Although I didn't have my best night, the mood is celebratory.

It's strange how we lose games we're supposed to win and win games we're supposed to lose. Football isn't played on paper, though, and I suppose that's part of the fun. Anything can happen. Attitudes, injuries, weather...

Something was off tonight. The wind more than anything else and the weathervane whirled in the Raven's favor, against an undefeated team.

Walking to the locker room, I feel like I'm the only one who isn't jumping for joy. Or bellowing through the hallway like a barbarian. My back is still bothering me from last week's fall and my voice is almost gone. It's the end of another grueling week, and unfortunately, my night isn't over. I should save my energy, the tiny spark of it that's left.

I'm one of the first to arrive at the door, but I'm not alone. There's a presence sneaking up from behind and it's gaining on me.

"How's the ass?"

It's not Ted's voice, but the question sets me on edge, nonetheless. I know where this guy's eyes are. I can practically feel them.

I turn around, my backside to the wall. "Fine," I lie.

Randy Pruitt, fullback, number 8. I only know his name because it's practically my job to know.

Like Ian Tierney, he's a popular, talented senior. In most other aspects—looks, prestige, intelligence—he's not even in the same league as Ian, but I have no doubt he gets by just fine as Ian's wingman, anyway.

Randy has the grounds to ask me about my injury, shallow as they may be, but I doubt it's out of concern, though that's what he'd claim if I ever had the nerve to complain.

He leans against the wall, about a foot and a half in front of me. His eyebrows bob when his birds-eye view of my uniform comes to a pleasant ending for him. His eyes dart left when a passing teammate smirks at him.

There's a line they won't usually cross with the cheerleaders . . . unless they're invited to. Like so many of the others, Randy is good at coasting by really close. If he happens to go over said line, there's reasonable doubt. Interpretation can be twisted in his favor.

"Is there something I can help you with?" I ask like a clerk at a store at the end of an abysmal shift.

He swipes a hand through his sweaty hair. It musses it up further. "Sure, uh, I was getting to that. . ." I've thrown him off his game. I'm sure he's used to that, too. Football players certainly don't complete every pass. Cheerleaders love reminding them of that, but they usually do it with a smile. "Ian wanted me to talk to you."

"He can't talk to me himself?" I cross my arms over my chest. It's too much of a distraction for him.

"His parents are in town." Randy says that like they're the president and first lady. I'm left to assume Ian's tied up beyond his control, and Randy is his messenger boy. "The good news is, they've reserved a suite at the George Washington for him, and they're allowing him to have a few people over. You, me, a few others? What do you say? I can give you a ride if you need one."

I catch the innuendo, but I pretend not to notice. "I can't," I shoot back, relieved I have an excuse; I don't need to come up with one. "My new roommate is throwing a Halloween party, and I can't really get out of it."

I'd like to stay on Bryony's good side if I can help it. She is the only roommate talking to me right now.

"No late is too late for us, so you could stop by afterwards," Randy tries to persuade me. "We'd really like you to come."

"Maybe," I respond with no smile, no real commitment. Then I follow two other cheerleaders into the girls' locker room.

I need to make myself presentable and ask a few cheerleaders if they'd like to join me. Bryony wanted me to invite some "friends" over, but I haven't gotten around to it. Truth be told, I haven't made any good ones yet.

It's only October, I keep telling myself. Almost the end of October, and I've been here since August.

My inner reassurances are growing hollower by the hour. If I keep breaking hearts, turning down invitations, and rejecting every new advance, things will not improve.

Maybe I'm not trying hard enough, and that's something I can fix, right?

When I see Hadlee turn the corner, I blurt out her name, like she's the answer to my dilemma. Where she goes, others will follow...

I'm about to get into the shower, and I didn't want to miss her, but I probably should have let her put her stuff down first.

"Yeah?" Hadlee doesn't do more than glance at me and manages to sound confident and disinterested at the same time. She is "here" for us, but toward the end of the day, it must get tiresome.

I take a moment to grab my shampoo and conditioner from my locker like I'm good at this and it's all very casual. "Are you busy tonight?"

"A bunch of us girls are going to Karaoke and then we might stop by Ian's thing. Why?"

"Oh, never mind." I'm not nearly as persistent or as accommodating as Randy. "There was this party, but. . ."

"Have fun," she jumps in at my pause. "Maybe next time."

"Okay," I reply, forcing a smile through the sudden realization. I was invited to Ian's thing, but not the girls' night out, and Hadlee didn't exactly make that seem like an oversight.

And what does that tell me?

Nothing good, but I guess it doesn't matter. I have someplace to be and should turn down everything else, regardless.

After I shrug to myself, I head to the showers. Only one other shower is running. Most of us don't bother to shower in here at this time of night. I wouldn't normally either, but I'd rather do it here than in a house full of strangers.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea, though. The other shower clears out. I know I'm not the last one in the locker room, but it's starting to feel that way. I don't usually scare easily, but after the month I've had, some fears are reasonable, like Ted, who's been benched with a leg fracture. Who's probably more unhinged than ever. And then there's the unexplainable, like the disappearing "bite" on my heel and Ivy's likely involvement, and her valid reason to hold a grudge. In light of all that, I seem to be jumping at every shadow.

Sometimes, like now, it's almost like I'm being watched or followed. Is it a digital thing? I check for cameras. Or a physical entity?

My shower curtain rustles. Over the stream of water, I can hear footsteps if I really concentrate. It could be air currents or a teammate. I have no rational reason to assume it's the boogeyman...

Another shower starts, two down from mine. Is someone messing with me, or is it just another cheerleader with the same idea?

