Amy sits up tall on the bleachers, pleased with herself.
I snort back a laugh, but Amy just sits there.
I swallow my bite. "Amy, you can't be serious."
A few years ago a couple middle-schoolers killed some girl because they said a woman who called herself a Shade could control their minds, and made them do it. The news reports blew up, and an urban legend was born: Monsters made of magic, people used like puppets, general debauchery and occultic rituals.
I saw the horror-movie based on their story last year and couldn't sleep for a week. It was sick. But that's all it was: A movie.
Those girls lied, now their stories fuel YouTube conspiracy theories and faked interviews with people who claimed to watch Shades kill people during their rituals. Like no one has noticed dozens of people disappearing in gory, vicious ways.
But my sister's staring at me like she's waiting for the bomb to drop.
I groan. "Amy, Shades aren't real. People are messing with you."
"They are not! People in different classes told me the rumors. And they all say the same thing: He killed his parents. And when he didn't get in trouble for it, Chase beat him up." Her eyebrows slide up, challenging me to deny the juiciness of that.
"For the love of—" I groan. Where do I even start? A fistfight doesn't make anyone a witch. Or a murderer.
"Ask around, Kate. You'll find out. Stay away from Aiden, he's bad news." She shudders dramatically.
"Seriously, Amy? We're here one freaking day, and you think there's no chance people are screwing with you? For one thing, what school would let a guy who murdered his parents show up and roam around?"
"He got off on a technicality," she says, then takes a bite of her sandwich—grimacing at it like I did. "Apparently his lawyer got him off and then adopted him. Aiden lives with him now."
I laugh. "That's not even legal, Amy. You really need to stop believing anything people tell you."
She glares at me, dumping the sandwich, uneaten, back in the paper bag. "Ask him."
"What?"
"Ask Aiden if he's a Shade. I bet he says yes. And if that's true, doesn't that mean he could have used his powers to kill his parents?" She looks smug at this piece of unassailable logic.
"I don't want to have anything to do with Aiden whether he's a Shade or not," I mutter.
"Whatever. You just don't want me to be right."
"Amy! That story is insane. I would look stupid if I asked him."
Her lips purse. "So I'm stupid because I believe it?"
"You're not stupid. But I think you need to be more skeptical."
"I was, the first time. Then, like, six different people said the same thing."
"You made that many friends in four hours?"
She ignores me. "Everyone is talking about how you slapped him—most people think he'll kill you. You're like, famous," she says, her voice climbing. "People in all my classes ask about you. One guy flirted with me. I'm pretty sure he's a sophomore." She grins.
I don't care if people talk about me. But I care if people pump Amy for information about me. For one, she'll probably give it. For another, she won't understand why they stop talking to her once they have what they want. She's way too naïve to navigate this.
Unaware of my concern, Amy takes another bite of her apple. "—and then I saw Chase in the hallway when we got out of Biology, and we started talking, and the girls saw me walk away with him, which was awesome."
"Amy," I start. But she waves a hand and shakes her head.
"I know, I know. He's too old for me," she sing-songs, "and Mom and Dad will never let me date him. But who knows? I'm allowed to start dating when I'm fifteen, which is only like two months away. If I lay the groundwork now . . ."
"There's no way Chase will ask you out," I say with a sigh. "And you need to be careful. If people are talking to you about me, tell them to leave you alone."
"Why?" she says, her voice climbing an octave. "People are nice. They want to talk to me. Even when I'm not talking about you!"
I sigh. "Look," I start, biting my lip. How to say this without hurting her? "Just be careful, okay? Sometimes when people want to gossip they'll be nice to your face, but not when you aren't around."
She looks down at the core of her apple. "You're saying they're using me," she says quietly.
"I'm saying they could be."
Amy huffs, drops the core back into her lunch bag, scrunching it up. Brushing her hands together to get rid of crumbs, she shakes her head. "I should have known."
"Known what?" My tone is sharper than it needs to be.
"You don't want me to be popular."
"What?"
"Back home, you were always the popular one. But there's hardly any people like you here. Stings, doesn't it, when you feel like an outcast?"
I gape. "Amy, of course I want you to have friends—"
She snorts bitterly. "I bet it kills you that I fit in better here. That most people look like me and, you know, do homework and care about their grades."
"Why would that bother me?"
"Because you're used to being the center of attention!" Her voice is rising. She's flailing her hands. I try to shush her, but she soldiers on. "Everything we do is about you! For years, it's been all about trying to get you off the drugs. Then it was about trying to get you to stay home and not run away with Lester," she sneers his name. I'm surprised by how deep the sound of his name still cuts after a full six months, how the image of his granite face blooms in my head.
Cheating bastard. Shaking away the image, I snap, "You need to calm down."
"No!" Amy yells back, jumping to her feet. "I'm sick of everything being about you. Moving here was even about you and your stupid addiction!" She's caught the attention of Chase and his friends now. I avoid looking at them.
"Sit. Down," I snarl. But she leans into my face.
"Moving here might have been about you, but it's the best thing that ever happened to me. So you can . . . sit and swivel!" she shoves her middle finger under my nose.
I glare to cover the fact that I'm on the verge of laughing. But the truth of what she says is sobering.
I've tried to be a good big-sister. I love Amy more than anyone. But when you're high you don't think clearly. I've hurt her. And scared her. A lot.
But I'd never thought about how it would feel for her—watching Mom and Dad make decisions based on what I needed. How they fought for me when Lester had me in the grip of the drugs. And himself. When I almost gave up on life for him.
Amy has turned her back and is gathering up her things. Am I being self-absorbed, assuming people only want to talk to her about me?
I reach for her arm but she jerks it out of my grip. "I'm sitting with my new friends," she mutters. And before I can say anything, she's trotting down the bleacher steps and along to the other end where she fearlessly slides in beside Chase and introduces herself to the circle.
They're cautious. I watch them to see if any of them will cut her. But they seem more curious than anything else.
Except Chase.
Chase shifts in his seat. Then he turns. Our eyes lock and my breath catches.
Yesterday when I saw him with all his starched creases and polo-shirted purity, I didn't pay attention to anything else. I noticed he was big, and that was the end of it.
But the way he stares reminds me what those muscles mean. That even if there's no threat in his gaze, there's power in him that's bigger, stronger than me. All he has to do is decide, and I could be dead.
Ice slides down my spine.
Back in Los Angeles Lester took me to meet his supplier. While we were there a guy arrived who hadn't paid the dealer.
Because of that day, I know what it sounds like when an iron bar bounces off someone's skull. I've heard the thud of a body hitting the ground, seen the red rain of a merciless beating.
All from a guy built like Chase, who lounged on a couch most of the day and could smile like he was lighting up the world.
Chase looks like he'll call out. So I break the gaze, swing my bag over one shoulder and start down the bleachers, my feet clunking on every level. There's an uneasy twist between my shoulder blades. I need to warn Amy: Don't trust him just because he looks placid.
You don't know his strength until he decides to show it.
And then it's too late.