My dress feels a little itchy, my shoes are too small and I definitely don't want to be here.

I've been hiding behind this beautiful and lush fern for the last fifteen minutes, and the more I stay here the more it looks like a good place to spend the rest of the evening—a spot so private and cozy. Here I don't risk bumping into one of the posh younglings of the Montrose Institute, or their parents.

And, above all, I won't have to weather the wrath of my roommate Roz if I keep avoiding the party.

I would have gladly skipped it, but it is mandatory for students and teachers alike to participate. It's a fundraising for extra activities and scholarships, so the least we can do is showing up to say thank you for the first-rate education we're given. No one seems to enjoy it, but adults can find solace in booze, while I'm stuck in a corner like a scared mouse in house with a hungry cat.

Why did Rogan have to bail on Roz? Why couldn't he just be her date for tonight?

I've not spoken to him—I've not so much as looked his way—since the night of our first game. Since the kiss.

Oh my God, that kiss.

Not the right time to marvel at that.

It cost me—a lot. Yet, I can't regret it, not even when Roz is still giving me hell for it. She's been trying to ruin my life since she saw us, and she's accomplished enough already. But what else can I do to please her? To keep her quiet? I pushed Rogan away, I tried as harshly as my heart could bare; it's not my fault, though, if against my efforts she hasn't managed to get her claws on him.

A little cough steals my attention.

"Excuse me, what are you doing here?"

"Balthazar! Hi, I'm just... just..."

"Hanging out with your new friend?"

I look around like a fool and then I blurt, "Oh, you mean this... plant. No, I... no, just acclimating, you know."

He smiles, kind as usual, and says, "I get it. It's hard to get used to it, some never do. Look at Ben, he's so intimidated by these boring parties that he feels the compulsive need to hide his vulnerability with stupid pranks. Those are his fern."

I can't help but smiling a little at that. "Are you sure? Because it looks like he really enjoys his pranks."

"Sure he does, because he thinks they make him smart, in his own personal way of course. You cannot deny that he manages to impress the unimpressables, though."

"No," I laugh out. "I would never deny it. But I'm not bold enough to follow his example, I fear."

"Well, that doesn't mean you have to hide. Some company would be of help, I think. Why don't you join me and Lily?"

"Oh, no. I don't want to be a third wheel—"

"Nonsense. Plus, we need someone to help us keep an eye on Ben."

"Alright then, if it's a matter of security I'll join you two."

So I follow them to a table and sit next to Lily. She's a nice girl, I get why Balthazar likes her. We chat about school and classes and I'm just starting to think that this party might not be thorough torture after all, and then Rogan arrives.

I feel my knees wobble under his quicksilver gaze—luckily I'm already sitting or I'd literally fall for him. He is handsome, very handsome, especially in his grey suit, but I'm not the kind of girl who drools over a good-looking boy. Only, this time is different. There's something about the way he looks at me, the way he smiles at me, that I just can't figure out. And maybe he can read that on my face, maybe he knows the effect he has on me, otherwise why would he search me with his eyes? Why would he seek me after the way I treated him?

And there he is again, beaming, like a stupid, stubborn puppy that keeps coming back after being beaten over and over. And I hate having to be the one who does it!

"Hey guys, I got to take this call," I say showing my phone, suddenly come to life with a soft buzzing. Thank God I have an excuse to duck out. Then I peer down at the screen and freeze recognizing the incoming number.

"Is everything alright, Jules?" Lily asks me.

No, I want to scream. There's nothing right.

My brother has been calling me for days now, and after that first argument with him I haven't had the guts to pick up the phone again. Not after learning that he knows everything. I'm terrified that if I keep refusing to talk to him he'll uncover my lie and tell my mother I tricked her, but I can't speak to him—I don't want to.

"Y-yes. You know what? I don't need to answer that, actually." I turn back to take my seat, but Rogan is perched on the chair right next to mine.

Ok Jules, don't freak out. He's just your captain. You're perfectly able to sit down and engage in civil conversation.

In fact, it turns out pretty easy.

