Abby’s parents weren’t terribly mad. Her mom was mostly worried about infection, her dad about scarring. They let Lia into the backyard to wash the mud off Omelet, and Gem drove Ben home. Devon stuck around to help with Omelet.
“So I guess today was a wash,” Lia said, holding Omelet in place as Devon unknotted a twig from his fur.
Devon laughed. “We can get a clean start next week.”
Lia stroked the damp fur on Omelet’s other side. Omelet let out a soft ah-woo. “She’ll be okay, right?” Lia asked.
“Are you asking because you’re worried about her or because you’re worried about someone connecting it to Assassins?” he asked, and tossed the twig away. “I know I said it jokingly, but your priorities are a little weird.”
He picked out the last of Omelet’s muddy mats—Lia was sure Omelet hadn’t been this muddy when he left the park with Ben, but she could blame Ben for letting him roll about—and the dog whined.
“I know, but you’re such a good boy,” Devon mumbled. A squirrel leapt along the fence around Abby’s backyard, and Omelet tensed. “Don’t even think about it, egg.”
“Egg?” Lia asked.
“He’s a good egg,” Devon said. “I can’t believe you shot him and then let Abby make a deal with you.”
“It was her idea.” Lia frowned. She wasn’t sure how to read Devon—he had joked with her, but he also seemed a little mad about the whole thing. Sometimes she wished people came with handbooks.
Devon Diaz: loves puns, baby talks to dogs, and will judge you for loving Assassins too much.
“Of course I was more worried about Abby.” And that was true—Lia’s hands had been trembling by the time they had gotten to Abby’s house. “But once I knew she was fine, I started thinking ahead. This game is determined in seconds and minutes, not days. We needed to know right then what would happen or else all our plans would’ve been useless.”
Abby was easygoing, but she could have died. Lia had needed to take advantage of any good feelings Abby had before she found out for sure if she needed stitches.
“Sure, but it’s still just a game,” Devon said. “I’ve never seen you this into something.”
Devon was into acceptable things—music and medicine. Lia’s interests—video and table-top games—were things her parents definitely didn’t understand. They could brag about her brother’s soccer and his stellar grades, but with Lia, there was nothing to brag about.
“It’s just…” Lia shrugged, sucked on her teeth, and shook her head. She started rubbing Omelet dry. “You wouldn’t get it. You’re good at things.”
“I’m good at things because I work at them,” he said.
“I work so hard at so many things,” Lia said, her voice rising. She took a breath. “When you say that, it sounds like you’re implying that I don’t work at things. Like I don’t practice. Like I’m lazy.”
Lia tried and tried, but by the time the secrets to Calculus AB or chemistry made sense to her, the class was already on to some other new subject and Lia’s grade was a solid 75 percent. But with Assassins, she knew her classmates and the town, and she knew how games like this worked. She had finally had all the time she needed to prep. She could finally be good at something.
“Sorry. I really didn’t mean it like that.” He finished drying Omelet off. “People say stuff to me all the time. They tell me I’m so lucky I’m good at music or that I have an ear for it.” He made a face. “I spent years practicing. They only ever see the outcome, never all the failures.” Then he looked at Lia. “You’re not failing at anything,” he said. “I’ve been in half your classes.”
“Yeah, but I’m not good at them either. Ms. Christie had to ask my name three weeks ago, and I’ve had her for two classes.” Lia patted Omelet’s head and shrugged. “I’m really good at games, and they’re never important. This one is. It’s the only thing that Lincoln cares about that I’m good at.”
And her parents were part of Lincoln. The adults of the town might turn a blind eye to the antics of Assassins, but they respected the tradition. She had always known her parents were disappointed in her, but this was a chance to make them proud.
“I see where you get your mixed-up priorities now.” Devon pulled away from Omelet and gently draped the towel over his head like a veil. Omelet woofed and flicked his head back. “So the game is really important to you, huh?”
Lia nodded.
“I guess I should try harder, then,” he said.
A pleasant warmth fluttered in her chest and she smiled. “Thank you. And I promise not to shoot anyone else off a bridge.”
It was an easy promise to keep. By Monday, Abby’s injury was common knowledge. How she got it was not.
“She was teaching Omelet to box,” Georgia said. She sat next to Abby in every class they had together. “Omelet won.”
Abby rolled her eyes and stole a piece of Georgia’s breakfast bar. “Lia and Gem were there. They saw Omelet best me.”
“He has a mean uppercut,” Gem said. “How’s your arm?”
