‌I lean against the wall in the gymnasium, letting my eyes adjust to the scene in front of me. Black lights are in every corner of the room, illuminating a huge cityscape made from neon paper that covers one side of the gymnasium. The dance committee was handing out fluorescent bands at the entrance, and most of my classmates are wearing the bands looped around their wrists or necks. Anyone wearing white or bright colors is glowing. Neon balloons bob around the room, adding to the surreal effect, but I’m only half paying attention. I keep scanning the room for Brynn, because I’m not sure I can go much longer without kissing her again.‌

Those five minutes outside Mason’s van might have been the best of my life.

I spot Brynn’s light dress weaving through the crowd toward me, and start grinning like an idiot, until I notice that she isn’t alone. It’s not that I don’t like Ellie, but I’d like her better if she were someplace else right now.

As Brynn approaches, though, I can see that her smile looks a little strained. “Ellie is doing something,” she says when she stops at my side.

Before I can ask what she’s talking about, Ellie grabs my right hand. I’m too startled to protest as she turns my palm like she’s reading it, then drops it and does the same thing to my left hand.

“He’s good,” she reports.

I blink at her, confused. “What was that for?”

She holds up her own right palm, which glows with some kind of bright green residue. “I’m looking for my match.”

“I can’t believe you checked Tripp,” Brynn says, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I told you he was fine.”

“Sorry, but I couldn’t take your word for it,” Ellie says. “You’re not exactly your most objective self when it comes to him.”

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.

“Go ahead,” Brynn says, lifting her chin at Ellie. “This is your brilliant plan.”

“You say that like it’s not brilliant,” Ellie pouts. Then she turns to me. “I used my old magic kit to coat a red marker with ultraviolet powder and left it next to a poster of Mr. Larkin. So that anybody who used the marker to write on his face would have a hand like this.” She holds up her palm again. “The powder makes your skin green under UV light. Or black light.” “That’s…Okay, that actually is kind of brilliant,” I admit. Ellie beams,

and I frown as I realize what that means. “Hold on a sec. Are you saying you thought I might’ve done it?”

“No exceptions,” Ellie says. “Speaking of.” She reaches for Brynn, who scowls at her.

“Oh, come on!” Brynn protests.

“I can’t play favorites,” Ellie says sternly, twisting Brynn’s hands in hers before releasing them. “Okay, you’re good.”

“Any suspects?” I’m amused, even though this isn’t how I wanted to spend my first few minutes on a dance floor with Brynn—who, by the way, looks stupid-cute when she’s annoyed with someone other than me. I wrap my arms around her and kiss the top of her head, and she relaxes against my chest.

Ellie makes a face. “Ew, heteros,” she says.

“You can leave anytime,” Brynn reminds her.

“I can’t, though,” Ellie says, looking to our left. “I need Tripp to get me into the royal court.” I follow her gaze and see Shane and Charlotte surrounded three-deep by their friends. Our friends. “It’s elite central over there, and they’re our primary persons of interest.”

Here we go again. “I’m telling you, scribbling on posters isn’t Shane’s style,” I say.

“You’re thinking of him as Shane Delgado, though,” Ellie points out. “Not Michael Robbins.”

“Shhh,” I hiss, even though there’s nobody close enough to hear her over the music. It’s still impossible for me to believe that Brynn’s wild theory is right. The whole idea is surreal—that Shane, Saint Ambrose’s resident golden boy, could also be Dexter Robbins’s son. And Mr. Larkin’s half brother. “It’s not like they’re talking to me now, anyway.”

“Oh, please.” Ellie rolls her eyes. “You’re telling me those people wouldn’t part like the Red Sea if you walked through them?”

Brynn threads her fingers through mine. “That makes you sound so powerful,” she teases, looking up at me and fluttering her lashes. And I guess that’s that, because I’m suddenly incapable of saying no to her even when she doesn’t directly ask for something.

“Fine, but prepare to be rejected,” I say. Ellie grins, undaunted. “That’s the spirit.”

Turns out Ellie was right; force of habit means that everyone gets out of my way as we near the group surrounding Shane and Charlotte, until Charlotte herself turns with an imperious lift of her chin. “Well, look who it is,” she says, tightening her grip on Shane’s arm. She’s wearing a white dress that’s glowing under the black light, and her hair is pulled back into a complicated twist that’s half braid, half bun, with lots of sparkly pins holding it all together. Her eyes sweep over Brynn and me, ignoring Ellie completely. “Saint Ambrose’s newest It Couple.”

“Hey, Charlotte. Can we call a truce?” I ask. Not just to buy Ellie time either. Regardless of what’s happened lately, or what Charlotte might know,

she’s been my friend for years. “I was in bad shape at your place, and I’m sorry if I was ungrateful. I’m doing better now.”

“I’m sorry too,” Brynn offers. “I shouldn’t have come to your house like that.”

