"We had a tough end to the last year. I know we all want to make this year better, and if anyone can do that, Elmwood High can."

The one cheerleader in the room, Estrella Santos, lets out a little "Woo-hoo!" and everyone laughs nervously. Except me, of course.

Mr. Bastow picks up a piece of paper, and I think it's finally time for him to go through roll call, or tell us about senior clubs, or whatever.

Instead, he starts reading what sounds like an official statement. "Elmwood is founded on a long tradition of inclusiveness and acceptance," he recites. "We strive to provide a safe space for education and self-discovery for all students. We have a zero-tolerance policy on bullying or intimidation of any kind."

The class goes absolutely silent. Mr. Bastow glances up at us and looks a little bit uncomfortable, but he keeps reading.

"The events of last March were heartbreaking and tragic. We are each responsible for restoring Elmwood High School's stellar reputation to its rightful place. This year will be a time for healing, and we will be instituting new initiatives to promote awareness and a mutual respect among the student body.

"We mourn the loss of one of our own, Emma Putnam, and we move forward with the goal of being a better community in the wake of this terrible tragedy. With education comes knowledge, and with knowledge comes understanding.

"We also have a new school policy: any student caught in an act of bullying or intimidation, online or otherwise, will be immediately suspended. Please report any incidents to Principal Schoen or any of your wonderful teachers." Mr. Bastow says this slightly sarcastically, but he waves his hand a little, as if to volunteer himself as one of those wonderful teachers. "Let's have a great year."

He reads the last line fast, then slaps the paper onto his desk, picking up another one. "Yael Abramowitz?" he calls.

Yael pauses a second before replying uncertainly, "Here?"

"Christopher Black?" Mr. Bastow goes on. The class slowly comes out of the trance the speech cast on us, and roll call goes on.

I'm staring at my desk, but on my left I can feel Cherrie looking over at me-not full-on, but just enough that I can feel the burn of her stare. And in front of me, Adam Levitt and Jamie Huang turn to each other, then glance over their shoulders at me.

Those murmurs in the hallway were nothing. Now I'm trapped, and everyone's just waiting for me to say something, to get kicked out of school for good.

I thought my trial started in four weeks, but obviously it's starting right now.

February.

"DUDE, ARE YOU kidding?" Brielle walks straight into the suite and does a spin in the middle of the floor, her arms flung out and her purse whipping around. "This is so much better than the stupid gym!"

I follow her inside, my heels sinking into the soft hotel carpet. It is nice in here. Dylan got a whole suite at one of the fanciest downtown hotels, and outside the big windows I can see there's a balcony overlooking the glittering city lights. It's not Times Square or anything, but it feels very grown-up, and I get a little dizzy from the sight. I feel the way I did at Dylan's practice the other day: like I'm in college, like I have a real life. Or I'm starting to, anyway. It's all out there, out in that glittery night.

Behind me, Dylan and Marcus are lugging in the half-keg of beer. Grunting, they set it down next to the suite's little bar area, where Tyler is breaking open bags of plastic cups.

I wobble on my heels a little walking over to the windows to get a better look. Brielle joins me, breathing heavily from her one-woman dance routine.

"This town is freaking lame," she announces. I had just been thinking that it looks really pretty like this-at night, from up high, with the winter air making everything extra sharp and sparkly-but I don't argue with her. Brielle's mood has been especially brittle since our talk with Schoen. I know I'm freaked out by the thought of our parents being hauled in to discuss our "behavior," and I think Brielle is too. Even if she'd rather die than admit it.

"I can't wait for college," I say, figuring that's a safe topic. We've both been planning to go out of state if we can, hopefully to the same place. Brielle likes Marquette, but I think that's just because this hot guy from last year's senior class went there. I want to go to Chicago, maybe. Except I'm not sure how I feel about being that close to my dad and his other family.

"Huh," Brielle says, tapping a long fingernail on the glass. "Aren't you mostly just applying to Lincoln, though? Not exactly, like, an enormous change of scenery."

I can't tell if she's trying to hurt my feelings, but this stings. It's not like I have any idea how many options are going to come through with any financial aid or whatever. I have to apply somewhere local, somewhere cheap. Plus it doesn't seem like such a terrible option to be close to my brothers-without actually living at home. And anyway, I want to point out, Brielle isn't exactly on the road to being valedictorian either-Marquette would probably work, but neither of us is going off to, like, MIT-when behind us the guys suddenly let out a yell.

"Whoa, whoa, watch out!" Tyler shouts-the loudest, as usual. He, Dylan, and Marcus are all holding Solo cups under the keg's faucet thing, trying to catch a fountain of foam that's spilling out of it.