"Why are you wearing your lacrosse shoes?" I ask Rogan, barely holding a laughter. I've noticed only now that choice so at odds with his outfit.

He seems surprised that I've addressed him first, but he promptly replies, "Oh, it's that I'm a little superstitious. I wear them everywhere I go for the entire championship."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, why? You don't like them?" he asks raising an eyebrow.

"No, it's not that. Only, you are always so..."

"Do you mean Mr. Perfect, perhaps?" Balthazar cuts in.

"Yeah, something like that," I laugh.

"What can I say," brags Rogan, "I'm unpredictable as my play."

"Unpredictable is not the word I'd choose," says Ben, stepping between Rogan and me and resting his arms on our shoulders.

"Where did you come from, man?"

"Rogan, this is unpredictability. Learn from the best."

He scoffs and pulls away. "I'm good, thanks."

I missed this, joking and laughing together—with my team, my friends. I was so caught up in Roz's threats that I excluded them too.

I'm still smiling at something stupid that Ben said, when someone brushes my arm with his fingers.

"Rogan," I breath out, taken aback.

"I'm tired of listening to Ben's idiocy. Why don't we open the dances?" He gestures toward the center of the room, where a few couples linger, swaying in time with the music without having the courage to step forward.

I can't.

"Yes," I hear my voice saying. And the next thing I know is that I'm holding Rogan's hand and walking toward the dance floor.

How did it happen?

I'm pretty sure this will be my downfall, but... To hell with Roz and her bloody schemes! She's already told my brother I'm playing with the Cavaliers and screwed my plans, what else can she do? Let her come. It stops now, I won't be her puppet anymore.

"Rogan, I'm glad you asked me to dance."

۝

I can't believe she's here, in my arms. It seems like nothing ever happened, like the artic indifference she reserved me in the past days has melted away with the golden light glinting off the glassy chandeliers of the great hall.

I shouldn't have asked her to dance, my head says as much—and I shouldn't care for her. But my heart tells a different story. Suffer love! A good ephitet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love her against my will. The more I try to forget the taste of her lips, the more I crave them. She could stab me with that alien cold stare any moment, I know, but right now all I want is to lose myself in the depths of her dark eyes, to breath in the crisp scent of her cinnamon curls. I want to feel like this for ever, lightheaded and dizzy, brimming with joy.

"Rogan, I'm glad you asked me to dance."

"Don't distract me, I'm seriously trying not to step on your foot. You'll need it to run on the court tomorrow."

Jules giggles and replies, "Yes, definitely, but I'm the dangerous one here. I think I can trust your dancing skills, you're pretty good actually. How did you learn?"

I huff, "My grandmother, she taught me when I was a kid. I hated it, but I endured her lessons because she said that one day a waltz might do the difference in winning over the heart of a certain girl. Is it working, by the way?"

"I don't know... Keep trying, though."

When she smiles like that I can't think straight.

"Ok, I'll do my best." Then I spin her around the center of the dance floor, and we keep laughing as we pirouette our way through the other couples.

"I need a break, Rogan," Jules pants, skin flushed and mirth dancing in her eyes. She is simply beautiful, even in her plain blue dress and with only a drop of make-up.

"What? But we just started," I protest.

"We've been dancing for at least an hour!"

"Well... you should train a little harder if you cannot keep up."

"Roger that, captain. Now, if you'll excuse me I need to freshen up. Don't forget me while I'm gone."

"I never could."

۝

I take in my reflection, and I try to brush that foolish smile off my face. "Why won't you go away?" I murmur.

"I thought you were just dumb, not schizo."

I look up to find Roz staring angrily at me from the mirror of the toilet. I debate for a moment if facing her or not—I fear she might turn me to stone with her glare if I do. But in the end I don't trust giving her my back.

"What do you want?" My voice is flat, like I don't even care what she replies.

Her words are laced with venom when she says, "The question is, what do you want?"

"I've had enough of your play, leave me alone." I step forward, ignoring her and reaching for the handle of the bathroom door. Then I only have time to sense the lack of support under my feet and the feeling of falling, that my body strikes the ground with a thud.

