HE FIRST TIME Posey laid eyes on Liam Murphy, her life changed.

Until high school, Posey’s childhood had been great—a big brother, Guten Tag as a second home, parents who constantly assured her of her specialness, her beauty (“Cuter than a bug’s ear!” her dad liked to exclaim), her talents (bricklaying…she’d done the entire patio, just for fun). Sure, her parents laid it on a bit thick—after all, Henry had already delivered the goods one pictures when thinking adoption: Asian, IQ of 164, gifted at violin. Posey’s greatest public moment had come when she was cast in her fourth grade’s production of Farmer Smith’s Bunny, in which she played a nonspeaking turnip. But she knew she was loved.

So, yes, despite Stacia’s conviction that Posey was teetering on the edge of death, disaster or kidnapping at all times, life was good, and Posey felt like a pretty normal, happy person, despite her friends’ fascination with her adoption. It was only when Ruth, Ralphie and Gretchen came to visit that the little wounds of insecurity were cut open. Her aunt and uncle showed Gretchen off like a prized dog at Westminster. “Isn’t she the image of Oma? Look at those eyes, like the sky, Stacia! Have you tasted this torte? Amazing!” There was no getting around it— Gretchen was everything good the family genetics had ever produced.

Gretchen was also full of information—older by two months, she seemed to feel it was her job to fill in the blanks for Posey. Gret told her how you got pregnant (French kissing), how babies came out of their mothers (pooped out), where Posey’s real name came from (Great-Aunt Cordelia, who only had one eye and fell in a well and died, but Posey shouldn’t bring that up, because it would make their mothers cry).

Gretchen also told Posey the reason she’d been adopted—Stacia had a baby girl who had died, and Posey was the replacement.

Henry had confirmed that one. In his factual way, he told her their mom had been pregnant when he was in kindergarten, then went to the hospital, and no baby ever came home. That was all he knew.

But all in all, childhood had been A-okay. Posey had friends, was allowed to run cross-country in middle school, deemed the least dangerous sport by her parents. Being a good six or eight inches shorter than most of the other girls, she never won, but it was fun nonetheless. Her grades were solid, her brother was tolerant and helped her with homework. She was invited to birthday parties and had friends over.

And then came high school.

Somehow, everything changed the summer after eighth grade. Girls she’d been friends with were now obsessed with boys or their own beauty, their long hair, their thrilling boobies. Posey was left out, still skinny as a toothpick, uncurvy, undeveloped, uninterested in whether Brandon really had checked out Emily at recess. The boys who’d once played kickball with Posey now made rude comments about her flat chest. When her freshman class read The Diary of Anne Frank, there were giggles and whispers. Posey found energy bars and candy in front of her locker for weeks. Just before the freshman chorus concert, when all fifty kids were waiting to file onto stage, Kyle Stubbins asked her if she had a tapeworm. It was stunning to her…she’d gone to Kyle’s birthday party in fourth grade, gave him a Magic 8 Ball, which he’d really liked. But high school was a cold, alien world, one where old friendships didn’t seem to matter.

So Posey took the tried and true route of teenage survival: invisibility. She was friends with Kate, but they didn’t have many classes together. Posey didn’t raise her hand too much, didn’t try to talk to the popular kids, just floated along at the fringes, ignored the occasional insult and chose extracurricular activities that were underpopulated: the French Club, woodworking. It worked; if she wasn’t noticed, at least she wasn’t tormented.

Then, in the springtime of her freshman year, he came to town.

Posey was standing in the hall, waiting for the popular kids to get out of the way so she could get her lunch-box out of her locker. This simple act was a painful daily event, as all the cool kids got hot lunch and would die before bringing in homemade lunches. Worse, Posey’s locker was next to the locker of Jessica Blair, a junior and reigning queen of the evil popular crowd. Jessica was going with Rick Balin, tanned, blond, and beautiful, star tight end of the football team, and their minions swarmed around them.

Posey waited, hugging her books to her chest. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to ease past Jamie Highgate. He didn’t move, so she wriggled past. Rick was leaning on her locker door and (of course) didn’t notice her. “Excuse me,” she said again. “Sorry, I need to get in here.” Rick finally moved, though he didn’t look at her. And great. Now Mitchell Oberlin was in the way. Despite having had four cheese blintzes for breakfast, Posey was lightheaded with hunger. “Excuse me,” she said once more, managing to open her locker door an inch, just enough to glimpse her salvation in the form of a giant blue lunch-box. “Excuse me. Sorry. Can I—”

And then…and then he came down the hall, black hair thick and rumpled, flannel shirt open over a T-shirt with mysterious logo, faded blue jeans. Scuffed black leather jacket. He was unshaven (unshaven!), and his motorcycle helmet (motorcycle!) indicated his form of transportation. The principal was with him, lecturing him about behavior and second chances, and from the look in his eye, this guy could care less. The crowd around Jessica and Rick fell silent at the spectacle of this…thisgod. His eyes cut around the hallway, assessing and unimpressed.

For one second, the clear green gaze landed on Posey, and all other sounds were instantly blanked out except the thudding of her heart. Her cheeks tightened with a blush. Knees tingled, mouth went dry. Who was that?