"Amateurs!" Brielle yells, running over to the counter and grabbing a cup. She elbows her way between Tyler and Marcus and goes, "I told you guys you should get a professional in here!"

I use the distraction to sneak off to the master bedroom part of the suite, where I guess I'm staying with Dylan later. My mom wasn't happy about me "sleeping over at Brielle's after the dance"-a lie so close to being true, if we were just in a very nearby alternate universe-because she has, not surprisingly, stuff for us to do around the house this weekend. But I got all dressed up for the "dance" and let her take pictures of me and Dylan when he came to pick me up, and by the time I left she seemed kind of happy that I was having a normal teenager night out or whatever.

I don't think she'd be so happy to know where I really am, of course. And I can't get her out of my head as I throw my coat on the chair next to the endless king-size bed. Maybe because I suddenly feel like a kid again, here in this room that is so obviously made for adults. My mom expects me to act like her second-in-command, to do all the stuff she doesn't have time to do. But I'm supposed to be enjoying my high school experience, right? I have an awesome boyfriend. I have a whole fun group of friends. I have other stuff to do-I can't be worrying about Mom and her stupid home-improvement projects all the time.

I hear Brielle and the boys shouting from the living room and realize I can just go in there and drink too much beer with them, forget about everything. I kick off my heels, knowing that Brielle and I will end up jumping on the suite's couch and playing loud music. It'll be fun. It'll be great.

As soon as I shake this feeling that I'm a little kid, but a thousand years old, all at the same time.

I'm fully drunk by the time the party goes off the rails. Brielle has been doing keg stands with Tyler and Marcus holding her, even though Tyler keeps letting the skirt of her strapless red minidress ride up. My plain black number with a little lace overlay seems kind of sad and boring compared to her outfit, but at least I'm wearing my new black bra and underwear set from Victoria's Secret underneath it. Not that anyone knows that yet. Dylan and I are dancing around (well, I'm dancing around him), laughing at nothing, having a great time. Or at least we are when he's not checking texts on his phone.

"Who was that?" I ask. I'm too drunk to care that I sound needy or suspicious or lame or annoying. Or all of the above.

"Kyle's coming. And maybe a couple other guys from the team."

Across the room, Brielle lets out a loud "Woo-hoo!" but I don't know why. She didn't hear what Dylan just said, though I'm sure she'll be excited that the party's getting bigger soon. I'm finally starting to feel relaxed, and the thought of more people just makes me nervous again.

And then, maybe ten minutes later, the door opens and a million people come in. Jacob walks in with Noelle Reese-I heard they were back together, and I guess it's true-and Rob's there with a senior girl I don't know very well, Eliana Greene. A couple of guys from the baseball team, like Dylan promised, are followed by more senior girls, and then I see Kyle.

I know I've had way too much beer then, because the next part totally happens in slow motion. Like I'm in a movie.

A horror movie.

Emma Putnam is with Kyle. She's coming, she's here, she's in this suddenly tiny hotel suite, she's like a burst of blinding color in a black-and-white world. A flame of red hair and shiny blue silk and my white-hot fury.

Brielle is still over near the keg, talking loudly with Noelle. Dylan is fist-bumping all the guys, moving away from me toward the door where more people are spilling inside. I have a bubble around me, an invisible buffer. No one approaches, no one looks-the slow-motion nightmare fades but I'm alone, completely alone.

Finally, when I see Tyler and Dylan walk over to Kyle and Emma, and the four of them talking and laughing, I have to move. I force myself over to where Noelle and Alison Stipe are doing shots with Brielle. They seem like they're just fine without me, and I have to kind of shove my way between Alison and the kitchenette counter to join them.

"Hey, did you see Emma's here?" My voice is too loud and I actually hadn't meant to say anything about Emma, but all three girls snap to attention.

"Wow, that ho cannot take a hint," Brielle says, but her tone is way more mild than I would've expected.

Then I see that Noelle isn't surprised at all, so maybe Brielle's just trying to be cool in front of the senior. Noelle shrugs a shoulder-she has on a strapless dress too, in a deep purple color that looks amazing with her dark hair, and she looks a little bored with everything. But Alison says, "Well, I guess Kyle really likes her."

Brielle and Noelle laugh at this, so I do too.

"I guess he doesn't mind sloppy . . . what are we up to now? Fifths? Tenths?" Brielle sneers.

I think of the other day when Brielle insulted all the guys at Burger King, and I watch Noelle for her reaction to this. I mean, she's back with Jacob, one of the fifths (or tenths). But she just laughs and drinks more beer.

"So, pretty sweet digs for you and D-Bag," Brielle says to me. "Big romantic night, huh?"