Charlotte, who thawed the tiniest bit when I spoke, gets full-on icy again. “You’re not sorry, Brynn,” she says, flicking her gaze toward the arm I still have slung around Brynn’s shoulders. “You got exactly what you wanted.”

“Oh my God, I love this song!” Ellie cries suddenly, and before anyone can react, she’s latched on to Shane. He’s too startled to protest as she lifts one of his hands in the air, then reaches for the other. “Come on, let’s dance!” she says, flipping his palm in her hand.

Charlotte is still clinging to Shane’s arm, and pulls him backward out of Ellie’s reach. “What’s wrong with you?” she hisses. “Don’t touch him.”

“You should dance too,” Ellie says, lunging for Charlotte’s hand. She’d have better luck prying open a steel vise than removing Charlotte from Shane, though.

“Stop it. Go away!” Charlotte’s shriek is out of proportion for the situation, even though Ellie has gone from quirky to flat-out weird pretty fast.

“Babe, chill,” Shane says.

Ellie seems to understand that it’s time to cut her losses, and releases Charlotte’s wrist. “Sorry!” she says, stepping back and fanning herself. “Sometimes my love of dance gets the best of me.” Then she darts past me and Brynn, murmuring “Not him” before disappearing into the crowd.

“She was dropped on her head as a child,” Brynn says, watching Ellie make her way to their uncle and grab his hands. Ellie wasn’t kidding about the no exceptions part. “A lot.”

“So.” I clear my throat, wondering how to fill the awkward silence that’s suddenly descended between the four of us. Well, not silence, exactly, since the music is still blaring, but it’s awkward as hell. “You guys having a good time?”

Charlotte glares daggers in Ellie’s direction. “I was until that little freak came over.”

“Hey,” Brynn protests at the same time Shane wrenches his arm away from Charlotte and says, “Jesus, enough. She’s just a kid.”

His voice is loud and his words are a little slurred; his face is flushed and sweaty. He’s been drinking, which isn’t unusual for Shane at a Saint Ambrose social event, but refusing to put up with Charlotte’s bullshit is. She blinks at him, too startled to speak, and he growls, “I’m done with this,” and stalks away.

“Done with what?” Charlotte asks. Shane keeps going, heading for a corner where the lacrosse guys are clustered, and Charlotte follows. “Done with what?” she calls again.

“Well, there goes their night,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” Brynn says. “Ellie gets these ideas—”

“It’s all right,” I say. “It wasn’t a bad idea. And I’m glad to know Shane didn’t vandalize the poster. I know it doesn’t prove he didn’t do something else,” I add before Brynn can interrupt with another one of her theories. “Or that he isn’t someone else. I’m still glad, though.”

“I get it,” Brynn says. Her eyes are on the lacrosse corner, where Charlotte and Shane are arguing.

“Come on, Brynn.” I spin her so she’s fully facing me, and pull her closer into a slow dance, even though there’s a rap song playing. “Stop looking at Shane like you want to interrogate him. Whatever truth-telling superpower you have won’t work on him.”

“I know,” Brynn says. “It only works on you.”

“What’s your secret?” I ask, and I really hope she tells me, because otherwise I’m not sure I’ll be able to get rid of the nagging suspicion that she’s still waiting to catch me in a lie.

She holds up a hand and rubs her thumb with her forefinger. “You do this whenever you’re not being honest.”

I blink. “I do?”

“Every time. You have since we were kids.”

“Well, damn,” I say, and she grins. “How convenient for you.”

We sway for a minute until Brynn rises on her tiptoes to plant a soft kiss on my lips, her hands sliding over my shoulders and around my neck. I kiss her back, harder, relishing the fact that I know how we fit together now. My hands run up and down her back, always stopping at the curve of her waist even though I’d rather not stop at all, but her uncle’s around here somewhere and we’re surrounded by people, and—

“Get a room,” someone says, but more politely than whoever yelled it in the parking lot. Brynn pulls away, and we turn to see Mason dancing beside us with Geoff. The music has changed to something with more of a Latin beat, and they’re both keeping up with it. Although the more they come into focus, the more it seems like Mason is barely keeping up with Geoff. “You can dance, Gorff,” Brynn says with a smile.

“I can,” he says. “My grandparents made the whole family learn. Shall we?” He holds out a hand. She takes it and lets him twirl her around before dipping her low.

“Oh,” Brynn says, breathless. “You’re really good.”

“Don’t be jealous,” Mason says. “He only has eyes for me.”

“I’m not,” I say unconvincingly as Geoff spins Brynn away. “Your timing sucks, though.”

“They’ll be back,” Mason says. “In the meantime, let’s dance.” He holds out his hand, eyebrows raised like he’s daring me to take it. I grin, ready to grasp his palm, and then—fuck.

What the actual fuck.

I freeze in place, unable to move, until Mason’s jaw tightens and he drops his hand. “Whatever,” he mutters. He thinks I’m being an asshole, but I’m not. I don’t understand what I just saw. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that I understand it too well.

Mason’s palm is bright green. Just like Ellie’s.