{"product_id":"your-lonely-nights-are-over-isbn-9780593526583","title":"Your Lonely Nights Are Over","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eScream\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003ci\u003eClueless \u003c\/i\u003ein this YA horror from Adam Sass in which two gay teen BFFs find their friendship tested when a serial killer starts targeting their school’s Queer Club.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDearie and Cole are inseparable, unlikeable, and (in bad luck for them) totally unbelievable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the day they met, Dearie and Cole have been two against the world. But whenever something bad happens at Stone Grove High School, they get blamed. Why? They’re beautiful, flirtatious, dangerously clever queen bees, and they’re always ready to call out their fellow students. But they’ve never faced a bigger threat than surviving senior year, when Mr. Sandman, a famous, never-caught serial killer emerges from a long retirement—and his hunting ground is their school Queer Club.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs evidence and bodies begin piling up and suspicion points at Dearie and Cole, they will need to do whatever it takes to unmask the real killer before they and the rest of Queer Club are taken down. But they’re not getting away from the killer without a fight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlong the way, they must confront dark truths hidden beneath the surface of their small desert community. When the world is stacked against them and every flop they know is a suspect, can Dearie and Cole stop Mr. Sandman’s rampage? Or will their lonely nights soon be over . . .\"Filled with high jinks both terrorizing and hilarious, \u003ci\u003eYour Lonely Nights Are Over\u003c\/i\u003e is the ultimate modern take on \u003ci\u003eScream\u003c\/i\u003e but somehow gayer. Adam Sass combines a cutting teen voice with a grimly funny slasher that’s somehow still heart-felt and touching. This book will have you laughing and hiding under the covers!\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eAiden Thomas, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eCemetery Boys \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Sunbearer Trials\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Twisted, hysterical perfection — Adam Sass has a voice so sharp it’s between your ribs before you know it. I couldn’t read fast enough to outrun this killer thriller.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eRyan La Sala, bestselling author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Honeys\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sass’s hilarious, viciously charming cast will slash their way right into your heart. