CHAPTER ONE

Thirty minutes in the backseat together and my sister wants to kill me—a new record.

“Devin.” Maya snaps her manicured fingers in my face when I ignore her. “Move over.”

It’s the third time she’s made that demand since we piled into the car. Any other day I would pack up my drawing tablet and laptop and give her free rein over the backseat, but I’m holding my ground this time.

I push her hand away. “No, I’m working.”

“No, you’re not,” she scoffs. “You’ve been looking at your phone this whole time. Your tablet isn’t even on.”

Up in the peaceful driver’s seat, Dad sighs while Andy tries and fails to hold back a snort. We should’ve seen this coming when we let Andy call shotgun. It made sense at the time—shoving our six-foot-three stepbrother into the cramped backseat of our Honda Civic wouldn’t have been fair—but Maya hates long drives, and my tablet takes up all the extra leg space. It was a recipe for disaster.

“I’m doing research,” I reply indignantly.

I turn my attention back to the profile I was scouring, only for Maya to snatch the phone out of my hand. She tucks it right into the one place she knows I’m not willing to go: her bra. “Social media stalking your classmates doesn’t count as research.”

Scoping out the competition absolutely counts as research. “Yes, it does.”

She gives me a deadpan look.

Okay fine, it doesn’t.

Not that I’d ever admit it to her, but Maya’s right. If I want any chance of not shooting my barely existent art career in the foot, I should be working on my application for the Cardarelli mentorship. Every spring semester, one CalArts freshman is whisked away to undergrad stardom by Professor Lila Cardarelli, an animator with so many accolades under her belt she needs a separate Wikipedia page to list them all.

Professor Cardarelli’s protégés are basically gods, according to my roommate, my advisor, and just about everyone else at CalArts. You give up any semblance of free time in exchange for shadowing one of the most iconic names in animation. Internships at Pixar and Disney are essentially guaranteed once you’ve got a recommendation letter from Lila Cardarelli, who has the Disney family on speed dial. No one has any clue how Cardarelli picks her mentees, but it’s the same application every year. Standard background information, and one enormously daunting assignment: attach one piece that you feel best expresses who you are as an artist. Which sounds easy enough, except I barely have any idea who I am as a person, let alone an artist.

My first semester of almost-adulthood was less than stellar. Being surrounded by people who have been creating since they could hold a pencil and can produce gallery-worthy art in their sleep isn’t exactly encouraging when you can barely grasp the basics of color theory. Especially when you’re like me, someone who didn’t consider animation as a profession until their junior year of high school. Six months ago, I thought I’d be in my element—living the cool, aloof LA art school kid life I’d seen in movies. Instead, I spent the past four months hardly ever leaving my dorm room just so I could keep up with all the homework. I’ve been in the land of eternal sunshine for three months and I’m even paler than when I arrived, and I’ve spent more time with the vending machine on my floor than my roommate.

So, yeah, I could really use a win right now.

The application isn’t actually due until the first day of spring semester, and while procrastination has never done me any favors, I can’t focus on productivity when my innocent phone is being held captive in my sister’s gross, sweaty clutches.

“C’mon, give it back,” I whine, nudging my knee against Maya’s.

“Nope.” She smacks her bubblegum and waves a finger at my tablet. “Pack it up or get drawing.”

I can explain to her for the hundredth time that that’s not how my artistic process works, or I can play dirty.

“Dad, Maya stole my phone.”

“Give your brother his phone back,” Dad mumbles, squinting at a sign about road closures.

Maya’s glare would turn me to stone if I wasn’t so used to being on the receiving end of her rage. Whoever said twins have a special psychic bond lied. The last time Maya and I were on the same page was when we sent Mami into labor ten weeks before our due date. We’ve been menaces since the day we were born.

We stare each other down, unblinking and unrelenting, until she lunges at me. On instinct, I curl around my tablet, protecting it from her wrath. She goes for the cord connecting it to my laptop instead, ready to yank it free, when Dad springs into action.

“Hey!” he shouts, startling all of us, even Andy, into total silence. “Watch it around the tablet,” he warns, focusing back on the road once Maya retreats to her side of the car.

She begrudgingly hands me back my phone, sticking her tongue out at Dad when he’s distracted by a Prius that gets too close to us. “Sometimes I think you love that thing more than you love either of us.”

“With how much I paid for it, yes, I do,” Dad replies.