I turn the shower off and let the water drip from my body for a minute. I have absolutely no proof that anything strange is going on. It's just a feeling.

My instincts wouldn't do me a whole lot of good if I was ever confronted, I realize. I'm fast but not that fast, especially these days, with my back, like, one wrong move away from complete collapse.

Tucking myself into my towel, I peer beyond the curtain. One shower is still running. Based on the rhythm of the falling water, it's being used the way it is intended. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I step into the open and scurry to my locker, shivering and covered in gooseflesh. They heat this place like everyone just ran a marathon on a ninety-degree day. I genuinely feel bad for the swimmers.

My locker aisle is empty. I put on my dress with no need for modesty, as far I'm aware, and move to the sinks with my brush and blow-dryer. There are a few stragglers in the locker room, but I'm essentially alone in this area. I guess I took my sweet time in the shower.

I'm about halfway through my hair when Colbie shows up, her hair in a sloppy, dripping-wet bun. She must have been the one in the shower nearby.

She doesn't immediately say anything to me, which isn't unusual. Then she seems to notice my dress with her eyebrows furrowed and a grimace. It's lacy, white, sleeveless. I've never had the opportunity to wear it. And when I saw a five-dollar light-up halo at a convenience store, I found a solution to a problem.

I've never celebrated Halloween the way other teenagers do. My sister and I got cut off from it well before puberty. Even when we were little, we were never permitted to wear anything indecent, and anything even remotely blasphemous would qualify. Long story short, I didn't have a costume for Bryony's thing that I could recycle. Looking at the price tags at the costume store, I couldn't afford a new one, either. So, a pretty-little white dress and a cheap halo, and voila, I'm an angel.

On such short notice, and all things considered, I thought it was a good idea, but judging by Colbie's reaction, I'm now having some major doubts.

What am I, five?

"Where are you going?" Colbie inquires. She shakes the water from her hands and reaches for a paper towel.

I turn off the hairdryer. "A Halloween party." I wait a beat, debating whether to ask her. She gives off a tough, urban vibe. It's strong for a cheerleader. She would probably fit in better with my roommates than I do, but she's been chilly toward me lately. I think that's toward everyone, though, and I consider the possibility that she may be as disenchanted by the social scene as I am. "Would you like to stop by?"  

She snickers with disbelief. "I don't want to go to your stupid party!"

It's like she punched me. I can't breathe and tears gush into my eyes. I don't even know how to reply to that. Or if I should.

She probably has a whole lot more to say to me, but she takes one look at how pitiful I am and rolls her eyes. "You have no idea, do you?"

With a shaky hand, I set down the hairdryer. "Idea about what?"

"Why I don't like you," she spits out. "First of all, your boyfriend was probably beating you, and for some reason, I get blamed for it." 

"I never blamed you for anything."

"You didn't exactly correct anyone when they blamed me anyway. And then you tell everyone that I dropped you on purpose last week." 

"I never said that," I insist.

"Well, someone did."

"It wasn't me. Everything else, though . . . you're right. And I'm sorry." I dry my eyes with my bare arm. "I don't know what I'm doing most of the time, and it comes back to haunt me more than I'd like to admit. Ted Moeller is just one example," I finish with a sniffle.

Colbie sighs and seems to soften. "You need some serious help. I'm not just saying that. I really mean it. And I'm not talking about Hadlee, either. She's the viper queen around here, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."

I nod and shrug. She's right, about so many things, but I'm not sure where to go from here. Ted has upheld his end of the bargain—my silence, his restraint. He's leaving me alone. Well, that's assuming he wasn't responsible for the broken taillight. His rage comes to mind, but that's hardly a smoking gun. And now he's injured and probably out for the rest of the season. Isn't that karma doing its job?

"Have fun at your party." She tosses her paper towel in the bin and then pauses in the entryway. "And be careful, for once. You've got to start somewhere."

"True enough," I mutter and then turn the hairdryer back on.

Colbie leaves the area and the locker room soon after. I don't think she'll ever drop me on purpose. For the record, I never believed she had or led anyone else to believe that, either. That was conjecture and the malicious intent of someone else. And yes, we've cleared the air. Although it doesn't feel like it right now, it's a step in the right direction, for the team. Still, Colbie and I are not friends, and I don't think we ever will be, not after what I let happen. She had every right to be upset, and I was too brainless to realize why.

Let it be a lesson learned...

Lessons aren't sinking in that well in class, but I can strive for a C in real life, can't I...? 

I put on just enough makeup for a sweet southern girl at church, and then venture into the gusty night, wearing my frilly little white dress, no stockings, and just my warm-up windbreaker.

Crossing toward the parking lot, I catch sight of Ian, still on the football field, with his entourage of noteworthy people. There are cameras, reporters, administrators. It's easy to pick out his parents. His mother's hair is a similar shade of auburn. He inherited his good looks from her, no question. She is classy and stunning. His father looks respectable, wealthy, important. The guy next to him—wearing a suit, a scowl, and a curly white earpiece—seems to agree.

I shouldn't even be a speck on Ian's radar, but for some reason, I acquire his attention. It's probably just the dress in this setting.

Not wanting to interrupt, I just wave. He's too busy to do more than wave back, cool and calm, with charm and masculine grace.

Then I veer toward the parking lot.

Do his eyes linger? Do they follow me out?

I'll never know. I don't have the confidence to look back.

I get the sneaking suspicion he's watching me or trying to, without making it obvious. But, then again, my instincts are terrible. Colbie was not wrong.

And despite her warning, to be careful, I'm going from one zoo to another, tiptoeing around wild animals with bare legs and arms, hoping they don't bite. Not again, that is.

I can't quite say it's never happened before...