Chapter Twenty-Six

Riley

Prom night, Nine P.M.

My head is spinning. I don’t know where to look first. The fight between Owen and Bryan ends when fireworks explode in the night sky. Stray embers fall into the party area, and everyone scatters. Tristan dumps the punch bowl over a plate of burning cupcakes, laughing maniacally as the small red flames grow into big blue ones.

Beside me, Jane yelps when a spark catches the hem of her dress, and Jeremy all but tackles her, forcing her to stop, drop, and roll. I run a lap around the dining area, making sure everyone’s safe as the smoky haze thickens. At some point fire engines pull up and start blasting foam all over the place. The dance floor morphs into a battlefield, with the wounded covered in sticky foam shot from fire hoses, red liquid (which I hope is punch and not blood) and falling ash from the overhead leaves eaten up by lingering flames.

I throw my arms above my head, shielding my hair and face. Owen appears next to me, the beginnings of what’s sure to be an ugly bruise marking his lower jaw.

“This isn’t what I planned at all,” I admit.

Grinning, he bumps his shoulder into mine. “I know. Not even you could plan this. But it is kind of awesome, isn’t it?”

“If by awesome you mean the prom version of Immortal Quest, then sure.” Amid the screams of terror and total dance-floor decimation, my eyes catch his. I tilt my head toward the exit. “Should we get out of here?”

“Let’s do it, Evil Skater Girl.” He takes my hand, and we press through a maze of our classmates snapping selfies using the prom wreckage as a backdrop. Gripping the fabric of my chiffon skirt to prevent irreparable damage to my dress, I duck my head and stick close to Owen. Smoky air paints a glaze on my vision. Someone turns the music on again, the heavy jam accompanying cannons shooting foam and water into the night sky as the trigger-happy firefighters do an extra-superb job of dousing the flames.

“You think we’ll make it out of here alive without our Immortal Quest body armor?” Owen asks, pausing to watch everyone else flee the scene.

“On the off chance we don’t, tell me this. Did you decide about Bucknell?”

He turns his attention on me, eyebrows raised. “I’m going. Will you talk to me if you see me on campus?”

“Only if you wear your Prom King crown to class.”

Scowling, he rips the crown from his head. “I’ll wear the crown if you let me call you Evil Skater Girl in public. Every day.”

We spend a minute staring each other down.

“See you at orientation,” I say.

“I think you’ll see me before that. C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

My heels click on the dance floor as we stroll through the carnage, hands linked. We pass a charred wine barrel that splintered apart when it toppled over. I kick aside a piece of wood, and something rolls out over my sandal. Bending down, I pick up a stray bottle and raise it to my nose, catching a whiff of the strong odor wafting out. “What do you think this is?” I ask Owen, holding it up to him.

“It’s whiskey,” says a female voice behind us. “Which means you’re under arrest for underage possession of alcohol and carrying an open container.”

The bottle falls from my hands, hits the floor, and shatters. “It was empty,” I say, and rush to add, “But I didn’t drink whatever was in it.”

“Of course you didn’t. Everyone picks up empty bottles and sniffs them for no good reason.” The cop is about my height, with a blond ponytail dropping out of her blue hat. Her boots crunch on broken glass as she rushes over and snaps a pair of handcuffs around my wrists.

“Leave her alone. She’s innocent,” Owen protests, hooking his arm through mine.

“Step back. You’re obstructing official business,” the cop says, glaring at Owen.

“I’m not obstructing anything. We’re telling the truth. The bottle was empty. Can’t you do a breathalyzer or something?” Frustrated, Owen throws his arms in the air.

“Sure, we’ll run a breathalyzer on both of you, as soon as we get to the station.” In a lightning-fast movement, the cop pulls out another set of handcuffs and snaps them on Owen’s wrists. “Let’s go, kids. You can wait with your friends while we sort through the situation and find out which one of you committed aggravated arson, vandalism, and criminal damage.”

“Friends? Which friends?” Panic rises in my chest.

“All of them,” the cop says, and she starts to laugh. “We rounded up a big group—a couple of girls fighting over their matching dresses, and the guys with blood on their shirts and swollen lips accusing each other of illegal assault. You can all talk it over and decide which one of you wants to plead guilty to causing thousands of dollars in property damage.”

Owen’s throat moves when he swallows. “How many of us fit in your jail cell?”

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll squeeze you in. You have the right to remain silent…”