Guilt settles too comfortably in the pit of my stomach. It’s no secret that my tablet’s price tag was more than we should’ve spent, but Dad had insisted we splurge on the CalArts recommended model instead of the used three-generations-old one I’d found on eBay. It was for a special occasion—an eighteenth birthday and “congrats on getting into art school” gift rolled into one—but bills like ours don’t leave room for five-hundred-dollar special occasions, as Maya, the golden child who abandoned her grand plan to move to New York and study cosmetology for the more affordable option of staying home and commuting to Florida State, loves to remind me.

Case in point: this entire trip. We haven’t been to our cabin in Lake Andreas for four years, but Dad begrudgingly kept up with the payments for the sake of nostalgia. Swinging the extra couple hundred bucks a month felt worthwhile when there was still a slim chance we’d spend another summer or winter break at the lake. Especially after we gave up our childhood home to find a place big enough for Andy and his mom, Isabel, to move in last year.

With two college tuitions, a new mortgage, and unpaid medical bills that have been sitting on the kitchen counter for what feels like eons to keep up with, nostalgia doesn’t make the cut anymore. As much as it might suck, avoiding lifelong debt outweighs sentimentality.

That’s the part none of the therapists warned us about—grief is hell on your bank account.

Not that I’m not grateful for our “special occasions.” The tablet makes me feel more like a serious artist than the now-infected nose ring I let my roommate Marcus talk me into because “all artists have cool piercings.” And at least we’re getting a chance to say goodbye to the cabin. Christmases since our last trip to Lake Andreas have been…weird. We rarely even acknowledge holidays anymore. Christmas is just a day. Sometimes we sit around an undecorated pine tree in the living room and exchange gifts, but the first year we didn’t even do that. It must be odd for Andy and Isabel, walking into a family that acts like one of the biggest holidays in the world doesn’t exist.

Which is why I pinched myself when Dad suggested this trip in the first place. He always made vague promises that next year we’d do something different, and now he’s finally delivering. One last nostalgic, and very strictly budgeted, Christmas in Lake Andreas before our cabin heads onto the market.

With my phone back in my pocket and Maya in full-on sulking mode, I finally return to my tablet. Instead of doing work like I promised myself, I let my gaze wander over to her when I’m sure she’s not looking.

She’s been on edge since I came home two days ago. Not that she’s usually a happy-go-lucky person—snark has always been her brand—but she’s especially huffy lately. Every time I deign to mention any of the three Cs—California, CalArts, or Cardarelli—she either scoffs, rolls her eyes, or leaves the room when we don’t switch to a new topic. Yesterday she snapped at me for taking too long to get a glass of water. Maya’s had problems with controlling her anger since we were old enough to talk, and I’m still not able to tell whether she’s mad at me, our family, or the world at large. But I do know that the Devin Báez Reunion Tour is going terribly so far.

A four-hour road trip no longer feels like the right place to work on finding who I am as an artist. The application isn’t due for another month, and not pissing off my sister is higher priority right now. Especially if I want to make it back to CalArts with all of my limbs, and electronics, intact.

Once my tablet is tucked away, Maya stretches herself out like a cat in the sun. She doesn’t grace me with a smile or even the basic decency of eye contact, but her shoulders slacken, and her frown softens. That’s Maya for “thank you.”

Three hours and two bathroom breaks later, Dad takes the exit for Lake Andreas and lowers the volume on his trusty road trip mixtape. “Nearly there,” he says, and rolls down our windows.

Andy leaps up, hanging his head out of his window like a golden retriever. I unbuckle my seat belt when Dad isn’t looking, sliding in beside Maya to peek at the familiar welcome sign.

lake andreas: the happiest place in florida

The sign is frayed and has yellowed at the edges, but it warms my jaded little heart.

The car slows down as highways turn into one-way streets, giving us time to take in the scenery. Oak trees sprawl as far as the eye can see, shielding the rustic wooden cabins along the side of the street from view. Tire swings and Little Free Libraries on every corner. Bikes and paddleboards abandoned on front lawns and the smell of saltwater and sunscreen in the air.

Pure magic.

I lean out my window as we pull onto the main strip, ready to ooh and aah over all the places Maya and I would terrorize as kids, except…

They’re gone.

Well, not all of them. The deli that gave me and Dad food poisoning is still around. The shops on Fulton Drive are still painted pastel pinks, blues, and greens, but their windows are shuttered and doors barred, lining the street like rotten gumdrops. The entire block, like the welcome sign, feels frayed and yellowed at the edges. The abandoned shops haven’t even been replaced by a Starbucks or a Chipotle, or one of those business-casual places that charge $16 for salad. They’re just empty. Sad, forgotten shells of a town that once meant so much to us.

