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had figured as much, because that’s what her boyfriend, Joshua Gunner, does. She didn’t find this out until she was a couple of months into the relationship. Fully in love—or at least in full adoration—and therefore unable to accept his habit as a flaw. So she talked herself into Joshua’s explanations, weak as they were. That he was saving every penny. That he never laced it, or ripped off kids, or traded in harder substances.
    Lately, though, he’s upped his game. More phone calls, more texts. She found out from his father that he’s failing Intro to Economics this semester. And when Joshua fails at one thing, he needs to succeed at something else.
    She wants to find the nerve to tell Joshua exactly what she thinks about all this. She wants to tell him how stupid he’s being, and how reckless. How dealing pot is an act of self-sabotage, especially when that guy Savini has practically guaranteed Joshua’s only real shot at a future outside Ten Pin.
    Joshua usually keeps his business to himself. Odd that he’sflaunting it. Jamming it in her tissue box at the very same moment that she’s walked out of the shower. He wants her to be angry. He wants her temper to be some kind of proof that she cares about him. He wants her to deal with him. She gets it. Thea tries the same tricks. But it’s so hard to grapple with any conflict when all she’s obsessing on is the hole in her stomach and the breakfast that she wants so badly.
    “Fine. Keep it there,” she says tiredly. “I don’t need your twenty percent. Just promise me it’ll be gone by the time Arthur gets back from Los Angeles. It’s way too disrespectful to him. Okay?”
    Mention of Arthur annoys Joshua. Especially in a context of respecting him. A young guy with nothing doesn’t have much heart for an old guy with everything. He nods acknowledgment, barely, then reaches for Alex. “Thanks for this. You know I love you, right?” Smoothing her wet hair from her forehead, he presses his mouth against hers. His breath is a source of warmth. She aches for something—maybe him—and it’s a jolt. Wanting Joshua feels so long ago, a scrapbook memory.
    “I better get ready for school,” she says, breaking away. “I’ve already missed assembly. Not that anyone’s paying attention over there.” It’s so disorienting, in some ways. Four years of being roll call accounted for every single day, and now, in this last month, they’d loosed all the ropes.
Fly away, little seniors! We hardly care where you land!
    “Yeah, sure. Okay.” She’s hurt him. But he’s hurt her, too. What kind of asshole move is this, anyway—hiding his pot in her room? If she wants to make this day count, she should start now. She should call Joshua out. Refuse to accept the baggie. Arguewith him, nag him, tell him that it’s his future with Tom Savini—not with her—that should be focusing all his energy.
    These thoughts snap to life and die just as quick.
    It’s not worth it. Too tiring, to fight that fight.
    So she says nothing. Moves to get dressed.
    The first defeat of the day.

Friday, lunch
THEA
    Sooo … who were the richest kids? My eyes looped the Figure Eight.
    Ka-ching
, the McBrides.
    Ka-ching
, Fiona Levine, whose father was a guitar player for some rock band I never heard of, but that Mom talked about like the Eighth Wonder of the 1980s.
    No funds for Ty “Monty” Mountbatten, even with that hurrah of a last name, like he’d been raised on champagne and fox hunts. If we’d been living in medieval times, Monty’s mom would be the town slag. In this life, she sold real estate. Mostly upscale bachelor condos. Using her commissions to get more plastic surgery so that she could sell more real estate to more horndog divorced dads. And although Monty himself was a low-key great guy, he had more of a guest pass than a stamped card to the VIP scene.
    I’d been going to announce the party all Gia fabulous-casual to everyone, but now that I’d got myself