For the next few weeks, Posey found out all she could about this new deity. Liam Declan Murphy…sigh! He was just out of juvie (juvie!) for stealing cars. Every day, he arrived on a battered Triumph motorcycle, which Posey learned was uber-cool, way more so than a newer, shinier make. According to the rumors that flew thick and fast, he played guitar (guitar!) in a band in some sleazy bar (squee!) across the river in Kittery. He lived with an uncle over by the quarry. Parents were either dead, in jail or witness protection.

Each bit of information was utterly thrilling. Suddenly, the world had more meaning, more layers, more color. He was a junior, she was a frosh, so their paths didn’t exactly cross, but she ogled him from across the parking lot, made a point of going from Latin to Algebra via the second-floor hallway, despite the fact that both her classes were on the first floor. But even the small possibility of glimpsing him—unkempt, beautiful, aloof—was more than enough justification.

And then came that miraculous day when she tore into the kitchen of Guten Tag for her after-school strudel fix, and he was there. Him! Liam Declan Murphy! Was there! In her parents’ kitchen! She could smell him…oil and soap and just the slightest hint of something warm and spicy, like pumpkin pie.

Posey managed to close her mouth, abruptly aware that it was hanging open. Her backpack slipped from her limp fingers, alerting her mother to her arrival.

“Oh, hi, sweetheart! Liam, this is our daughter, Cordelia,” Mom said. “But everyone calls her Posey.”

“Niih,” Posey breathed. This was amazing! God so loved her!

“Hey,” he said.

“Liam will be working here in the kitchen,” her father said. “Washing dishes, cleaning up.”

“I… That’s… Hi,” Posey said. Working here? Unbelievable! They’d become friends, she could see it immediately. They’d hang out, Liam would grin and talk about those dumb popular kids. They’d become BFFs…then, yes, she could see it so clearly, they’d fall in love. High school would be a dream of happiness. Prom queen, okay? No more invisibility, no more slinking through the halls. He’d wait for her to graduate, then they’d head off for the same college. Get married, have a house on the water, make out every single night. Oh, Elvis Presley, they’d sleep in the same bed!

Every day from then on, Posey tried to get his attention, to make him see what a great friend she could be. But Liam was always busy, always offering to do something else once a task was done. “Mr. Osterhagen, you want me to break down those boxes in the back?” he’d ask, and her dad would thank him for being so diligent. Other than grunting hello, Liam really didn’t speak to her. He was polite and respectful to her parents, though he was rough around the edges, but whatever affection he may have had for Max and Stacia didn’t transfer over to her. It wasn’t that he was rude; it was more that he didn’t seem to think there was any reason for them to talk. At school, he might acknowledge her with a nod (which she’d relive over and over, admitting that yes, she was pathetic, but he nodded and it was thrilling).

Posey wasn’t the only one obsessed with Liam, that was clear. It was his attitude. And his looks. Liam was gorgeous. He was aloof. He had hidden depths and a tragic and secret past. Everyone wanted to be him or do him. According to the girls’ room gossip, which Posey both lived for and dreaded, Liam was such a good kisser. Yes, Amanda Peters was planning to meet him under the bleachers after school—who wouldn’t? And everyone knew that he’d already done Taylor Bennington, but what guy hadn’t, right?

However many girls Liam did or didn’t do, he didn’t talk about it. He might give a slow smile or a smoky look—the meaning of the term “bedroom eyes” became abundantly clear. But he didn’t brag about his conquests (not that she could tell) or his motorcycle, didn’t talk about his misdeeds. He just didn’t seem to care, and that was the most exciting thing of all.

But Posey knew a little something about being on the outside looking in, and there were times when she swore she saw the same yearning in Liam’s expression, that little flash of vulnerability. He may have been admired, but he didn’t belong.

Previously, Rick Balin had been the alpha dog of Bellsford High. His family had lived in town forever; they’d owned mills, then boatyards, and Rick was the type of kid who got a red Mercedes convertible for his sixteenth birthday, crashed it before the week was up, and got a silver Mercedes as reward. He was blond, he was solid, he played football, he was careless and smug and it worked. Only at Bellsford after he’d flunked out of Choate, Andover, and St. Paul’s, Rick was widely regarded as a catch, and Jessica Blair daily trumpeted her status as his girlfriend.

But from Liam’s first day forth, the order changed. Liam was the lone wolf in the pack’s territory, and rather than challenge Liam, Posey watched as Rick and the lesser dogs began to mimic him. If Liam’s jeans had holes in the knees, the next day Rick’s would, too, though Rick probably ordered the maid to age and rip his own. At first, Liam ate his lunch alone in the courtyard, rather than in the cafeteria; Rick and his followers started eating outside, too. Eventually, the pack eased around Liam, trying to impress, to assimilate him. Liam tolerated their presence, but Posey could tell it was tolerance only (well…that’s how it looked). He let them hang out, but he didn’t become one of them, and in some ways, he seemed more alone than ever.