“Huh,” Maya murmurs as Dad parks in front of what was once a pretty decent Thai restaurant. “Was the lake always this depressing?”

Dad takes off his Florida State cap, his hair in sweaty disarray. “I don’t think so.”

“Me neither,” I reply. I know kids see the world through rose-tinted glasses and all that jazz, but this is definitely not our Lake Andreas. At least not the one we remember. Even if my memories are kinder than reality, there’s no way Mami would’ve let us spend our Christmases in a ghost town every year when we could’ve skipped the four-hour drive from Tallahassee and stayed home.

“Probably just an off year.” Dad slips his cap back on and turns off the car, gesturing for us to follow him as he steps out.

Most of our favorite places have bit the dust. The Winter Wonderland miniature village—complete with fake snow and a Ferris wheel made of chocolate—in the front window of the candy store has been replaced with a foreclosure notice and cobwebs. Our favorite bakery, Loafin’ Around, looks like it’s been boarded up for months. A hunger pang rips through my empty stomach at the thought of never having their sundried tomato and rosemary focaccia again.

Sam’s Superior Souvenirs is hanging in, though. And so are their signature I Got Crabs in Lake Andreas shirts. Wonderful.

The streets somehow feel emptier than they look, with only the distant sound of seagulls and the echo of our footsteps for company. The kind of empty that feels ominous even in broad daylight. I stick close to Maya as Dad leads us toward the grocery store at the end of the block.

“Watch it,” she hisses when I accidentally step on the back of her chancla. Forget playing nice—if an ax murderer decides to come after us, I’m using her as a shield.

I fall back, lingering beside Andy instead. He’s a foot taller and lifts weights heavier than me during football practice. No way I can force him into being my unwilling shield. So, I guess this is the end of me. Can’t say this is how I thought I’d go.

We make it to the grocery store without coming across any other signs of life. Not even the usual swarm of blood-hungry mosquitoes. I’m half expecting the store to be abandoned, but when the bell over the door announces our arrival, we’re greeted by a familiar face.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Old Bob says with a slap to his knee.

Well, I’ll be damned. The candy shop didn’t survive, but Old Bob did.

It’s a relief, really. Old Bob is a Lake Andreas staple, welcoming families with open arms and hard candy year after year. Once upon a time, he’d been the mayor of this place, winning two consecutive landslide elections before passing the mayoral torch to his wife, Janine, and opening up the General Store. He’s the kind of person who always remembered our birthdays and what sports we were into and whether we preferred soft serve or Popsicles. And one of the few locals who actually looked forward to visitors like us coming around to wreak havoc on their usually quiet community, never minding the extra noise and bigger crowds. He always said folks like us kept life at the lake exciting.

“Tony Báez, come ’ere you bastard.” It’s not until he’s pulling Dad in for a hug that I remember we don’t actually know Old Bob’s real name. It had been a joke at the time, but it suits him. He looks like a Bob, and he is old. Five-year-old Devin and Maya were on to something.

“It’s been a while…” Dad hesitates, slapping his hand down on Old Bob’s shoulder. “My friend.” Nice save.

Old Bob settles back down on his stool behind the front counter. “What brings the Báezes to our neck of the woods?” He stiffens suddenly, eyes narrowing. “You passing through on the way to that new water park across the lake?”

Andy’s eyes light up. “There’s a water park?!”

Old Bob bristles, nodding sternly. “Allegheny Park. Thing’s been taking up most of our usual business. Everyone wants to stay over in Hillsdale these days. Something about a state-of-the-art waterslide.”

That explains the tumbleweeds. The opposite end of the lake, better known as Hillsdale, was usually for the more upscale “round of golf before lunch at the country club” types, but maybe some money-hungry developers decided to cash in on the Lake Andreas crowd and create more budget-friendly options.

Well, at least we won’t have to wait in line at the kayak rental stand…if it’s still around.

“How’s the family been?” Old Bob continues, back in good spirits. “Think I can talk Ximena into letting me sneak a piece of that tres leches cake again this year?”

Without missing a beat, Dad pulls out the shopping list Isabel left on the kitchen counter that morning, handing it to Maya. “Think you guys can handle grabbing everything? We’ve got some catching up to do.”

