I waggled my hand for her to give it back.

“Are you getting this?” Mr. Fuller asked, zeroing in on the three of us.

“Yes, Mr. Fuller. We need to minimize the photos before the initial upload,” I answered.

Satisfied, he continued with the presentation. Maddie’s eyes lit up at an incoming text and at lightning speed texted something back before handing me the phone. When I checked the message log I nearly fainted.

“Mads, I would never say ‘fuckin’ A’ in response, are you crazy?” I said, once we were outside heading toward the bus. I tried to sound mad, but I couldn’t. The thought of Grayson’s reaction was too funny.

“Sorry! When he said ‘hells yeah’ after I asked him if Mads and Jazz could come, well, I got caught up in the moment.”

“Who said I want to get good and schnockered this weekend?” Jazz asked. “And who’s Andy? We don’t even know these people.”

Maddie jumped in front of both of us, hand up, like an elfin traffic cop with her woolen newsboy cap slightly askew and her blond, spiky tufts sticking out. “Would the two of you get over yourselves?”

Jazz opened her mouth, but Maddie interrupted again.

“Look, I applaud your decision to do a half marathon, but missing one training run to go to what sounds like a helluva party isn’t going to ruin your finish time. And you?” she continued, focusing on me. “You keep debating whether Grayson likes you as more than a friend—well, get a clue—he just invited you to a party! Probably with plans to continue where he left off the other day. Hells bells, chicas, we need this.”

“Mads, stop,” I said, reddening at the thought of Grayson’s ambush kiss. It had been stunning and warm and incredible. And scary . . . I’d never felt such an immediate rush with anyone. If I hadn’t pulled away, I might have still been there. But anytime I thought of continuing where we left off, it completely consumed me.

“I never said I wouldn’t go,” Jazz said, her eyes wary. “Just wanted to think about it.”

“What’s to think about? I don’t know Andy either, but he uses the word schnockered, and I kind of love that in a person. And your potential new boyfriend just earned major friend points by being enthusiastic about our presence at said party. It’s a win-win sitch.”

“Fine then, I’m in, but I’m not getting schnockered,” Jazz said.

“Yay, she’s agreed to go,” Maddie said, linking her arm through Jazz’s. “We’ll work on the schnockered bit. Wren, make sure you get the deetz. Could this really be happening? Could the three of us have plans together for the weekend?”


After dinner I called Grayson for the deetz.

“‘Fuckin’ A,’ Wren, really?” he asked, laughing.

“So you know that wasn’t me?”

“Maddie got a hold of your phone?”

“How’d you guess?”

“So you don’t want to go?”

“I do, yeah. Want to go. It’s okay for you to go? With your dad and everything?”

“Tiff’s got everything covered. He just needs to take it easy and, well, yeah, when Andy sent me the text, I didn’t think twice. This is just what we need. Don’t you think?”

We. Oh, how I loved the way that sounded. “Definitely.”

“Cool, but you guys need to meet me there. I kind of have to help set up,” he said.

That stopped me cold. “Um, sounds formal?”

“No, not like that. I’m part of the entertainment.”

“Get out.”

“Yeah, Andy and I have a band. Haven’t played together in a while though.”

“So you’re in a band band?”

“Yes. A band band. You know, we play music.”

“So what are you? Lead singer?” I asked, trying to envision Grayson behind a mike.

“Ah, you see me as a front man? Nice . . . but no.”

“Then what? Guitar, bass, tambourine?” I asked. “You’ll have to come to the party if you want to find out.”

“Grayson, please.”

“Nope. You have to promise me you’ll be there.”

“Fine, yes. We’ll be there.”


On the night of Andy’s party, Mads came down with a stomach bug—which must have been really, really, really awful, for her to bail on our night out—but she mustered up enough strength for a pre-party fashion confab via Skype.

“So which one would he be in The Break fast Club?” Jazz asked.

“What?” I asked, holding up a black miniskirt and Brooke’s True Religion skinny jeans that I had on loan during her pregnancy for Mads to see.

Mads coughed, her pale face filling my laptop screen. “Oh, God, Wren, no jeans and TOMS tonight—please sex it up! What does this have to do with The Break fast Club?”

“Fine,” I said, tossing the jeans onto my bed.

“You know, I think it might help to know what kind of guy he is . . . brain, athlete, criminal . . . so you can tailor your outfit,” Jazz said, rocking in my computer chair. Mads had talked her into wearing dark skinny jeans tucked into five-inch knee-high boots, which made her incredibly toned legs look like they went on forever.

“Jazzy, have you seen Grayson? Who cares about his personality type? Lemme see that purple sweater, the one with the deconstructed neckline, and that, um, black top with the shirred waist . . . cough . . . the one that ties on the sides.”

“He’s kind of all three,” I answered, grabbing the tops from my closet and showing them to her.

“Purple, with the matching tank. Your boobs look awesome in that shirt,” Mads said, “and the common denominator for brain, athlete, and criminal is the boobies.”

“Do you have to be so juvenile?” Jazz asked. “What do you mean he’s all three?”

“He’s just . . . I don’t know . . . a little bit of each,” I answered, from behind my closet door while pulling on my tights and shimmying into my outfit.

Mads laughed, her voice hoarse. “Yum. A hybrid. That’s hot. So he’s kind of a . . . brainathiminal.”

Jazz clapped her hands. “Omigod, that’s perfect!”

I chuckled, climbing into my riding boots.

“I guess. So what do you think?” I asked, twirling in front of the computer. I caught a glimpse of myself in my full-length mirror. Mads was right; the shirt did hug me in all the right places. Grayson had never seen me in anything so revealing. The thought of his reaction made my stomach flutter.