Sure, he might (he did) sleep with a few (more than a few) girls here and there—hard to avoid, as they practically hurled themselves at his groin, but he hadn’t truly connected with anyone. Yet. Maybe once she finally blossomed, as her mother put it, he’d notice Posey. It was what she prayed for nightly, heaven knew.

Then one day after school, as Posey was walking to the restaurant, she spied Liam out by the trash cans in the alley. He was kneeling down, holding something in his hand. Posey froze, drinking in the sight of him—the torn jeans, the faded black T-shirt, the way the wind ruffled his hair. Then a tiny, striped cat came out from behind the trash can, warily, slowly. It sniffed the air, then leaned forward, closer. Liam said something too quietly for Posey to hear. The cat sniffed again, took another step closer…then took the offering in his mouth and scampered back to safety. Liam smiled, stood up, and saw Posey.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” Her face heated in a rush.

“Don’t tell your parents, okay? I probably shouldn’t be feeding him, but…” Liam shrugged.

“I won’t tell anybody.”

“Thanks.” He started back into the restaurant.

“Is he tame? Do you think he’s lost?” she blurted, terrified this would be their last conversation.

He turned around. “I think he’s a stray. It took two weeks to get him to come to me.” The sound of his voice—the fact that he was speaking to her—was breathtakingly amazing.

“Does he have a name? The cat? Did you name him?” Posey babbled, unwilling to let him go. The intimacy of the moment, the hidden depths of this mysterious alpha male, oh, it was so romantic! He was feeding a starving cat! Him! The motorcycle guy who had girls crawling over him!

Liam paused. “I’ve been calling him Joe,” he admitted with a crooked grin, and Posey almost died.

“That’s a good name,” she managed.

Liam’s smile grew. “See you, Cordelia.” With that, he went inside.

The simmering lust, the raging interest exploded into love. Who wouldn’t fall in love with a man who took the time to feed a homeless kitty? She held that image against her heart like a secret jewel. Only she knew about it, she was sure. Those girls Liam might’ve slept with, girls who left their panties in his locker or wrote things about him on the bathroom walls…they didn’t know what Posey knew—Liam Declan Murphy was not just the hottest thing ever to grace Bellsford High…he was a softy, too.

It took a week or two of screwing up her courage, but Posey finally spoke to Liam in school. After World History, she ran up the stairs, then galloped to room 224, where Liam would be going from Physics to English. She slowed down, not wanting him to see that she was out of breath, and glanced at her chest to make sure the tissues she’d stuffed in her bra hadn’t shifted.

Liam was smiling that half grin at some girl who was telling him he really should hang out with her sometime. Tramp. Posey pretended not to notice them, then, when she was just a couple of feet away, looked up. “Oh, hey, Liam.”

“Hi,” he said, a little cautiously. They didn’t speak in school (or ever, really, except for that one time in the alley).

“How’s Joe?” she asked.

He paused. “Joe’s fine.” Then he grinned, and Posey’s knees weakened so fast that she wobbled.

“So, anyway, you could definitely come over,” the slutty girl said. “You won’t be sorry.”

“Is that right,” Liam murmured, turning his attention back to her. Posey didn’t mind. She and Liam had a secret. Later that day, when she came to the restaurant, she slipped into the closet where Liam’s coat was and tucked a can of tuna into his pocket. No note. Let him wonder. Let him think about her the way she thought and thought and thought about him. Later that week, this time after Liam’s Spanish class, he spoke to her. “Hey. Joe says thanks.” And he smiled at her as he walked past and for a second, Posey was literally blinded with love.

“Do you, like…know him?” asked Melissa Shields, one of Posey’s classmates.

“Sure,” Posey said casually.

Timing it carefully so she didn’t seem too eager (though if she’d put as much time into her algebra class as she did into tuna cans, she would’ve had an A+), Posey once again left a gift for Joe in the pocket of Liam’s worn black leather jacket. For one blissful moment, she held the coat to her face, breathing in the smell—leather and soap and cloves—before sneaking back into the restaurant. Then, just before lunch on Thursday, Liam acknowledged her once more as he was going into the courtyard. “Joe’s getting spoiled.” He raised an eyebrow as if saying You. You’re so dang cute.

“Where is all our tuna going?” Stacia wondered aloud, but Posey just smiled. Counted the days until she could plant another can. Despite the fact that there was fish involved, it all seemed incredibly clandestine and romantic. She could almost imagine them rehashing it someday in front of a roaring fire in a cabin on a mountain somewhere. Liam would gaze into her eyes and say, “Remember when you used to sneak me food to give to Joe? That’s when I first fell in love with you.” Then Joe, whom they would’ve adopted, would climb into her lap, purring noisily, and they’d laugh. And then kiss. Maybe even French kiss. Just the thought of it made her flushed and squishy.

But one day, as she was sitting at the table in the restaurant kitchen, Liam came over, holding the latest can of tuna she’d slipped into his coat pocket an hour ago. “Looks like Joe’s moved on,” he said. He set the can down.

“Moved on? Where?”

“Someone adopted him,” Liam said.

“What?” she yelped. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Some lady was out there, trying to get him to come out from behind the Dumpster. She asked if he belonged to anyone, and I said no, and she took him.”