Maya and I nod, dragging Andy away as Dad turns back to Old Bob. This is the part we’re not supposed to see. The smiles that turn into frowns. The I’m so sorrys and I had no ideas. A bitter reminder that this town isn’t the only thing that’s changed. I put as much distance as I can between us and the counter, heading toward the far corner of the store. Nothing says happy holidays like avoiding your dad’s practiced spiel about how your mom died.

Once we’re safely hidden between the produce and fish bait aisles, Maya carefully tears the shopping list down the middle, handing me the lengthier half. “Meet you up front in ten?”

Andy and I nod, grabbing a basket from a stack beside the apples before heading to the opposite end of the store. All we’ve managed to grab is ice cream and pasta sauce when we’re brought to a complete halt in the cereal aisle.

“Just pick one already!” I shout after Andy puts back the box he was holding for the hundredth time.

“I’m trying!” He carefully picks up a family-size box of Count Chocula, looking at it longingly before shaking his head and setting it back down. “Do you think we can get two?”

“No.” I hold up our half of the list, pointing to the bright red total Isabel marked at the bottom of the page, and the price tags on the shelves. “Not in the budget.”

“Stupid budget,” Andy grumbles under his breath as he picks the Count Chocula back up.

“I’m going to the next aisle. Meet me when you’re done.”

Andy doesn’t respond, turning his full attention to a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. I should’ve known better than to get between him and sugar. For a seventeen-year-old linebacker, he has the diet of a picky toddler. Grabbing our basket, I head to the next aisle.

Miraculously, there’s another sign of human life. A guy around my age, tall with taut shoulders and a jaw that could cut me in half. He doesn’t strike me as the Lake Andreas type; he’s decked out in designer sneakers and a name-brand hoodie. Not the usual Crocs and Hawaiian shirt crowd. I can’t quite make out his face, but even with what little I can see, there’s no denying that he’s startlingly handsome.

Guys like him don’t exist in places like this. Lake Andreas is for families who want a break from the oppressive Florida humidity but can only afford to go somewhere with a light breeze. Not for hot guys who wear designer sneakers to go grocery shopping. Though a cute new local in town does have a very Hallmark movie ring to it. The charming lumberjack to my jaded big-city businessman. Or maybe I’m the lumberjack in this situation? I do wear a lot of plaid….

One second I’m admiring Hot Guy’s forearm as he reaches for a gallon of milk, and the next I’m tripping over my shoelaces. Story of my life.

The jar in my basket shatters the second I hit the ground, splattering pasta sauce and glass across the floor while the ice cream rolls down the aisle. What’re the odds that Hot Guy didn’t notice any of that?

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

Great.

I gingerly push up onto my elbows before I can embarrass myself any more. No broken bones, but my dignity has seen better days.

Hot Guy delicately navigates around the sea of broken glass, coming to stand beside me. “Are you all right?” he asks again.

His voice is as strangely familiar as the acoustic song blaring through the store’s speakers. I hold a hand over my eyes, squinting to make out his face against the harsh fluorescent lighting. He leans down, his face slowly coming into view. My mouth goes dry as I reach two very important conclusions in a matter of seconds.

One: Hot Guy’s face is as hot as the rest of him.

Two: I know him.

“Devin?” Julian Seo-Cooke chokes out, brows shooting up to his hairline.

Awesome, our awful next-door neighbors are still around.

“Julian,” I reply through gritted teeth, wishing I’d stuck through Andy’s indecisiveness in the cereal aisle.

Julian shakes off his obvious surprise, standing back up and offering his hand. My first instinct is to flip him off and go about the rest of my day, but I look down at the mess of sauce-stained cans and boxes, groan, and take the help. I brush some of the sauce off my stained shirt, grateful that I’ve never cared much about my fashion choices.

“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” he says after I’m on my feet again.

“Yeah, well, my mom died. So we didn’t feel like going kayaking.”

He frowns, shifting his gaze down to his sneakers. “Right…I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, more to myself than to Julian, while I chase down my runaway ice cream.

“You’re bleeding.”

I blink, finally turning to face him. I don’t let myself look for long—prolonged eye contact with him can’t be good for my health—but I’m surprised by the person I see. There’s no doubt that it’s Julian. He still has that mole above his right eyebrow, the scar cut through his upper lip from when I tripped him when we were ten, and the thick, dark hair blown every which way but flat. But something’s different. Or was his jaw always that sharp? And his shoulders so broad?

