She staggered a few steps back. “Go away!” she shouted again, knowing someone would be there any second.

Brad did too, it seemed, because he wasted no time in stepping down off the porch. He raised a finger, pointing at her as he backed away. “You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see. In the meantime, why don’t you tell that little faggot I’m gonna kill him. Tell him I’m gonna beat the livin’ piss out of him for what he did, ’cause I know it was him. Tell him that for me, would ya, Iz?”

Isobel stared after him in horrified disbelief, her confusion mounting. Did what?

She heard the porch door open behind her and her mother’s voice. “Isobel, time to come in now. You shouldn’t even be out here after being sick.”

Isobel stood frozen, staring after Brad as he turned away and headed around to the front of the house, no doubt to wherever he’d parked his Mustang.

His Mustang. Why hadn’t she heard his Mustang? Turning, she rushed in past her mother, through the kitchen and into the living room, right up to the window. Parting the draperies, Isobel watched Brad climb into another car, one she recognized as his mom’s sleek black BMW.

She turned to see her father sit up from reclining in his easy chair. The TV on mute, he glared at her.

“Where’s Brad’s Mustang?”

Her father’s gaze narrowed. “I didn’t ask,” he said coolly, “because yesterday you told me that it was in the shop.”

“I forgot,” she muttered, and swiveled for the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”

“I was just about to suggest that,” he said, then snapped the TV volume back on.

Isobel stomped upstairs once more, averting her gaze from Danny, who stood leaning halfway out his door. “Ooh, somebody’s in trouuuuuu—”

She shut her door, cutting him off, then stopped, her heart tripping over itself at the sight of Varen Nethers perched on one corner of her tousled pink bed, last year’s cheerleading album draped open across his lap.

“What are you doing!?” Undiluted panic spurred her forward, giving her enough nerve to snatch the album away.

Oh God, she thought, looking down at the page the album had been opened to. He’d seen the one from last year’s squad sleepover, the one of her stuffing an entire slice of pepperoni pineapple pizza into her mouth.

“Impressive,” he said as he lay back against her bed, propped up on his elbows.

Clutching the scrapbook to her chest, she turned away, not wanting him to see the lobster-red hue of her face. “What is wrong with you?” she seethed. “You don’t just barge into somebody’s personal space and start going through their stuff!” Marching to her closet, she flung the album in.

“Really,” he said in that infuriating monotone.

She whirled around to see him staring at her, amused by some private joke, and her stomach turned several lopsided backflips at the sight of him half lying on her bed like that. Black sprawled over pink. She angled her eyes toward the ceiling, trying to get a grip.

“How come you’re off the squad?” he asked out of nowhere.

She flushed again, her suspicion that he’d been able to hear her conversation with Brad confirmed. “I quit,” she snapped. “I guess since you heard—”

“I heard everything,” he said.

He was doing it again. Watching her with that intense, penetrating look, the one she didn’t quite get. It made her nervous and dizzy and flustered. Realizing she’d been wringing her hands, she dropped them to her sides.

“Well, then you also heard enough to know you’d better steer clear of Brad for a while.”

“Given how much we hang out as it is.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t know what you did to piss him off like that but . . . well, he’s pissed.”

“What’s funny is,” he said, sitting up, seemingly unfazed by Brad’s death threats or her added warnings, “neither do I.”

He stood, popping the collar of his green jacket, the sudden movement causing her to stiffen. He noticed it too, and paused to stare at her.

She looked away, rubbing her arm. It was just that he could be so imposing sometimes. And unpredictable. And it was just too surreal to see him standing in her room like this.

“Do me a favor, would you?” He moved to her window.

“What’s that?”

“Take your own advice.”

“What do you mean, take my own advice?”

“I mean,” he said, handing her the now slightly runny carton of Banana Fudge Swirl, packing the other away into the nylon bag, “that you should steer clear of your ex for a while.”