“You’re high if you think you’re getting into my car looking like Carrie after the bucket scene.”

Vaughn fires a paper-dry look.

“Calm your tits, Cole. I’m bumming a ride with the Las Juntas crowd.”

Knight’s eyebrows jump to his hairline, and his eyes widen in disbelief. “You are fucking high. Get in the car, moron.”

“They jumped us on the field,” Vaughn clips as if it’s a good explanation for his decision. The scent of weed and blood makes my head dizzy.

“And they’ll hand you your asses without the football team fighting on your side. Don’t do shit before I come back. I just need to cart Princess Vagina back to her castle.”

Vaughn raises his leg and readjusts a piece of masking tape he plastered against the bottom of his army boot that is completely torn.

“The fight tonight shouldn’t have happened.” He spits a clump of blood onto the concrete road.

“Please tell me Scully didn’t break anything other than Daria’s black heart. She looks like she’s caught some feelings.”

I punch Knight’s leather seat from behind. I still can’t breathe, but I’m grasping at every piece of information about Penn hungrily.

“His mom died this morning.”

There’s a beat of silence, in which I scream so loudly in my head, my ears ring. I look over at Knight, a guy who sees this scenario as something very real, and I’m not surprised to watch him freeze on the spot.

“That’s why they started the brawl.” Vaughn exhales. “When Daria was busy having a nuclear meltdown—great form, by the way”—Vaughn pins me with a look—“some guy ran onto the field and dragged Scully out of the dirt, screaming she overdosed this morning. Consequently, on his eighteenth birthday.”

“Get the fuck out.” Knight’s jaw goes slack, and he punches the steering wheel so hard, the piercing shriek of the horn lingers in the sky for a few seconds.

Vaughn dips his head.

“His second birthday present was his stepdad kicking him out of the house. Las Juntas’ players aren’t gonna touch me. I’m just gonna stitch him up and make sure he’s okay.”

“I’ll tag along,” Knight says even though he knows it’s dangerous. His first football game is in one week, and it’s against the Las Juntas Bulldogs. They’ll break his legs without even thinking about it twice. Of course, I can’t tell him this.

Last year, the outgoing seniors of All Saints showed up at Las Juntas High School in the middle of the night, took down their flag, replaced it with a pirate’s flag, and smeared the pole with Vaseline for an end-of-school prank. Going there without his crew, even with Vaughn, is not only asking for trouble, it’s begging for it. But that’s the thing about Knight. Taking risks is a hobby of his.

“Just dropping Dar at home.”

“Fine, whatever, I’ll come with you guys,” I huff. I know I can’t face Penn, especially considering the circumstances. I’m probably the last person he wants to see because I will only remind him of what he’s lost. And if my snotty friends hear I hung out with the Las Juntas crowd after spontaneously screaming like the world was ending tonight, they would have a field day.

Still, I want to see that he is all right. Personally, I guess.

“Shut up,” both Vaughn and Knight say in unison.

Vaughn takes a step forward, appearing under the streetlamp. The tawny light illuminates the damage Penn inflicted on his face. Both his eyes are black, his lip and eyebrow have cuts, and there’s swelling on his forehead that will only grow worse by tomorrow morning. He’s never been beaten up so badly before.

“Don’t bother, Mother Teresa. Dudebro’s not gonna hang out for long,” Vaughn says.

“Yeah?” Knight asks.

“Blythe Ortiz just coaxed him to go home with her afterward. Not sure how he can fuck in his state, but I guess that’s for them to discover tonight.”

Both guys chuckle darkly. Blythe. Why am I not surprised? She is so boy crazy. Girl, Interrupted. By dick. It doesn’t usually faze me that Blythe is boy crazy since it actually makes me look better, but her touching Penn is just gross on so many levels because (A) he is clearly badly injured, and (B) he was my first kiss. Which in my weird mind means that no one from All Saints can touch him now. “He’s eighteen. He can fuck in any state—all fifty—even when he is physically in a coma,” Knight deadpans. There’s silence for a beat, and then he adds, “Gus is probably losing his shit. He put a lot of money on this fight, and technically, there’s no winner.” Knight strokes his chin.

“Gus needs a life and a neck. Not in that order. Guy’s a douche, and I’ve met socks more sophisticated than his ass,” Vaughn replies dryly. “He’ll survive.”

“You get in bed with him business-wise.”

“I get in bed with anyone I can fuck over and have my way with business-wise,” Vaughn says calmly.

I look down at my hands in my lap. Why do I feel so guilty? Vaughn bends over and pats my back like a big brother even though he is two years younger than me.

“Don’t sulk. Scully is a tough motherfucker.”

They don’t know.

Not about Via, and not about Penn.

Not about my sea glass necklace, and not about the green Hulk living inside me.