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He left Rose in the foyer, and she instinctively tried to stay out of people's way. She didn't want to accidentally smear Red 40 on anyone, let alone be seen in this shirt, but it was already too late for the latter. Two boys by the living room credenza snuck glances at her, their eyes roving down the front of her body—and then turned to each other to snicker. When Hart passed them on his way to the kitchen, they slapped him on the back and seemed to share a joke with him, because it made him laugh. But before Rose could think about what this meant, and what kind of people Hart hung out with, someone new stepped into her view.

The girl who suddenly stood before her was so striking that Rose had to take a step back, just to take her all in. Her beauty grabbed you by the throat, which was remarkable, considering the state she was in. Her clothes clung to her body but were rumpled like she'd rolled out of bed in them. Honey- brown hair limp and disheveled, with flyaway strands floating around her face as if electrified. Her eyebrows were enviably thick, yet unkempt. And beneath them her eyes were rimmed with smeared shadow and eyeliner that still looked better than any meticulous smoky-eye Rose had ever attempted. But the eyes themselves were the most arresting thing. Blues, greens, and flecks of gold melded together to form opal. And Rose's first thought was of all the colors she'd need to adequately paint them.

Her second thought was that the eyes looked so angry. "Why are you here?" came the girl's raspy voice. "What?"

"Why do you—you can't keep—"

Rose tried to form words, a comeback, anything, but she was too confused. Whatever tried to come out of her mouth stumbled and tripped, dead in its tracks.

"I'm so tired of it," the girl moaned, her gaze narrowing with a deliberate, pure fury. "It's the same thing over and over and 'over' again. This stupid party—and then you show up."

Rose's words finally crawled their way out. "I think you have me confused & this is my first time being here."

A mirthless chuckle left the girl's lips, swaying the wisps of hair that fell around her mouth. "No, it isn't."

All those gorgeous features on her face set in an unsettling animosity toward Rose. And the confusion that Rose felt morphed into something with a sharper edge. "Did I insult your mother or something?" she asked.

It was a typical kind of New York comeback. But because this was the worst night of Rose's life, the words landed with a deafening crash on the party floor. It may as well have been Rose's death knell, for the way everyone in her radius suddenly stopped to look at her.

"Hey, she's allowed to be here." This from a boy, cutting through the crowd. He looked much younger than everyone else here, but he moved through the space with authority. "This isn't like one of your exclusive shindigs, Heather. This party is a democracy. All are welcome here."

The girl—Heather—eyeballed the boy, bemused. "You're new."

His features drooped. "I'm Lowell Chamberlain. One grade below you. I let you borrow my&"

Heather stopped paying attention to Lowell, which was just as well, because he'd trailed off. She zeroed in on Rose once again, this time like she wanted to do some damage.

What happened next felt like choreography. Lowell, the boy who'd defended Rose, put a gentle hand between her shoulder blades to guide her away. Meanwhile, some big guy with a square face linked an arm around Heather's middle, pulling her in the opposite direction. It all played out like a Victorian dance with partners and predetermined moves. But before Heather left, she leaned in close enough for Rose to get a whiff of her mouth. Strawberry-lip-balm sweet and red-wine bitter. "You're a dead girl," Heather whispered.

The cryptic words hit Rose like ice water, freezing her in place. But the most unnerving thing about the comment was that she could not parse Heather's intention behind it. It wasn't spoken with malice, and it didn't sound threatening. It was a flat, inscrutable statement. Before she could even react, Lowell was already whispering into Rose's ear, like he was informing her of an aerial terror attack. "Heather's mother died three months ago."

All at once Rose held a breath, and let it out slow and defeated. 'Shit.'

"Yeah," Lowell sighed. But he seemed concerned with something much more devastating. His face, spotty with red bumps across his forehead and chin, froze in alarm. He grabbed a fistful of hair at the top of his head, brown curls poking out between white knuckles. "I can't believe I actually used the word 'shindig.' I'm such a loser."

To comfort him, Rose had to lie. "'Shindig' is a great word."

Lowell rubbed his eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses, one lens greased with a thumbprint. "You don't even know how much I was psyching myself up to talk to Heather Hargrove, and when I finally do it's to piss her off and use the word 'shindig'?" A grimace creased his face like he'd swallowed something sour. He pressed himself to the nearest wall, sliding down like a bird that'd flown into a glass pane. Rose would come to know this as a typical overreaction for Lowell, but right now, she was concerned enough to crouch down with him and make sure he was okay.