The thrill I’d felt at the idea of a cute boy in town morphs into disgust. That’s what I get for not keeping my hormones in check. I flinch as I look away from him, as if I’ve spent too long staring at the sun. “It’s pasta sauce.”

Julian points to my left arm, the one that’s dripping sauce down to my wrist. “No, your arm. It’s actually bleeding.”

I look back down at my arm, trying to shake off the image of this very new Julian. Between the chunks of tomato and freckled brown skin is a shallow, rough-edged wound just above my elbow.

“Oh. Right.” I pull down my rolled-up sleeve, applying as much pressure as I can with my nondominant hand. It’s not until I press that the pain surges all at once, ripping through my arm like a current.

Julian takes a hesitant step toward me. “Let me—”

“No! I mean, it’s fine. I’m fine.” I lunge for my basket at the same time as Julian, our heads colliding with a thwack.

“Hey, I found the perfect— Whoa. What happened to you?” Andy stills at the front of the aisle, box of Froot Loops in hand.

“Nothing. Let’s go.” I push through the pain in my head and arm to kick the basket toward Andy, but all he does is stare at it.

“I can carry that up to the counter for you,” Julian offers while rubbing the red mark forming on his blemish-free forehead.

I nudge the basket out of his reach when he goes to pick it up. “No, really, that’s—”

“Thanks!” Andy interrupts, throwing his Froot Loops into the basket and kicking everything over to Julian.

I inhale sharply, glaring daggers at Andy. Okay, stay calm, he doesn’t know any better. How is he supposed to know that the Seo-Cookes are to be avoided at all costs? It’s not like Julian, or any of the Seo-Cookes, look like the Disney villains they really are. We walk to the front counter in silence, Dad and Old Bob’s conversation faltering when they catch sight of me in all my sauce-covered glory.

Maya nearly walks right into Julian, looking up from her phone at the last second. She freezes in place, one of her curls twisted around her index finger, her mouth hanging open in shock. If Julian is fazed by the uncomfortable silence, he doesn’t let it show. He sets our basket down on the counter along with a five-dollar bill for his gallon of milk. He doesn’t bother waiting for change before backing away slowly.

“Nice seeing you all.” He gives us a stiff wave and exits the store. Old Bob chuckles under his breath as he watches us pull our jaws off the floor.

Maya’s the first to snap back to reality. “He’s still here?”

“Oh, they’re all still here. Came up a few days ago,” Old Bob answers. “One of the last few families to stick around.”

“Am I missing something?” Andy asks, scratching his head.

Old Bob gives him a hearty belly laugh and leans across the counter. “Your stepfolks and the Seo-Cookes have history.”

That’s putting things lightly. Then again, it’s hard to sum up over a decade of spite.

“Speaking of the Seo-Cookes…” Old Bob trails off, hopping down from his stool and hobbling over to a closet behind the front counter.

There’s a collective inhale between me, Maya, and Dad as Old Bob unleashes the hideous creature that’s haunted us for years.

“Spill detected,” the robot announces, its unnerving googly eyes wiggling around as it makes its way out from behind the counter and toward the dairy aisle.

“Paul dropped it off last week. Latest model—hasn’t even hit the market yet,” Bob says with a grin. He watches proudly while we stand there in horror as the robot makes its way to the mess I left behind, slurping up the pasta sauce and glass in a matter of seconds.

Spill-e: Paul Cooke’s greatest invention, and my family’s worst nightmare.

“Spill eliminated,” Spill-e announces once the mess is cleaned up, returning dutifully to its charging dock behind the counter.

Old Bob gives Spill-e a round of applause before turning back to our groceries. “Incredible, those things.”

“Right,” Dad spits out. We’re lucky he didn’t try to punch it square between the googly eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Maya starts shoving our groceries down the conveyer belt. “We need to go.”

Dad and I nod. Now’s not the time to monologue to Old Bob about Spill-e’s salacious backstory, so we focus on helping Maya unload the last of our things while Andy looks on in dazed confusion. We shove things into Old Bob’s hands faster than he can scan them, all of our groceries bagged in three minutes flat.

We’re halfway to the exit when Old Bob snaps his fingers, ushering us back over. His eyes are wide as he reaches for a flyer from the stack behind him. “If you’ll be sticking around for a bit, you should sign up for the Winter Games.” He slaps the flyer down onto the counter, pushing it toward us. “Hasn’t been much of a competition lately. A little Seo-Cooke versus Báez action could be the shake-up this place needs.”

