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month that everything came out, everything fell apart. Dad didn’t leave until the summer, but I’ll never forget the afternoon of April fifth.
    â€œYeah, actually, I do think it’s true.”
    â€œWhy?”
    I open my mouth to give her a lame answer, maybe even some deep spiel about Eliot’s meaning that will impress her, but the way her chocolate eyes narrow softly on the text of my shirt like it’s a living thing makes me not want to lie. I’ve lied enough this past year.
    â€œBecause sometimes life shits all over you when you’re expecting sunshine.”
    She lifts her eyebrows. I know she’s about to ask for a more coherent explanation, and I don’t really have one to give her. Luckily, Ms. Artigas raps on her desk with a ruler.
    â€œFive minutes, people,” she calls.
    â€œOh.” Hadley shuffles through her notebook. “I guess we should meet sometime this week to get organized. Are you busy after school?”
    I exhale slowly. “I have to pick up my car today, but I’m free tomorrow.”
    â€œThe library?”
    â€œSure.”
    I try not to breathe as she leans over and writes her number in my notebook, but then I give up and just inhale her clean, gingery scent.
    â€œIn case there’s a change of plans,” she says as she draws back.
    I give her my number as well and she treats me to a genuine, death-ray-free smile. The bell rings and she slips into the hall. I’m putting Hadley’s number in my phone when Josh joins me.
    â€œHow’d it go with Maneater?”
    â€œManeater?”
    â€œYeah. Hadley. Chews ’em up, spits ’em out. Maneater.”
    I can’t help but laugh. “As you can see, I’m still in one piece.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and fall in step with Josh toward the door. “Hey, what’s her last name?” I type her first name into my phone.
    Before he can answer, the hallway explodes into an uproar of “Oooh!” and “Damn!”
    Josh and I reach the doorway at the same time to see a small crowd standing around Hadley, who’s staring at her locker with a shocked expression on her face.
    â€œThat’s her last name, dude.” Josh points toward her locker. He shoves a hand through his hair. “Damn, Sloane is pissed.”
    Scrawled over the dingy metal in thick red marker are the words
St. Clair—Patron Saint of Sluts.
    Hadley clenches her jaw and throws her shoulders back. She pulls her locker open, slides her books in, slides a book out. A short blond girl joins her, eyes huge as she reads the writing. Wordlessly, they link arms and walk robotically down the hall, disappearing into a thick throng of goggling eyes and snickers.
    I should probably be wondering about the whole slut thing or who Sloane is or how it’s not even a good insult. It’s basically saying Hadley takes cares of sluts, which seems pretty charitable, if you ask me. But one thought crowds out all the others as I stare at that red writing.
    â€œSt. Clair?” I turn around to face Josh. “St. Clair is Hadley’s last name?”
    My voice must sound tight or squeaky, because Josh frowns at me and backs up. “Yeah.”
    I rub my forehead. That can’t be right. I know it’s a pretty rare last name, but there’s no way she’s
that
St. Clair. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. A twisted, evidence-that-God-is-one-sick-son-of-a-bitch coincidence.
    â€œYou’re sure?” I ask. “Has she gone here since her freshman year?”
    Josh twirls a pencil over his knuckles. “Nope. She moved here before this year. Sometime in the summer.”
    â€œFrom where?”
    â€œI don’t know, man. Damn. Nashville, I think.”
    I feel my mouth fall open.
    â€œHey.” Josh shakes my shoulder. “You look like you’re about to hurl. You see a ghost or something?”
    I blink, forcing myself out the door. I’m