"That's exactly what I'm going to do," Roz hisses, and leaves.

"Ouch." I slowly lift myself, checking that everything's alright. When I try standing up I realize the heel of my left shoe snapped. "Perfect!"

The bloody bitch actually tripped me! She could have gotten me injured!

I manage to walk out of the toilet and find Rogan waiting for me outside.

"Hey, are you alright? Why did it take you so long?"

I cross my arms, knitting my eyebrows. "Does that really seem a proper question to ask a lady? What if I have diarrhea?"

Rogan's mouth fells open, awkwardly gaping and closing like a fish.

It makes me laugh and I say, "Don't worry, my bowels are in perfect state, which I cannot say for my shoes." I show him the broken slipper, dangling from my finger while I try to balance myself on my right foot.

"Oh, that's a problem. You can't dance like that." He seems truly disappointed.

"Really? Oh my God, I hadn't thought about that! What a shame..." My sarcasm must show, because he hurries to say, "Sorry, I didn't mean... Here, take mine." He starts taking off his shoes.

"What are you doing?"

"Put them on," he insists, slipping my feet inside them, first one, then the other.

I bite my lower lip, sheepishly smiling as he ties the stings, but luckily he can't see me. Then he stands and we stare at the black shoes that make me look duck-footed.

"Well, at least you won't have to walk bare-footed to your dorm," Rogan says.

I smile and answer, "Thank you. Will you be ok?"

"Sure, I'm still the most well-dressed guy at this party." He stirs his toes inside the socks.

"That's right, but will I jinx you somehow? Your ritual for championship, you know..."

"I never said that I cannot lend my shoes."

I nod, reassured, and promise, "Ok, then I'll go take another pair and I'll come right back to you."

I've been drunk only once in my life, but this feels exactly like it—I'm drunk on Rogan. And I can't help but humming all the way to the dorm, dangerously swaying now and again, blissfully content and very much oblivious to anything else.

Tomorrow's game, the first of the playoffs, seems so far away; even my brother and the impending disaster are just hazy and distant thoughts. Nothing can shake my happiness right now.

"Hello sister."

Ok. I was wrong.

"Preston," I bubble, locking my gaze on my brother's tall figure with a smile still frozen on my lips.

He stands with his back pressed against the wall of my dorm, hands stuffed into the pockets of his kaki cargo pants and a dark cardigan loosely resting over his broad shoulders, looking perfectly at ease, like he belongs here.

"Why are you here?" If there was an Oscar for the stupidest questions ever, I'd win it.

I can see Preston's nostrils flare as his dark eyes narrow to slits, and I almost believe he could start breathing fire like a dragon.

"You keep hanging up on me, so I had to drive here myself."

The moment I feared has just arrived. This confrontation can't wait any longer.

I ball my hands into fists and say with all the calm I can muster, "You made a trip for naught, I'm not coming home."

"Oh, that's to be seen my dear sister. Did you really think you could betray your family—betray me—and that I wouldn't find out? Your little foolery stops now Jules!"

"Listen, I know you're angry, and it's right. I lied and I shouldn't have, but you and mom made me do this. I just wanted to play, nothing more, if you'd let me—"

"Don't dare! Don't put the blame on me, you know I couldn't do anything."

"Ok!" I scream with tears pricking in my eyes. "You couldn't, I get it. But here, now, you can. You can let me stay."

His rigid frame stiffens even more. "Jules..."

"Please, Preston, only a few more matches. Just until the end of the playoffs. We won't get there anyway probably."

He seems to consider my words. It's a first step.

"The playoffs is all you get," he declares, eventually giving in.

"Thank you!" I crush myself into his body, letting his fingers travel from my arms to my hair, pulling it away as he whispers in my ear, "Don't make me do anything that both of us would regret, sister."

Then Preston pulls away and I let him go, lest he might change his mind. The headlights of his bottle-green Mustang disappear behind the building, finally leaving me alone.

At least, I think I'm alone until I see him, standing expressionless on the other side of the walkway.

"Rogan." His name is just a strangled sound stuck in the back of my throat.

Then he runs away.