The flyer is as lively as the town that lives in my memories, cheerful snowmen and dancing elves welcoming one and all to compete in the annual Lake Andreas Winter Games. Or, better known to us as the Lawgies. Because “Winter Games” was too complex for a pair of five-year-olds to remember.

These games are as sore a subject as the Seo-Cookes themselves. Years of second-place medals and dirty tricks flash through my mind as Dad snatches the flyer and stuffs it into one of our bags.

“Sign-ups are next week,” Old Bob explains. “We haven’t gotten much interest these past few years, so we decided to push the date out, to try to lure in some of the New Year’s Eve crowd.”

“We’ll think about it.” Dad hoists our bags into his arms, mumbling a hurried goodbye before ushering us out of the store.

“Glad to have y’all back!” Old Bob calls out as we bustle toward the entrance. “Hasn’t been the same without ya.”

That I can believe. Who would’ve thought our greatest family legacy would be our rivalry with the assholes next door?

We hustle back to the car, checking over our shoulders for any signs of Julian, his siblings, or his parents. “Was the rest of the pack with him?” Maya whispers to me.

“I didn’t see anyone.”

She breathes a sigh of relief, slowing down to a fast walk instead of a jog. “We’re probably safe, then. We would’ve been able to smell Stella’s hair spray by now. And Henry’s impossible to miss. Like a mountain troll.”

“Who are we talking about?” Andy asks, visibly annoyed.

“They’re a family that we don’t exactly get along with,” Dad answers diplomatically.

“We hate them,” Maya interjects.

Dad shakes his head, opening the trunk and tossing in the groceries more haphazardly than anyone with a carton of eggs should. “Hate is a strong word.”

“Am I wrong?”

His silence speaks volumes.

Maya claps her hands once we’re back in the safety of the car, waiting until she has Andy’s undivided attention before continuing. “Let me break it down for you. The Seo-Cookes are basically evil incarnate.”

Dad eyes her in the rearview mirror. “Cuidate,” he hisses—his go-to phrase for when she needs to check herself.

She rolls her eyes but heeds the warning. “Fine. They’re loaded, obnoxious, and annoying as hell.” She pauses, turning to Dad with a critical look. He nods in approval, waving his hand for her to continue. “Every year they manage to find new and cruel ways to torture us. Kicking sand in our eyes, sabotaging our kayaks, stealing our swimsuits whenever we use the communal showers at the pool.”

“One time they dumped a bucket of earthworms on me.” I pause for dramatic effect. A chill runs down my spine at the cold, slimy memory. I still can’t use a communal shower without feeling like someone’s out to get me. “So, we threw pies in their faces.”

“I didn’t endorse that prank, for the record,” Dad cuts in.

“You helped us bake the pies.”

Once again, Dad remains silent, not even bothering to hide his amusement this time.

Andy frowns. “So, you don’t like this family because of something that happened when you were kids?”

Boiling down a decade of anger and resentment to “something that happened when we were kids” makes the matter seem petty. But the Seo-Cookes were never just rivals. They were bullies, all of them. Well, not their mom, but especially their blowhard dad. Paul Cooke: entrepreneur extraordinaire—which, no joke, is how he describes himself on his business card. We used to have one on our fridge, with a minor alteration. Paul Cooke: asshat extraordinaire.

“We don’t like them because they suck,” Maya insists, which doesn’t really help us seem less petty.

“They do suck,” Dad whispers under his breath, throwing the car into gear.

We tear down Fulton Drive fast and furious. There are no cars on the road and the fear of running into the Seo-Cookes again is still running high, so we’re willing to make risky exceptions. The lake comes into view, calm and gleaming in the afternoon sun. We finally spot other familiar faces—an older couple that has an unhealthy obsession with fishing and the family of four that always wears the type of bald eagle camo T-shirts that make me nervous. If I look closely enough, I can make out the outline of the Seo-Cookes’ three-car garage through the thicket of trees. I slump back against my seat, body heavy with the burden of what running into Julian means.

“Oh my God, are you bleeding?” Maya shifts as far to the opposite end of the backseat as she can, keeping her white cotton shorts out of harm’s way.

I look down at my mess of a left arm with a sigh. In all the chaos of trying to get out of the grocery store ASAP, I’d forgotten that I didn’t make it out without injury. Blood dribbles down my forearm, staining the sleeve of my shirt and the stretch of the backseat we’d been arguing over two hours ago.

Well, at least our last trip to Lake Andreas won’t be boring.