“But…but who was she? We don’t even know her! She can’t just…take him.” Her voice thickened with tears.

Liam gave her an odd look. “I’m sure he’s fine.” Then he turned and walked away, his shift over. And though Posey tried and tried, wracking her brain in bed at night, she couldn’t think of anything else to say that would reestablish that bond, that secret, lovely feeling. What about Joe? Was he happy? Was the woman nice? Did Liam miss his little pal? He didn’t seem to be particularly suffering, surrounded as ever by a throng of admirers, male and female alike.

Summer came; Liam took another job at a garage, and Posey saw him less—and counted the days till school started once more. The first day of Posey’s sophomore year, however, was also the day that Emma Tate returned to New Hampshire.

Emma hadn’t been in school the past year; her dad, a politician, had made friends with the right demigod in Washington, and the Tates had been living in London. That was the kind of luck Emma had…a year in London.

She and Liam first saw each other in the courtyard at lunch, and when Liam’s eyes locked on Emma’s, Posey, who was watching from three tables away, felt her cheeks warm as if she were the one Liam Murphy was looking at. Except, of course, she wasn’t. Even so, her insides turned to gooey caramel as Liam stared at Emma as if she were the only other person on earth.

Even before that moment, just about every female in high school would have liked to have been Emma, Posey most definitely included. Emma Tate had long blond hair. Was five foot seven…tall, but not too tall…blue, blue eyes. Boobs. She knew how to dress, not like a mannequin from Abercrombie, but with true style. And she was nice. Her family went to St. Martin’s, just like the Osterhagens, and she always said hello, warmly, too. She’d had a boyfriend at Lawrence Academy, but they’d broken up when the Tates went abroad.

Of course, Liam—that bad-boy god—would fall for someone like Emma, the squeaky-clean and uber-nice princess. Posey knew that. She’d been studying Liam for months now and already felt like she knew him better than anyone. Still, her heart collapsed as Liam walked across the courtyard, straight to Emma, who looked right into his gorgeous, perfect, unshaven face and smiled, and that was that.

Once in a while, Emma would drop by the restaurant. Those times were the worst, when Posey, sitting on her stool doing homework and secretly watching Liam, would have to witness the secret side of the man she loved, the side she’d known was lurking under his tough, guarded exterior. Liam would smile…right there, Posey’s heart would lose another healthy chunk. With Emma, he’d talk…the rumble of his voice, already a man’s voice, deep and steady, causing her stomach to tighten with lust. And then—oh, the pain of it—then he’d give Emma a quick kiss goodbye, so natural and so…so…so perfect that Posey, inevitably eating something as she did her homework, would stop mid-chew, pen frozen above the paper, unable to tear her eyes off the two of them.

Emma was far too nice. “Hey, Posey, how’s it going?” she’d say. “Do you have Mr. Rivers for math? Oh, my God, he was the worst!” One time… Oh, the horror, the horror. “Posey, Liam and I are going to the movies. Want to come along?”

Sure, right after I jump off Memorial Bridge, Posey thought. “Oh, thanks, but I have plans,” she chirruped. Right. Plans to do what? Lie on her bed and fantasize about Liam? Wonder what it would be like to be kissed? Still, she knew better than to tag along like some unwanted orphan.

As for other boys, nah. By the time she was sixteen, Posey’s bra size was a roomy 32A. Pants a size 12, boys’ slim. Her weight concerned her mom, who was six feet tall and weighed more than two hundred pounds, and so Posey was dragged to the pediatrician, who concurred.

“Well,” he announced, glancing at her paperwork, “your thyroid and blood work are normal, but I’m a little concerned.”

“I eat everything that’s not nailed down,” Posey protested. At his sharp look, she added, “And I don’t barf it up. I just have a fast metabolism.”

“She’s like a hummingbird, our little girl,” Stacia agreed fondly.

“Right,” he agreed. “But if you got sick, you don’t have anything in reserve. Two days of stomach flu, and we’d have to admit you to the hospital. And down the road, it can contribute to fertility problems.”

“Oh, no!” Stacia exclaimed, clutching Posey’s hand.

“Are your periods regular?”

Posey blushed. “Yes. Sort of. For the most part.”

“Will she be infertile, Doctor?” Stacia asked in a whisper.

“I can always adopt,” Posey said, her voice sharp. Stacia squeezed her hand again.

“It’s too early to talk about that,” the doctor said. “But let’s try to pack on a few pounds, okay? And listen. Most girls would love to have this problem. You’ll never be fat, look at it that way.”

“Well, I’d like to have boobs,” Posey grumbled. “Got anything for that?”

“It’s mostly hereditary,” the doctor said amiably. Great. Apparently, Posey’s birth mother was a stick insect. Gretchen was already a C-cup, something Aunt Ruth had called to announce that very morning. “But a little fattening up will help, too.”

Which is why Posey started going to Sweetie Sue’s Ice Cream Parlor every day after school. Sweetie Sue’s, where Emma Tate worked.