I glance at Noelle again, but she's just waiting for me to respond. "Yeah, I guess so," I say. "Kind of a rager now, though." I swing my arm out to indicate the growing crowd and accidentally hit one of Dylan's teammates' shoulders. "Oops."

"Already trying to chicken out, huh?" Brielle nudges Noelle with her elbow and adds, "Sara's having second-time jitters."

"I am n-" I start to protest.

"Oh, totally," Noelle says, cutting me off. "You gotta shake it off. Once the chase is over, you start chasing him, keep him interested."

My mouth is still hanging open from my unfinished sentence, and now it's stuck that way in surprise. Brielle and Noelle look at me sympathetically, like they've been there a hundred times, kept a hundred hims interested. Like they just jumped out of the February issue of Cosmo. I don't look over at Alison, because I don't need to-she's been dating this guy Asher since freshman year. Brielle calls them Alisher behind Alison's back.

"At least he got you this nice room," Noelle adds, lifting her plastic cup in a little toast. "I had to remind Jacob to get me flowers."

Brielle laughs knowingly. I look around the room again, wondering where my wonderful, thoughtful boyfriend is now.

Still talking to Tyler and Emma. Standing really close to Emma, actually. I turn around again.

Brielle's eyes have followed mine and she goes, "She is so whatever. I mean, give it up already."

"He is totally hot," Noelle says, clearly understanding what Brielle means, even though I don't. "Seriously, dude, you're really lucky. He's a nice guy, too."

Oh, that's what she means. My nice, thoughtful, hot boyfriend. Anyone would want to have him. So I shouldn't be surprised that Emma's trying to, like, climb into his back pocket.

"Get over there, dumbass," Brielle says. She shoves me, harder than I think she means to, away from them and in the general direction of Dylan's little huddle. I'm still barefoot, so I don't completely topple over, but I stumble a few steps before bumping into Kyle's back. He doesn't even notice, just keeps talking to a couple of baseball guys. Still, I'm red-faced with embarrassment by the time I right myself and squeeze through the crowd to Dylan.

I press myself to his side and glare at Emma. Her eyes widen when she sees me, and then narrow a little. Like a challenge.

"So anyway, Dylan," she says, like I've interrupted a big conversation they were having, "it's too bad you couldn't come to the dance. It was super fun."

Tyler barks a laugh. "Oh, man, you know we love hanging out in the gym on Friday nights! What a bummer."

Emma's eyes dart over to him, wounded. "I helped decorate," she says defensively. "It looked really nice."

"Yeah, I'm sure it really did," I hear myself say. My sarcasm is so sharp and sudden that everyone flinches, even me. I don't want to act like a bitch in front of Dylan, but I can't stand this girl. Who does she think she is? She gets us kicked out of the dance and then shows up at our party? What the- "Okay!" Tyler announces. "Who needs beer? I need beer. Dollface?" He turns to Emma, putting an arm around her. "You look thirsty!"

For once in his life, Tyler does something useful and steers Emma to the other side of the room, leaving me and Dylan alone. I stare after them, wondering how Tyler could be mean to Emma with the rest of us, or tease her about the roses or whatever, and still want to hang out with her when he's drunk. I'm just about to ask Dylan why guys are so weird when he pulls me a little to the side and leans in close.

"You don't have to be mean to Emma," he says.

"But-" I stammer. "She's-"

"She's actually pretty nice," he goes on, as if I haven't said anything. Which I guess I haven't.

"She got me kicked out of the dance. And Brielle," I finally manage.

"That wasn't her," Dylan says. "I heard that was her mom. And anyway, didn't you guys put, like, a sign in her yard or something? And send her all those roses at school?"

He's really looking at me, and suddenly I feel like I'm back in Schoen's office. I didn't realize Dylan knew everything. I try not to ever talk to him about Emma, not since I acted like a pathetic idiot about the text she sent. I'm not supposed to care if he talks to her. And sometimes, like Tyler and Jacob, he complains about her too, calls her a slut and stuff. But then one of the guys starts seeing her-like Kyle-and everyone goes back to pretending she's cool.

Brielle is the only one who gets it, the only one who knows that Emma's a slut and shouldn't be talking to anyone else's boyfriend, much less hooking up with them. I look back over to where I was standing with her and the other girls before, but I don't see her. No matter what I do, I'm always on the wrong side of the room tonight.

I still haven't been able to say anything back to Dylan, and he sighs really loudly and goes, "I'm gonna get another beer, okay?"

I open my mouth, but he's already gone.

And then Brielle is there, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the bathroom. Everything is moving too fast, I can't keep track of anyone. She locks the door behind us and laughs at my shocked expression.