“It still hurts,” Abby said. “The cops showed up.”
“They did?” Lia asked nervously.
Abby nodded. “They said someone had vandalized the bridge. And by someone they meant me.”
“Why would anyone vandalize that bridge?” Lia asked. There were too many nosy neighbors for vandalism to turn out well. “Why would you?”
“I think they thought I was trying to set a trap for Assassins.” Abby leaned back and prodded the brace on her wrist. “My mom told them that bridge had messed me up, so the city could expect a letter about medical bills.”
“You’re too kindhearted for traps,” Lia said, and swung her backpack around. The mesh was terrible for keeping secrets, and Abby laughed before Lia had even finished pulling the water gun free. “Since you’re still alive, I thought you could use this.”
Lia had modded the barrel to be more accurate—hopefully—over long distances, and the tank held just enough for five shots so that it wasn’t too heavy to lift quickly. Her dad had complained about the melted plastic smell that hung around the backyard as Lia worked on it, but the outcome was worth it.
Abby took it with the reverence she usually reserved for dogs and books. “Did you make this?” she asked, and when Lia nodded, she grinned. “It’s such cheap plastic. How did you not just break it?”
“Oh, no, I broke a few before this one worked out.” Lia tapped the neon-blue tip. “It’s way more accurate than normal, and light enough for you to use with only one arm.”
Abby laughed and tucked it into her bag as her teacher walked in. “I wasn’t expecting this. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Lia said. She needed to keep Abby happy for now.
Lia had heard three different accounts of how Abby had hurt her arm before lunch, and all of them featured the game. More than a few students whispered furiously about how breaking the bridge could mess it up for all of them. Lia sank down into her seat at the lunch table.
“How can you be so good at poker and have such a bad poker face?” Gem pulled out their lunch. “What’s your plan?”
“Let’s wait for Devon,” Lia said, pointing toward his lithe frame dodging the elbows and yellow lunch trays of the crowd outside the cafeteria.
“I heard about Abby’s fight with a vandalizing freshman,” he said instead of greeting them.
Lia yanked open a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. “I thought she assassinated the Council.”
“Obviously not,” Gem said, “because we all know the truth—Omelet’s a werewolf.”
“Okay, I hadn’t heard that one.” Devon sat down next to Lia, his leg a mere few inches from hers, and pulled out a squat thermos filled with soup. Steam fogged up his glasses when he unscrewed the top. “Regardless, people are a bit nervous about the Council canceling the game.”
“They wouldn’t cancel,” Lia said quickly.
“They would if the cops got involved,” Gem said. “One year canceled is better than all future years banned.”
“Abby seems happy to play along so far,” Lia said. Her Cheeto-dusted fingers left orange prints on the table as she fidgeted. “I can’t believe her arm was fractured. The fall tore out some of her nails, you know.”
“I definitely checked out her hand, and she had all her nails unless she’s been hiding extras.” Devon leaned back. “It was just an accident. If anything, whoever is in charge of the park is responsible.”
“Most of the adults in town played Assassins. They know the deal,” Lia said. “We need to decide what to do once our week is up and we can go after her.”
“She’ll change her schedule,” Devon said. “The one you know.”
Lia stared at him. “Obviously.”
Assassins was hers. It hurt that Devon didn’t know she knew that, as if she weren’t able to figure it out. Abby would return to her walks soon, fractured arm or no. She was as picky about her walks with Omelet as she was about her books; she had cried in fourth grade when Sam Allen dog-eared a page in her favorite novel.
“There’s a reason I agreed to her deal, you know,” Lia said. “Even if you can’t figure it out.”
Devon downed the last of his soup, and behind the lip of his thermos, his mouth curled up.
“You liked watching me fail, didn’t you?” Lia asked, frowning.
“Aside from the fact that Abby fell, it was a little funny,” Devon said, smirking. “Admit it.”
Lia groaned. “I only missed because Omelet tackled her.”
“And you didn’t observe the whims of dogs and write them down with a full appendix?” He clutched his heart. “I’m disappointed. I could set up a target in my backyard, and you could come practice if you think it would help.”
He grinned as he said it, and a flickering heat filled her chest till her words felt hot and heavy.
“Are you inviting me over?” she asked.
“Actually, I was planning on betraying you and using you for target practice as revenge for getting me caught up in this.” He looked away. “Of course.”
“Of course,” Lia said, smiling. “I suppose I’ll just have to prove my worth this week.”