“Hi, Posey!” she said, looking irritatingly adorable in her pink uniform. “Good thing you came in, I was just about to fall asleep, it’s so dead in here.” She smiled. “What can I get you?”

Seeing Shiny Emma just reinforced all that was wrong with her. Posey swallowed, for once not hungry. “Can I have a hot-fudge sundae? Coconut ice cream, extra whipped cream, extra nuts.”

“You bet.” Emma scooped up the ice cream, drizzled the hot fudge, seemed to spray on the whipped cream for three full minutes. “Here you go,” she said, smiling as she handed it over. “I sure wish I could eat like you.”

Suddenly, Posey’s eyes were wet. “No, you don’t,” she whispered.

“Posey? You okay?” Emma’s pretty face creased in concern.

“I have to eat six times a day or I get lightheaded,” Posey blurted. “I eat more than my father, but I can’t keep any weight on, I don’t have any boobs, and the doctor just told me I might have trouble getting pregnant someday. This isn’t fun, you know.”

Emma’s hand went over her mouth. “Oh, Posey, I didn’t mean… I’m really sorry, I am.”

It was Emma’s niceness that did Posey in. To her horror, she started to cry in earnest, the words tumbling out. “It’s just…I can’t even wear girl clothes. Do you know where I shop? In the junior boys’ section, ages 8 to 12. Not one guy has ever checked me out, let alone asked me out.”

Emma came around the counter and put her arm around Posey’s shoulders. She guided her to a table, pulled some paper napkins from the dispenser and handed them to Posey.

“The stupid doctor told me I have to gain weight,” Posey said, her voice wobbly. “All I do is eat, and I just burn it all off, and I hate the way I look.”

“But why?” Emma said. “You’re so cute, Posey! You are!”

“Right. Which is why my nickname is Anne Frank.”

“No! Who calls you that?”

“The mean girls.” Posey cut her a look. “You know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Emma said grimly. She sighed. “So your doctor said you have to eat ice cream? I’m sorry, but that’s hardly cancer, okay?”

Posey couldn’t help a smile. “I know. As prescriptions go, it’s pretty good.”

“Exactly. So listen. Come here every day, and I’ll help you, okay?”

And so began a sort of friendship. Not that they hung out. The two-year age difference was significant, at least in high school, and Emma was one of the popular kids. She was going to Pepperdine in the fall, she had friends, cheerleading, student council. And Liam, of course. Emma seemed so much older, so much more…together. But at school, Emma did something rather stunning—she acknowledged Posey. Said hi sometimes, or waved in the halls, causing Kate to ask if Posey was blackmailing Emma.

About six weeks after she started the Campaign for Boobs, as she thought of it, Posey was power-eating a Snickers ice-cream sundae with caramel sauce and Reese’s Pieces when Emma asked, very casually, “Posey, has anyone asked you to the prom yet?”

Posey snorted, having become quite comfortable with Emma. “No. And no one will.”

“Well, if someone did ask, would you be interested?”

“Sure. I’d also be interested in taming a unicorn,” Posey answered, flicking through a magazine. “Also, I always thought it’d be cool to talk to undersea animals, like Aquaman.”

“Listen,” Emma said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Rick Balin just broke up with Jessica, who had it coming, let me tell you. He said he’ll go to the prom solo, but I thought you and he would make a cute couple.” She wiped her hands on the dishcloth. “So what do you think?”

Rick Balin? Blond, rich, good-looking Rick Balin? Second to Liam, Rick was…well. It was silly even to discuss. “That would never happen,” Posey said.

“I think it would!” Emma bounced over to her and sat down, golden ponytail swinging. “You’re wicked cute, even if you don’t know it. And you’ve gained a few pounds, haven’t you?”

“Four,” Posey answered. The ice cream had definitely been helping, as well as the three scrambled eggs with cheese she ate right before bedtime.

“And if we got you one of those demi push-up bras from Victoria’s Secret, you’d have a nice little package there. I totally bet he’d ask you! Especially if I give him a nudge!”

How could Posey resist? It wasn’t lost on her that if pigs did fly and Rick asked her out, she might be hanging out with Liam a little more. And just being near him, outside of the restaurant…that would be worth quite a bit indeed. Not that she wanted to break him up from Emma or anything. Just the chance to get him to remember how they’d bonded over Joe…to be able to tell him something funny and get him to laugh, just to be—perhaps—his friend…that would be enough. More than enough. That would be wonderful.

A week and a half later, and one pound later, and one thirty-five-dollar push-up bra later as well, Rick Balin approached Posey at her locker. “Posey, hey.”

“Hi, Rick,” Posey said, as if she’d ever said anything other than “excuse me” to him.

“So, Emma said you might be free for the prom,” Rick said, his famously soulful brown eyes scanning her up and down, pausing on her chest. That bra was worth every cent.

“Um, yeah. I’m free,” Posey said casually, her cheeks scalding. But Emma had coached her on strategy, and she knew to play it light.

“So, you wanna go with me?” Rick asked, grinning.

She shrugged, though her hands were shaking. “Sure.” She glanced at him, gave him a little smile, then looked back into her locker.

“Great. I’ll call you with details. Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

Rick sauntered off. Posey fought off the urge to faint.

