“You can’t keep up,” she whispers. “Stay the hell away from me.”

Screw this. I can do anything.

Coach Knox blows his whistle and the entire class turns to face him. “Last order of business for the day. We need one senior girl and one senior guy nominated for the homecoming

court. We’ll start with guys.”

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Several hands rise. I can’t keep up? She’s so wrong.

“Raise your hand if you want Tim

Richardson.” Coach nods with each hand he counts.

I’m the king at this school. I can win any dare, any time. Win any game. If she wants to play, we’ll play. She doesn’t want the world to know she’s Scott Risk’s niece. Skater Girl humiliated me and she’s about to learn that turnabout is fair play.

“Now for the girls,” says Coach.

My hand rises in the air at the same time as everyone else’s, but I’m not giving anybody else the opportunity to supply another name.

“Beth Risk.”

Hands drop. All gazes flicker between me

and Beth. Her feet fall off the seat, one right after another—clomp, clomp. “What did you say?”

“Did you say Risk?” asks Tim. “As in Scott Risk? As in the baseball god who just moved back to our town?”

A wave of whispers crashes among the

students sitting on the bleachers, Beth’s name the topic of each hushed conversation. Ignoring HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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Tim, I face Beth. Her blue eyes blaze like twin flames from a blowtorch. Who’s not

keeping up now? “I nominate you, Beth Risk, for homecoming court.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You can’t.”

“Yes.” I love winning. “I can.”

“I second it,” says Gwen with a bright smile plastered on her face, and red flags rise. She’s wanted the homecoming crown since she was three.

Beth jerks up and stamps her foot against the bleacher like a toddler throwing a fit. “No, you can’t. Nominate yourself.”

“It’s okay,” says Gwen, “I was already

nominated in first and second period.”

“So was I.” I waggle my eyebrows at Beth.

“We could walk on the field together. Won’t that be fun?”

Beth stands completely still, mouth slightly slack, her hands held out to her sides with her fingers spread. I finally nailed the girl who’s been nailing me for weeks.

Coach Knox claps his hands to get our

attention. “All in favor of adding Beth to the football homecoming court raise their hands.”

With every eye on Beth, the entire class

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raises their hands. Everyone except for

Lacy. Her stare burns holes through me, but she keeps her mouth shut.

“All opposed,” says Coach Knox.

“Me,” Beth yells. I smile. I love winning.

“Congratulations,” Coach Knox says in a

bored voice. “You’re on the homecoming

court.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

Coach Knox points at her. “Take a seat and watch your language.”

The bell rings. Beth grabs her backpack and leans into my face. “You are so fucking dead.”

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Beth

ARROGANT BOY—he’s going down. Blah. It’s

aggravating the way they worship him. Ryan this. Ryan that. Ryan’s a god. Ryan’s a

goddamn moron. I’ve met guys like him

before. Hell, I screwed one. Rather, one

screwed me over. I’m not a stupid little girl anymore and I will no longer fall for things that look pretty.

Our Calculus teacher, with teased eighties hair, peers at us over her gigantic glasses.

“When I call your name, come to the front and write out your work on the board.” She scans the class. “Morgan Adams, Sarah Janes, Gwen Gardner, and Beth Risk.”

The back of my head hits the wall behind

me. Damn. This is Scott’s fault. The stupid guidance counselor told Scott I couldn’t keep up in this class, but Scott insisted I be placed in HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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the honors program. Scott explained to me later that night, over the tofu and green crap his wife insisted on calling dinner, that he was raising my expectations of myself.

“So, it’s true,” someone says from the front of class. “Your last name is Risk.”

Clank. Clank. The sound of the chains

squeezing my lungs echoes in my head. Since Ryan’s little performance in Gym, the entire school has whispered as I pass and this time it isn’t because I’m the school freak. No, they whisper for reasons way worse. Their envious, judging eyes survey me because they want to know me—or rather, my uncle.

“Are you related to Scott Risk?” asks a girl with short brown hair.

Everyone in the class watches me. My hands start to sweat.

“Ms. Risk?” prods our teacher. I’m not sure what she’s prodding me on: that I’m the only one who hasn’t come to the front or because I haven’t answered the question. I stare at my empty notebook. Panic pushes my heart past my rib cage. What do I do?

My teacher’s lips edge into a cheesy grin.

“Why don’t you go ahead and satisfy the

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curiosity of your fellow classmates.” On the first day of school, Scott met privately with my teachers to “ensure I was in the best possible hands.” The witch flirted with Scott until he gave her an autograph. She probably has his face tattooed on her ass.

Sweat forms along the hairline on my neck as the world sways. It’s been too much: the changes. Losing Mom. Losing Isaiah. Losing my home. I’ve tried. Really I have. I’ve

roamed the halls as the reclusive freak show.

This answer will change everything again.

“Yes.”

Whispers and comments rush through the

class like wind from an oncoming

thunderstorm. Our teacher becomes

uncharacteristically cheery. “I’m sure Beth would love to answer your questions about her uncle outside of class. Now, Ms. Risk, would you please come and write out your solution to today’s equation?”

“No,” I say without thinking. No to both of her statements. I’m not answering anyone’s questions and I’m not writing out a solution.

My reply silences the class.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

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I look at my blank sheet again. There is

no way in hell I’m going to that dry-erase board and have the entire school witness the niece of the great Scott Risk fail because I’m an idiot. “I’m not writing out my solution.”

The bell rings and my teacher’s expression gives new meaning to the term wrathful. A couple more pounds of chains settle in my stomach. I’ve gone and done it—I’ve broken Scott’s rules in a very public fashion. How could I do this to Mom?

“Ms. Risk,” she calls from her desk as the rest of the class files out. I go, knowing the level of shit I’m in is too deep for her to allow an audience. “Let’s discuss a few rules.”

She “discusses” for a long time, and when she finally lets me go, I race down the stairs.

Scott made it perfectly clear I was never to miss my bus. The idling buses greet me

through the window when I reach the bottom floor. I have seconds before they leave.

A high-pitched whistle catches my attention.

Ryan leans against the last locker with a shit-eating smirk on his face. He lifts his right hand and shows me his palm. Written there is the word that makes me want to vomit: can.

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The buses roll out of the lot. Ryan

withdraws his hand, and strides out the door.

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Ryan

DEEP, THROATY LAUGHTER fills the school’s weight room when Chris rips off the Kick Me sign Logan planted on his back. The laughter grows when Chris wads the paper up, throws it at Logan, and flips him off.

“All right, girls.” Coach bangs his hand

against one of the lockers to gain our attention.

“I’ve got this week’s study hall list.”

The laughter switches to groaning. Coach is serious about our grades. Each week he pesters our teachers for a progress report and if he sees our grades slightly teeter, we end up in after-school tutoring. I wipe my hands on a towel and prepare to lie back to finish my reps. I’m no Logan, but I keep my grades at a decent level.