"You know this is a party, right?" she asks, turning to the mirror and yanking up the sweetheart neckline of her dress. She hops up and down, shifting her boobs higher, and purses her lips at her reflection.

I lean a hip against the sink counter, avoiding my own gaze, my own boring black dress. "I just don't understand why Emma had to come," I say, hating the pout in my voice but unable to smother it.

"God, I know," Brielle says. She's leaning in close to the mirror now, doing something to her mascara. "She totally needs to leave. I'm pretty much ready to bail myself. Marcus is actually kind of a dweeb. I dunno. I guess he's hot. I just don't think I'm in the mood." She leans back again, puffs out her chest in the mirror, then lets her breath out in a whoosh and kind of deflates, crossing her arms with a sigh. She looks sad and worried.

I start to reach out to her, faltering halfway, so my hands are kind of floating between us. "He seems really nice, but you know, if you're worried about . . . I mean, it's not like you guys have to be alone, I can totally-"

"Uch, God, shut up, Sara," she says, snapping back to her normal self. "Don't go all life coach on me, okay?"

I pull my hands back, so now we're both standing with our arms crossed, me facing her but not able to quite look her in the eye, and her glaring back at me.

"I didn't mean . . . ," I say, but I can't finish. I don't know what I didn't mean. She told me all that stuff about swim camp, but I guess it wasn't supposed to change anything. I kind of thought it changed everything. But I'm still the one who doesn't understand.

Suddenly I feel so angry at Brielle I could scream. I mean, I had sex with Dylan so she'd be nicer to me, so we'd have something in common, finally. So she'd, like, respect me. Instead, it turns out she had a whole different experience, and I'm still alone, I still don't have anyone to tell me what to do now.

Wait. Oh my God. I slept with Dylan so Brielle would be nice to me? What?

"Honey, don't look like that," Brielle says, and suddenly she's pulling me into a hug. "I'm totally fine, don't worry about me. Marcus is just all smart and stuff, it's kind of a drag."

She's holding my shoulders so my face is smooshed into her long hair. It's perfectly straight tonight, soft and smelling like flowers, but I can't breathe. Maybe if we ever hugged this wouldn't feel so awkward. It's a relief when she breaks free, almost pushing me away, giving her dress one more little adjustment.

"C'mon," she says. "That skank is slutting up the whole place. I'm sure everyone could use a break from her aura of skankitude."

"Her slutmosphere," I say, trying to get into the spirit.

"Ha! Yeah. Her whorbit." Brielle grabs her sparkly clutch from the counter and clacks across the tiles, throwing open the door. An Usher song throbs from somebody's fancy iPod speakers in the kitchenette.

Out of the bathroom, I immediately realize two things: One, this party is completely out of control. We'll be lucky if the hotel doesn't kick us out within the hour. I don't even recognize a bunch of the people here, and I'll be shocked if they leave in time for Dylan and me to have any romantic . . . whatever. Even though I was worried about being alone with him before, now I'm kind of sad that it probably won't happen, that the special romantic room has been taken over by this party.

And the second thing is-I don't see Dylan.

A lot of the guys here came straight from the dance, so they're still wearing nice button-down shirts and stuff. I made Dylan wear a tie, so it'd be more believable to my mom that we were going to the dance, but he took it off when we got to the hotel. Still, he has on a nice red shirt, and he's tall, and all night it hasn't been hard to spot him. I mean, we're in a freaking hotel room. It's a suite and everything, but it's not that big.

So I hurry farther into the room, out where I can see the whole kitchenette . . . not here. Or maybe in the big bedroom . . . not there either, and gross, Noelle and Jacob are making out on the bed. Ugh. So, okay, there's a smaller bedroom on the other side . . . more people making out, gross again.

I hurry back to the master bedroom and grab my shoes, just so I have them, careful to not look at the bed, and rush back into the main part of the suite. Think, think. I stopped drinking a while ago but I'm still all dizzy and wired, and it feels like I'm just standing there forever, until finally-the balcony. Duh. Dylan doesn't smoke, but lots of people have been going out there all night and he must've gone with one of them.

I spin around a little too fast and have to catch myself with one of the curtains, pulling it back. That helps me find the handle to the glass door, and it slides open easily, unlocked already.

The cold smacks me in the face as soon as I step outside, and I still have my shoes in my hand, so my feet go numb almost immediately. And then the wind is in my eyes, which fill with tears before I can even blink. So at first, I'm not actually sure that I'm seeing what I'm seeing.

But I am; I'm seeing it.

At the other end of the balcony, leaning against the wall and totally oblivious that they're not alone, are Dylan and Emma.