Emma was smug with pride. Gave dress advice, discussed hair styles. Kate was a little grouchy, but Posey reveled in the glamour of prom, of Emma’s friendship, of possibly changing her status in Liam’s eyes.

On Saturday afternoon of the sacred event, Posey had her hair done at Curl Up and Dye, the best salon in town. Her short hair was highlighted, trimmed and blown dry so that finally it seemed to have some semblance of style. Then she dropped by the restaurant to meet her mom so they could go home together, do makeup and put on her beautiful shimmering green dress, take a thousand or so pictures. This night was a coup for Stacia, too. Gretchen, also a sophomore, hadn’t been asked to the prom, something Ruth tried very hard to pretend didn’t matter.

Posey went in the front door of the restaurant for a change, rather hoping to make a grand entrance, delight her father and possibly dazzle Liam into seeing her as a woman. It was still early, only three, so most of the staff wouldn’t be there yet. As she approached the doors that separated the dining room and kitchen, Posey paused at the sound of some voices. Liam’s. And Rick’s (she could identify his because he’d called her—twice!—and also from all the times he’d blocked her locker). There were other voices, too, an explosion of male laughter. Posey peeked through the crack in the door.

There they were. The popular boys, who occasionally swung by when Liam was working. No sign of an adult, which made sense, since it was early. Liam often opened the restaurant for her folks, which Posey thought showed how trustworthy and wonderful he was.

Suddenly shy at the thought of encountering them en masse (they were seniors, after all), Posey stepped back a little. But she could hear them.

“Dude,” one of them—Luke Mayhew?—said. “You’re killing me by still being with Emma. God, she’s beautiful! Give someone else a chance, right? I mean, come on! Just the way she walks down the hall, you can tell—”

“Shut up,” Liam growled, and Posey felt a flush of pride. Liam Murphy, defending his woman. He had class, juvie or no juvie. Someone else said something—the water was running and she couldn’t quite hear. Then Rick, or possibly Luke, said something, but it was lost too, and the guys all hooted and hollered.

The water shut off.

“Here’s what I want to know,” Liam said, and Posey couldn’t resist another peek. He was unloading the dishwasher, stacking the plates just the way Stacia liked, and the other guys were grouped around him. “Rick, my man, Posey Osterhagen? I mean, I know I work for her parents, but were you that desperate? She’s nothing but a bag of bones. Built like a ten-year-old boy.”

Their roar of laughter drowned out the little squeak that escaped Posey’s mouth. Her hands flew up to cover any more noise, and silently, so carefully, she backed away from the door, her legs watery with shock, heart twisting and convulsing. When she was far enough from the door—from them—she turned and tiptoed to the front door of the restaurant as fast as she could, colliding right into her mother.

“There you are, sweetie! I went to the salon to get you! Did you forget? Or were we supposed to meet here? Oh, look at your hair! It’s so beautiful!”

Mom didn’t notice that Posey was quiet…or she did and assumed it was nerves. A floating feeling settled over Posey as they drove home. She went through the motions—makeup, dress, jewelry—and smiled as her father took pictures. Henry was home for a rare weekend, and he looked up from his textbooks, acknowledged that his little sister was growing up and smiled, which was lavish praise for him.

When the doorbell rang, she was somewhat shocked to see that Rick had actually shown up. And he was nice. Polite, attractive, looking somehow younger in a tux than he did at school. He shook hands, posed for a few pictures. There was no limo; Rick had driven his latest Mercedes, and Max asked the usual fatherly questions and issued warnings against drinking and driving.

Posey barely heard. “Bye!” she called as her mother dabbed her eyes. Rick held the car door for her. Got in the driver’s seat. Maybe this won’t be so terrible, Posey thought. Maybe Rick really likes me, no matter what Liam said. At the thought of his name, pain speared her heart. It was still so shocking that Liam—her Liam—thought of her that way. So vicious, those words, that she flinched at the thought of them.

She swallowed and looked at Rick, biting her lip. Maybe he, too, had hidden depths, and she could fall for him, instead of…the other one. Rick’s pretty brown eyes were on the road, his blond hair ruffling in the breeze.

“You look really nice, by the way,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“Are you excited?” she asked.

Rick still didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her, either. Stupid question, Posey! her brain hissed.

Years later—heck, hours later—Posey would berate herself for not standing up for herself. She should’ve said, “Hey, idiot, I’m talking to you.” Surely her older self would have. But at barely sixteen, having no experience with boy-girl stuff whatsoever, terrified at the thought of offending one of the cool kids, she just…pretended. Pretended it was okay that her date drove in silence, even as her stomach ached and her hands went clammy. Pretended not to notice when he didn’t open the door for her when they pulled up at Whitfield Mansion, didn’t wait for her, didn’t even look back.

Don’t go in, her brain warned. But what else could she do? He drove. She was here. People were swarming inside. Maybe he just wanted to find his friends. Maybe he’d be nicer once they were, um, settled.

She went in, knees twanging with nervousness.

