I wipe my clammy hands on the rough fabric of my jeans and twist the keys in the lock, the clang of metal on metal too intrusive in the dark hallway of our small quiet building. Mom must realize I'm here because I start to hear her light footsteps approaching from inside, followed by heavier running ones—Roan.

I push the door open and brace myself for the worst. The first thing I notice is the red-purple bruise on her cheekbone under puffy, swollen eyes. Then, her beautiful hair messier than ever, thick locks falling out of her low bun. Roan stands next to her, looking younger than his age, hiding behind her long skirt.

I rush to them in two long strides, hugging them with both arms and a fresh wave of tears threatens to spill. I push it back, having composed myself the minute Theo drove away. He asked if he should stay because he didn't mind, but I insisted that he shouldn't. He's already done enough.

Mom shakes her head in her hands. "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. I don't know—"

"Shhh," I soothe her.

I know very well the reason behind her sudden remorse. She's afraid it's her fault, that he turned out this way because of her, because she was never enough for him. She's sorry that she couldn't do more to protect herself, to protect us. I know this very well because although we look and act nothing alike, although she's a soft peach and I'm a hard apple, I grew up sharing those exact fears and insecurities.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You never did. It was him," I mutter to her—and myself.

She nods in my chest and tries to believe my words. We stay like this for a while until she pulls away, shakily wiping the wet patches on her cheeks, and looks at me like she just remembered something. Eyes wide, she asks, "I heard yelling downstairs. What happened, honey?"

I explain to her the ordeal, leaving out the excruciating details that I'd gone through myself like the defeated look on my father's face when he finally walked away. By the end of it, she's in another fit of tears but I convince her that it's the right thing. She has to believe it. "At least he's not in jail," I say to which she nods tearfully.

After cleaning her up and taking her to bed, I am exhausted and drained, both physically and mentally.

I step into my room silently, cautious of the strewn shirts and empty bottles on the floor. There's a lump under Roan's comforter indicating his presence sleeping deeply. Slumping on my own bed wearily, I can't help but wonder what Roan saw and lived through before I got that night-changing call. Did he sleep easily? Or is his brain replaying the night in his dreams?

I start to take off my shoes when Roan shifts under his comforter and sighs.

"Roan, are you still awake?"

He turns to me and peeks above his blanket. "Yeah. I can't sleep."

"I don't think anyone can tonight," I snort, taking off my other shoe when an idea pops in my head. "Wanna see something cool?"

"Sure."

I give him my back and slip off my shirt so that the tattoo is on full display. The cool air on my exposed skin makes me shiver.

"Broooo," he exclaims. There's a shuffle of the sheets and a groan of wood telling me that he sat up straight. "It looks so sick! You're almost cool enough to be Ryuko Matoi."

I slightly turn my head to him in question. "Huh?"

"Exactly, almost cool enough," he scoffs.

I slip my shirt back on and roll my eyes. "You are so lucky to have a badass as a sister."

He giggles. "Yeah right, I bet you cried like a wuss when you got that."

"Oh yeah?" I turn to him and rest my hands on my hips.

He scoots further back in his bed. "Yeah, I bet he gave you a lollipop afterwards."

With sudden movements, I catch him on guard and fiercely chuck a pillow at him that makes him fall back on his bed, laughing wildly.

"Keep talking, maybe I'll stick you to that dart board and show you how Raki Mati I can be."

He laughs even louder. "You mean Ryuko Matoi."

"What did I just say?" I ask over my shoulder, and step into the bathroom.

༺༻

The next Monday, I walk the hallways with a profound feeling of relief. The initial despair from Friday disappears and turns into a sense of purpose—today is going to be a good day. One of my major drawbacks are gone, it's the week of the fundraiser, and . . . There is something else. I try not to follow that dangerous train of thought, but Theo's face flashes in my mind nevertheless.

Every shred of logic in me screams at me to forget him, but it's easier said than done. It took me the entire weekend to admit the feelings that often spring around him are not as platonic as they should be. I feel safer around him. Weaker. I let my guard down when he's with me.

But another side of me that thinks differently. He's already seen the worst of me, the part that I'd hidden so well from everyone else. It's the raw, ugly side that I wish he didn't meet and know. I realize, with a squeeze of my heart, that it's the base of myself—and he saw all of me that night. He may have protected me and offered to stay the night, but it was the polite thing to do. If it were Tave instead of Theo that night, he'd have done the same thing. After all, he didn't text me to check up on me over the weekend. And it hurt me more than I care to admit. What if it's just too much for him? He's not obliged to handle my baggage.

I stop myself before I start spiraling that dark path again and decide that it's best to keep my distance. I didn't overcome a problem to just face another. He's becoming more of an issue than I'd bargained for.

With a jolt, Zain's face appears when I shut my locker. Her jaw is stretched in a deep yawn, and she rubs her eyes with her hand. It looks like she hasn't slept all night.

When I look at her in question, she states the obvious: "I've been up all night."

"You don't say."

She lets out an exasperated sigh. "My messy ass family chose yesterday to celebrate a Greek national holiday—a month later than the supposed date because they were out of the country."

"You're Greek," I say it as a statement more than a question. It shouldn't have taken me this long to realize. If the last name Petrakis isn't a dead giveaway, then her deep olive complexion, curls that defy gravity, and bushy eyebrows are.

