“You haven’t been in months. You stay home and drink. Alone. Now you planned some bizarre trick to make me think you drank less than you actually did. Why would you even do that? That’s just”—I hold my hands out to the sides, palms up, and shake my head—“weird. You know it’s causing problems between us, and you drink anyway. When Mom was alive, you never had more than a couple of beers a week. Now you have at least a couple every night.”

His eyes narrow. “You sound like you’re running through a checklist.” I am. I read it on a site about alcohol abuse, but I don’t think this is the moment to tell him that. “A couple of beers over an evening is not a lot for a grown man,” he repeats.

“You keep saying that! Are you trying to convince me, or yourself? It isn’t about the exact number. It’s about the fact that you have them every night, that even when you say you won’t, you end up opening a bottle or three or six and draining them. You have a problem. Please, Dad, please—” I swallow and shake my head, trying desperately not to cry.

Dad. Carly. The game. The shells. Being forced to kill or be killed.

Jackson. For all the answers he gave me, I still have so many questions.

My whole world is falling into tiny little broken pieces and I don’t know how to put it back together, how to fix it. How to control this out-of-control spin.

Dad’s jaw is set, his nostrils pinched, his eyes narrow. “We are not talking about this. We were talking about you and Carly.”

“No, we weren’t. We weren’t really talking at all, just exchanging words.”

His head rears back like I’ve hit him.

He glares at me and finally says, “Teenagers,” before he stalks out of the kitchen.

“I’m not the problem here,” I call after him. The only answer I get is the sound of the front door closing behind him. Not slamming. Closing. With a neat, precise click.

And he tells me I can’t always be in control. I roll my eyes.

I’m glad he’s gone.

I’m furious that he’s gone.

I feel broken and afraid and responsible even though the fight wasn’t one-sided.

As I throw together a lunch, my phone lights up with yet another text. I haven’t answered any of the dozens from before, and I can’t ignore them any longer, so I text them all back saying I’ll see them in school and we’ll talk then. I grab my lunch and I’m on my way out the door when Carly finally calls me back.

“So Jackson Tate is his name? Love it. And he’s an asshole? Really? Maybe he’s just misunderstood,” Carly says, not even bothering to say hi first. “I’m sure he’s incredibly nice. Aren’t all guys who look like that incredibly nice?”

I huff out a short laugh, so glad to hear her voice even if she still sounds sort of pissed. “Stereotype much?”

Now it’s Carly’s turn to laugh, but there’s a brittle edge to it. She hasn’t forgiven me, but she’s willing to pretend. That’s a step in the right direction. I haven’t forgiven her, either. “Well, Luka’s nice, and he’s smokin’ hot.”

“Luka’s nice,” I agree, making no comment about his heat level, just in case my suspicions are true and Carly actually wants him for herself.

“Think Mr. Shomper will show a movie today?” Carly leaps to the next topic. “I didn’t read the chapter.”

I groan. Lord of the Flies. With everything going on, I completely forgot. “Neither did I.”

“What? Really?” She sounds appalled. Which doesn’t surprise me. I’m the homework queen. I never forget an assignment. Usually, I have them completed days in advance. Her voice softens. “You must have been really upset about that girl.”

“I was. I am. And I was upset about other stuff, too.” I close my eyes, willing her to take the olive branch.

“What was her name?”

My lips part. I hesitate, then offer, “Richelle.” No last name. What Carly doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

“How’d she die?”

She was murdered by aliens while she fought for humanity. “She saved her neighbor’s son and then she fell off a roof.” My voice catches.

“I’m sorry.” She isn’t just talking about Richelle’s death. She’s talking about our fight.

Part of me wants to hang on to my hurt, to tell her how deep the pain of her turning on me like that was, especially when she’s the one always trying to appease and placate, always willing to hear the other side of the story, but when I needed it, she didn’t offer that courtesy to me. But I don’t want to keep fighting with her. “I’m sorry, too,” I say.

“Okay.” The tone of her voice makes my heart sink. She’s talking the talk but not walking the walk. It’s not okay. I could hear her hesitation. I press my fist against my forehead. I can’t do this right now, so I pretend I don’t hear the strain behind the word and tell her I’ll see her soon.

A few minutes later, I’m at school. I jog up the stairs to the second floor and head to the last room at the end of the hall.

English is the only class I have with Carly, Kelley, and Dee. I walk in feeling wary. The problem is, our fight wasn’t private. Their texts were a not-so-subtle hunt for deets, so I know Carly talked to Dee, Kelley, Sarah, Emily, and who knows who else. Despite our mutual apologies, I’m still hurt and a little pissed, but a part of me gets it. From Carly’s point of view, the facts are the facts. She knows what she thinks she saw, and I can’t exactly tell her the whole story to fill in the parts she’s missing.