The place was mobbed. Whitfield Mansion was utterly gorgeous, high ceilings, black-and-white tiled floors, chandeliers and French doors. Posey looked around. It seemed like her trick of being invisible had worked brilliantly, because no one acknowledged her, no matter how nice Emma had been in the past month. Still, Posey fake-smiled at no one in particular, praying to see a familiar face, a friend. Rick was nowhere to be seen, and her heart raced with humiliation and fear. The smell of too much perfume and hairspray was making her sick, and, dang it, she hadn’t eaten since lunch, which meant there was a very good chance she’d faint. But who could eat with Liam’s words echoing in her heart?

And suddenly, there was Liam, right there in the huge foyer. Not in a tux…in a black suit with a black shirt, looking like he should be at the Oscars instead of a prom. His eyes met hers, and he gave a little chin jerk in recognition. He even smiled…a little smile, his mouth pulling up on one side, and that was when Posey really thought she might faint, because what the hell? He smiled at her after saying those horrible things? Her throat tightened, eyes stung with hot and angry tears.

“Hey! Posey, oh, wow, you look so pretty!” It was Emma. “Are you at our table? I asked Rick, but he didn’t know, I mean, I thought all of us would be together, right? Oh, hang on, there’s Lily. Can you believe Luke wore a maroon tuxedo? She’s ready to kill him. Be right back! Stay here, don’t move a muscle.”

Posey had no intention of staying put. Just stick to the walls and pretend you’re happy, advised the wiser part of her brain. Just hang in there. Don’t lose it. She made her way into the banquet room, which was mobbed as well, candles flickering on the tables, the smell of hothouse flowers gumming up her throat. She didn’t see Rick—she hated Rick. But, heck, if he’d showed up at her arm with a soda and a smile, she’d forgive him in a heartbeat. Maybe there was an explanation. There had to be. Because if there wasn’t, Posey had no idea what she was supposed to do. “What are you doing here?” came a voice, and Posey’s heart took a header. It was Jessica Blair, whose locker was next to hers, who’d dated Rick for almost a year. Her hair was piled on her head like Nefertiti’s, and she wore a dress that showed off three-quarters of her significant breasts. “This is senior prom, okay? Not for underclassmen.”

“I—” Posey cleared her throat. “Um, I’m here with someone,” she said.

“Really?” Jessica said. “Someone, who?”

Posey’s legs started shaking. “Rick. Rick Balin.” Her voice was barely audible to her own ears.

“You’re here with Rick Balin,” Jessica repeated, as if for clarification. Two of her cheerleading friends had joined her, and all of them glared at Posey. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Posey whispered, looking at the floor.

“Then why was his tongue in my mouth, like, five seconds ago?” Jessica said. Her minions snickered, and then Rick came up, glanced dismissively at Posey, and slung his arm around Jessica, his fingers caressing the top of her exposed breast. “Babe. You ready?”

“So ready,” Jessica said, and with that, she turned and kissed Rick, an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss that seemed to last forever. When she finally tore her lips off of Rick’s, she gave Posey a demeaning once-over. “Padded bra, Anne Frank?” she asked, and her evil handmaidens howled with laughter.

Posey abandoned any thoughts of clinging to her dignity. Instead, she fled for the bathroom. Thank the Lord, it was empty. She ran to the stall furthest from the door, snapped the lock and clenched her arms over her stomach, her breath jerking in and out in sharp little gasps. What was she going to do? How could she get out of here? Her parents would be devastated.

The bathroom door opened. “Posey?”

It was Emma, stupid, well-meaning, oblivious Emma, her voice soft with concern and sympathy. “Posey? Are you okay?”

For a second, Posey hated her. Then she stood up straight, took a deep breath, and opened the stall door. “Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry, but I have to go home. I have a wicked bad migraine. I feel horrible. I was hoping it’d get better, but it’s not.”

It was, perhaps, the first time she’d ever lied.

Emma wrung her hands. “Um…Posey, I just saw Rick—”

“I know,” Posey said. “I feel rotten standing him up at the prom, but guess what? I think he and Jessica might be getting back together, don’t you? To be honest, I kind of hope so, because you were so sweet to go to all this trouble, but I’m not gonna be able to stay, this headache, wow, it’s really bad, and I don’t want to leave Rick in the lurch, but the thing is, Emma, he’s not really my type anyway. You know?”

Her voice was tight and fast, and her words didn’t fool Emma.

“He’s an idiot,” she whispered.

He’s just following your boyfriend’s lead, Posey thought viciously, and again, the wave of shock and heartache threatened to crash. “I have to go, Emma,” she said, her voice shaking but acceptable. “My ride should be here any sec. I’m really sorry. Thanks for everything. You have fun, okay?”

“You want me to walk you out?” Emma asked.

“No! No. Just…go have fun. Bet you’ll be prom queen.” Posey forced a smile. “Bye! See you soon.”

After a little more hand-wringing, Emma finally left, and Posey sagged with the effort of lying. Stupid, naive, perfect Emma Tate. No one would stand her up at the prom, you could bet on that. Liam Murphy loved her; he’d kill the guy who hurt her feelings, who drove her into the bathroom to hide. The hypocrite.