"Yes, and exhausted." She yawns again. "But enough about me. How'd it go on Friday? With your mom."

I shift the bag off my sore back and wonder how much I should tell her. I don't want her to think I don't trust her but there are things about myself that I don't want anyone to know—it doesn't matter that one person found out.

"She got hurt in an accident," I answer, forcing myself to keep our eyes locked. She nods slowly, her lips tightening, and I can tell she doesn't believe me. I feel heavy as the invisible barrier between us thickens. More lies. And I wonder why I don't fit in here.

༺༻

During lunch, we sit outside in the school courtyard. I don't see Theo all day—not even in our physics class—and I worry that he's deliberately avoiding me. It makes the pizza in my mouth hard to swallow.

Tucking my skirt under my legs, I try to make the question casual and airy, "Where's Theo?"

"He didn't come to school today." Tave tucks his chin, and raises an eyebrow. "Missing him already?"

I narrow my eyes and shoot him a sarcastic smile, but say nothing as I shove a bite of pizza in my mouth. You should've stayed quiet.

"So are you guys, like, a thing?" Zain asks.

The food lodges in my throat, and I cough until it slides down my esophagus. My cheeks heat up, and I sip some water, chew some more until I gain casualty. "Where'd you hear that?"

They share a look before Tave says, "Word spreads around here. I think I heard it from Atlas or something."

Shit. I'd forgotten about Atla's assumption. At the moment, I didn't think it would be a big deal and that he'd deem it an irrelevant piece of information. But I should've known better. Pigs can fly before he lets me have anything easily.

"It's not true," I assure them. "There's nothing going on between us."

"You mean to tell me,"—Tave slyly grins—"There are no knobs in the fanny or secret jobbies under the sheets that you've been hiding," he says in a haughty English accent.

I laugh at his horrible impersonation, not having understood half of his words. "That was awful."

"Terrible," Zain adds.

"Appalling."

"And never to be done again."

"Okay, okay, geez. It's the last time," he relents, putting his hands in the air. "But you've got Buckley's chance if you think I'm dropping this gnarly accent," he adds after a minute, switching to an Australian accent.

Zain and I groan in unison, making him bark out a laugh.

Soon enough lunch is over, and the day ends, and Theo doesn't make an appearance. I try not to let it bother me, choosing, instead, to focus on the subway venture Marli and I are going to have after school. She's been so busy with her school work that we haven't been able to go on one for almost a month. In lieu, we'd spend our time at either one of our houses or at her mom's convenience store.

I'm leaning on the hood of an electric blue Bugatti Chiron, waiting patiently for Ezra's car to drive through the gates, when I spot Atlas strolling down the stairs from one of the school buildings with Idris and Zale. He throws his head back in a laugh, punching Idris's shoulders, and I'm struck again at the stark contrast from his usual self. If I didn't know Atlas, I'd think he's another preppy kid, nice but just enough with good looks and an unreasonable amount of money. In an alternative universe where I fit with these people, being born into good money, Atlas and I would be good friends. He's nice enough to everyone else in this school.

But the image of alternative universe Atlas disappears when we lock eyes and all hints of mirth on his face fade away. I watch as his friends follow his gaze to spot me. Zale is the nicest, and he runs a hand through his side-swept blonde hair before fake-saluting me. I nod back with a small smile.

They exchange goodbyes, and Atlas starts making his way towards me, hands shoved in his pockets. I can tell Ezra's tardiness that I'd initially not minded is now going to be a bother, and I'd have to stand with Atlas in tense silence as we wait.

I keep my gaze locked on the arching steel gates, ignoring his presence. The wind is strong, and it makes my ponytail flicker behind me. From my peripheral vision, Atlas looks up from his phone and pauses. "We need to talk about the fundraiser this Friday."

"What about it?" I ask. "If you're going to demand I behave, then save your breath. I know it's hard to believe, but I'm not a wild animal you need to keep on a leash."

"I wouldn't be so sure." He rolls his eyes, and I ignore the jab. "But no, that's not what I wanted to say. This isn't just a formal event, it's more of a gala. With gowns and suits and everything. And my father can't have a personal guest as important as you underdressed."

I scoff. "Then don't invite me. This sounds like another unnecessary social event hosted just to show off their expensive dresses and luxurious lifestyle, taking away all attention from the charity case."

He glowers at me. "Are you always this ungrateful? Do you have any idea how exclusive this event is? How much money people would pay to get an invitation while you get to walk in without paying a dime?"

A surge of liquid hot anger wraps itself around my chest. He knows nothing of gratitude or being grateful. What hardships can he possibly face? This is another empty façade for their benefit, parading around and making sure every news reporter knew of their little fundraiser to make themselves feel better. "Don't talk to me about being ungrateful."

Sucking in his lips, he closes his eyes and collects himself. Good, I think. "My mother's personal stylist will dress you for the evening, and Kevin will drive you to our house to get ready—of course, all expenses paid. All you have to do is make an appearance, show up in a few pictures, and be quiet."

I can already how big of a deal this event is going to be, but before I dwell on it for too long, the sleek car finally makes an appearance, and I inwardly thank God for the end of this conversation. Without another word from either of us, we step into the car and drive away.