. Her hair is damp, so she must have showered. “Hi, Lucky Charms,” she says. “How’s your ankle?”

“Hi, um …” I think Angela spends most of her free time trying to think of new cereals to call me, but this time, I’m blank. “Trix?” There’s a cereal called that, right? “Much better.”

She collapses on the bed next to me. “What’re you up to?”

I blush deeper, thinking of what I was up to. I don’t want to talk about it. So I say, “I’d rather find out what you were up to.”

She sits up and her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“Last night. I saw you and Hugo getting cozy.”

“Oh,” she says. “Nothing. He’s kind of annoying. And creepy.”

I cringe, thinking of him watching me through the open door. But Angela … Angela doesn’t think badly of anyone. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, he went through everyone’s stuff to get the vodka. Who in their right mind would do something like that?”

“I know. He read my journal,” I say, shuddering.

“Ew, he did? And he always seems to say the wrong thing. I just—he’s not my type, you know?”

Finally, she comes to her senses! “So, what is your type?” I ask, but the thing is, I know. She tells me this all the time. Someone more like her. Someone more like … my boyfriend.

This time, though, she doesn’t say it. She leans back and stares at the ceiling. She’s unusually thoughtful. Maybe being in the wilderness unleashes her quiet, pensive side. Maybe she is at one with nature. Then she opens her mouth and the last thing I’d expected comes out. “Prom’s tonight.”

“It is?” For the past couple of days, I haven’t thought of myself in ice-blue satin at all, but it’s always been in the back of my mind, despite all that has been going on.

She sits up and pinches my cheek like I’m three. “I know you wanted to go.”

“I never said I wanted to,” I say.

“You don’t have to,” she singsongs. “You’ve been one of my best friends for ten years. I know.”

I shrug. “But this is …” I’m searching for a word, but every one I can think of to describe the time up here is negative. The longer I pause, the less real I sound. Finally, I choke out, “Fun, too.”

She titters a little, back to the Angela I know and love. Still, there’s something wrong with her behavior, but I can’t tell what it is. She’s so jumpy, like a spring, yet guarded. She’s hiding something. She’s terrible at keeping secrets, almost as bad as Justin. “Sure it is. Anyway, The River Wild is all they ever play up here. I’ve seen it a hundred times. You’d think they could play something different for once.”

I shrug. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Well, it’s okay. But I just wanted to tell you, I think I’m staying in.”

Okay, there’s definitely something going on. Angela loves darkened movie theaters and big containers of popcorn. I raise my eyebrows. “You’re staying in? With Hugo?”

“Ew. He refuses to shower even though he smells,” she groans. “There’s a zombie movie marathon on tonight and a can of SpaghettiOs with my name on it in the pantry. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” I venture, studying her closely as if her expression will reveal something. But it doesn’t. She just smiles and tries to grab my cheek again, but I swat her hand away before she can.

“Have fun,” she says, leaving me alone.

I walk downstairs, hoping to avoid Hugo. Justin is standing in the living room, digging into the pockets of his oversized sweatshirt. There’s something in there, because I can see his fingers playing with it, but I can’t tell what. He has his Red Sox cap turned backward, which makes him look like an innocent little boy, but something about his expression is wrong. Justin can never hide anything; his face always gives him away. “What?” I ask when I’m standing in front of him.

He brings one corner of his mouth up in a smile. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

He grabs my hand and we walk out into the night. By now it’s dark, with charcoal-colored clouds obscuring the moon. An owl hoots in the distance and the river hums along, but it’s almost as if we’ve walked into a closet. I can’t see a thing. I cling to Justin, shivering. I know the dead probably won’t come to me with him around, but at the same time, I don’t want to test it. Justin leads the way, and in another couple of minutes I can see the orange light spilling from the Outfitters. There are no people outside, though, and the barbecue pit is empty. It looks kind of deserted. “Do a lot of people watch the movie?” I ask.