The door opened again, and without thinking, Posey dashed into the stall once more, sat on the toilet and pulled up her feet, wrapping her arms around her legs so her dress wouldn’t show.

“Did you hear about Rick and Jessica?” one of them said. Of course.

“What? Are they back together?” the other asked.

“Totally. But Rick brought—get this—Posey Osterhagen as his date.”

“Who’s that?”

“You know. Everyone calls her Anne Frank? Kinda weird-looking, looks like she’s in fifth grade. Her parents own that grubby German restaurant?”

“Are you kidding? Her? Why?”

“No clue. Hey, do you have any hairspray? I love your earrings, by the way.”

It was the comment about Guten Tag that started the tears. Her parents’ restaurant was not grubby. It was immaculate. Did those twits know how hard it was to clean that place? Did they have any clue how many hours Stacia put into the restaurant, because of course a cleaning service wasn’t enough, and the Osterhagens themselves polished those steins, scoured the bathrooms, dusted the Hummel figurines and the broken antler on the mounted moose head she’d named Glubby when she was three?

Well, she wasn’t about to give the mean girls—or Rick—or Liam—the satisfaction of seeing her picked up in front of the Whitfield Mansion. The bathrooms were directly across from the kitchen, and she slipped in through the doors, ignoring the looks from the staff, and simply walked out the back.

It was raining. It might’ve been May, but the temperature was in the low fifties, and before long, her teeth started to chatter. The mansion’s long driveway was bordered by woods thick with dripping pines. Dreading the idea that people coming to the prom would see her, soaked, dress ruined, hair and makeup a joke, Posey chose the woods. Her shoes—her first pair of heels—sank into the muddy ground, and she twisted her ankle more than once. The now-sodden gown flopped around her legs like a dying bird, making her skin raw. How much had her parents spent on this night? Four hundred dollars, maybe, for her gown and shoes and special-order bra, her hair, the necklace and bracelet her dad had given her just last night? They’d been so proud, so excited…and now look.

A car turned into the mansion driveway, and without further thought, Posey leaped behind a tree and crouched down, hating herself for doing it, unable not to. Hiding in the woods in a ruined prom dress, all because Rick Balin had dumped her.

And Rick, she knew with absolute certainty, would never have done that without Liam Murphy first planting the idea.

Nothing but a bag of bones. Built like a ten-year-old boy.

There was a 7-11 on the main road, about a mile from Whitfield Mansion’s entrance. By the time she reached the store, she was shuddering with cold. She fished a quarter out of her purse and deposited it in the pay phone outside and called her brother.

“Henry?” she whispered when he answered. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, but I need you to come get me. And can you bring me some dry clothes?” Then she started to cry in earnest.

She hid in the potato chip section, dripping onto the floor, until Henry came. Then she changed in the 7-11 bathroom, and her brother took her out to a diner two towns over, and she sobbed out the whole story over a hamburger club with extra fries, from her love for Liam to the comment about Guten Tag’s cleanliness. For once, Henry’s lack of conversational skills was a blessing.

“I’m sorry, Posey,” was all he said. But he reminded the waitress that she’d need extra mayo on the side and didn’t protest when she told him they needed to stay out till past eleven, knowing that Max and Stacia wouldn’t be able to stay awake that long no matter what.

“You can’t tell Mom and Dad, okay?” Posey asked as they pulled in front of their house. Their parents’ windows were dark.

“Okay,” he said. Then he hugged her—such a rare event—and waited till she was showered and in bed before going to bed himself, just in case she needed anything. The next morning, she told her parents she’d had a great time, but ended up with a headache, and called Henry to come get her just before the end of the night. They bought it.

Emma called that same day. “I told everyone I was really disappointed you’d gotten sick,” she said, her voice horribly kind. “I told them what a great friend you’ve been, and it was just crappy luck that you got one of your migraines. But also that you were totally cool about Rick and Jess. You were only in it for the dress anyway, right?”

Posey understood. Emma was using her popularity as a shield, and if anyone was going to make fun of Posey, they’d suffer her disapproval. Not that anyone would really believe the story. But back at school, no one openly made fun of Posey, and though she’d been dreading hearing echoes of Liam’s words, she wasn’t subjected to them again. She stopped going to Sweetie Sue’s for ice cream, because she just didn’t want to see the pity in Emma’s eyes.

She didn’t see Liam until five days after the prom, at the restaurant, where for the first time ever, he initiated conversation. “Heard you got sick at the prom.”

Why would he talk to her now? “Yeah.”

“You okay now?”

“I’m fine.” Her voice was calm and cool.

Then she packed her books, told her parents she’d see them at home. For the last month of her sophomore year, she told her mom she was better able to do her homework back at the house. She found herself studying harder, raising her hand more often, walking through the halls with an edge she hadn’t had before. She barely saw Liam, and that August, he left for California.

That moment when she’d crouched behind the tree…it did something to her, something that made her grow up and toughen up. But one question throbbed in her brain for a long, long time. Why? Why would Liam say something so hateful? How could he—who had tamed a stray and starving cat—be so cruel to a girl who had only ever wanted to be his friend?