“Wren Caswell, I would do you,” Mads said.

“Thanks, I think.”

“Me too,” Jazz said.

“Guys, stop.”

“Okay, my work is done.”

“What are we going to do without you?” Jazz asked, getting up from my chair. The two of us stood in front of the computer, waiting for words of wisdom. It would feel strange without Mads there. She brought up her fist to her mouth, cleared her throat, and sat up straight.

“Ladies—go forth. Flirt enough for all three of us and, for fuck’s sake, have fun! I expect a full debrief après party. This is a dare-to-be-great situation.”

“Dare-to-be-great situation? Mads, you just quoted Say Anything!” Jazz said.

“Do you think that was by accident? See, I pay more attention than you think. Maybe you’ll find your Lloyd Dobler tonight, Jazz. And I hope you and your brainathiminal need a fire hose to break it up, my smoking-hot girl wonder. Now excuse me, I have a date with a Supernatural marathon and my trash can.”


“Are you sure this is it?” Jazz asked.

“Yep, five twenty-three Oak,” I said, staring up at the brick town house. No sounds of a band. No lights on inside. The street itself was a dead end, lonely and dark. Only a small, lit evergreen tree on Andy’s stoop suggested the season. I knew Grayson wouldn’t have tricked me, but maybe I’d remembered the numbers wrong. I pulled off my glove with my teeth to check my phone again.

“It’s freezing, and my feet are killing me,” Jazz said, stomping. I shivered as I scrolled through the messages.

“Nope, right address,” I said, staring up at the town house again. “I guess I could call him.”

Just when I was about to dial Grayson, a guy carrying a case of Stella Artois appeared out of nowhere.

“Here to see Sticky Wicket?”

On closer inspection he was probably too young to be carrying the beer, but he definitely looked like he knew where to find the party. Grayson had never told me the band’s name, but I figured I’d give it a shot.

“Yeah, Andy’s house?” I asked.

“Yep, follow me. Name’s Logan.”

As Logan led us, Jazz showed me her pepper-spray key chain. I rolled my eyes. We followed him down a narrow alleyway along the side of the town house. My eyes adjusted to the dark, but there wasn’t much to see. Just when I was thinking the pepper spray wasn’t such a bad idea, we finally reached a door. Logan fumbled with the doorknob. I grabbed it for him.

“Thanks, angel,” he said. Was he joking? I winced at the forced affection and gestured for Jazz to follow him before I went in.

Strains of music surrounded us as we tromped down wooden stairs to a laundry room. Logan put his beer on top of the dryer, shrugged off his leather jacket, and covered the case of Stella with it.

“Here, let me,” he said, helping Jazz, then me, with our coats and slinging them over a peg on the wall that was already piled high with cold-weather gear.

“How do you know Andy?” he asked, giving each of us a not-so-subtle once-over.

“Oh, I don’t. We’re here with Grayson Ba—”

“Gray, should have known. He’s always with the prettiest girls,” Logan said, looking from me to Jazz before I could finish my sentence.

Jazz beamed with the compliment. My mind was stuck on the always part. What did that mean?

“C’mon.” Logan pulled open a white door to a crowded room. We wedged ourselves into a wall of people and got absorbed whole, squeezing our way to an open pocket. Sticky Wicket was doing a cover of “Howlin’ for You,” and the whole room seemed to sway along to the beat. It felt like we’d wandered into a secret underground club, which in a way I suppose we had.

The room was huge, with exposed brick walls and dim lighting. The cartoon version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas played on a huge flat-screen TV in the corner, for show apparently, since no one could possibly hear it over the music. There were couches and chairs and one couple going at it so hot and heavy on a giant beanbag chair, I felt like a voyeur. I stood on tiptoe and caught a glimpse of the shaggy-haired lead guitarist/singer, but couldn’t spot Grayson. That’s when the crowd parted slightly, and I saw him.

The drummer.

He was completely lost in the song, his eyes closed. He moved his head with the beat, hair flipping in and out of his face. The crowd swelled and blocked my view again. I moved to get a better look, leaning against a pillar and craning my neck. Grayson’s eyes were open. He and the guitar player nodded to each other in mutual approval.

“Maddie’s right,” Jazz whisper-shouted into my ear.

I cupped my hand around her ear. “What?”

“You’re a fiending lust puppy around him,” she said, tilting her chin toward Grayson.

I covered my mouth, reeling from her observation. Crap, was I drooling?

I watched Grayson, his arms lean and muscled, as he banged out the beat. His taut gray CBGB shirt moved with his body; his mouth puckered slightly, skin flushed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. He finally spotted me in the crowd. My legs went weak. I ran a hand through my hair and smiled, watching him retreat into his drummer bliss once again. Then it was over with a thrash of the drums and the singer’s loud voice promising, “Be right back!”

“Hey, there’s a new game of king’s cup forming, want to join in?” Logan asked, forcing his way through the crowd back to us.

Jazz and I stood frozen, his invitation hanging in the air.

“She’d love to,” I said, nudging Jazz. She turned to me, eyes wide.

“Dare-to-be-great situation,” I whispered.

“Hardly,” she said.

“For Maddie then.”

“For Maddie. And you’d better need a fire hose.”

I laughed. “Fine. Gross, but fine.”

We hooked pinkies in solidarity. “For Maddie.”

“Sounds great!” Jazz said, turning toward Logan. He took her elbow and pulled her through the horde. I looked back to the band.

Grayson shielded his eyes with his hand, with exaggerated movements pretending to search for someone over the sea of heads until he caught my eye. He pointed toward the bar. I wove through the thick crowd, stealing glances at him as I made my way over.