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room, watching Josh and his dad; then he took the cordless phone up to his room and dialed Darcy’s number. He was certain that her afternoon message was her way of making sure he’d call her that evening.
    But all she said was, “What time are you picking me up?”
    The phone felt slippery in his hand. “I don’t know. What time does the party start?” He couldn’t believe he had said that. He no more wanted to go to this party than he wanted to go to Siberia. And at the moment Siberia didn’t sound half bad.
    “Eight, I think. Nobody’ll be there till later.” He could hear her soft breathing on the other end. “So I guess eight-thirty’s good.”
    “I just got home,” he explained, as if that made any difference.
    Darcy didn’t say anything for a while. Then she cleared her throat and said, “So you want to make it later?”
    He didn’t want to make it at all. “Eight-thirty’s okay. I already took a shower at the pool.”
    “You okay?” she asked.
    He tried for a casual chuckle, but it stuck in his throat. “Fine. Why?”
    “Oh, nothing.”
    “See you at eight-thirty,” he said, trying to put an end to the conversation. Then he hung up before she could ask any more questions.
    m ichael fished around with his fork for chunks of chicken in the clump of mushy noodles on his plate. Josh had already finished eating and was back in front of the TV, watching
Wheel of Fortune
. Tom MacKenzie helped himself to a can of beer from the refrigerator. He still had half a plateful of food. Only Josh—who, according to his father, had the appetite of a boa constrictor—had eaten everything.
    Michael’s mother looked at their plates and sighed apologetically. “I guess I overcooked the noodles.”
    Nobody said anything.
    “Well, I wouldn’t have been so late tonight except the shop was a madhouse today.” Karen MacKenzie worked at Briarwood Florist. What had begun as a part-time morning job two years earlier had evolved into a full-time position. Michael and his father were used to her talking about the place being a madhouse, especially around holidays. But it wasn’t a holiday.
    Tom MacKenzie took a swallow of beer and frowned. “A madhouse? In July?”
    Michael’s mother began scraping the food from her plate into the trash compactor. “It’s that Ward funeral. Everybody’s sending flowers, even though the family specifically asked people to make donations to charity instead.” She sighed. “Only nobody paid any attention, of course. So we’re swamped.”
    Michael did not look up. He saw his mother’s freckled hand slide deftly beneath his gaze and lift his plate. “Finished?” she asked.
    He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
    “I read somewhere that he had a fifteen-year-old daughter. She probably goes to your school,” his mother said, looking at Michael. “Do you know her?”
    He shook his head. The chicken casserole turned over in his stomach. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Jenna Ward probably did go to Briarwood Regional. After all, the family
was
from Briarwood, although they lived on the other side of town. He hadn’t recognized her from the picture in the newspaper, so he’d been sure he had never seen her before. Now he began to worry about what he would do if he saw her in the halls in September.
    “Such a terrible tragedy.” Slowly his mother lowered herself back into her chair, looking thoughtful.
    “A stupid tragedy.” His father pounded his fist on the table. In spite of himself, Michael flinched. “That’s what happens when irresponsible people play around with guns.” His father squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “That’s why I’ve taught my boys to respect guns.”
    Michael felt the pressure of his father’s fingers digging into his collarbone. He wondered if his parents could see that he was shaking. Slowly, using all the muscle control he could muster, he stood up. Praying his legs would not give out on him, he turned to leave. “Sorry,” he said,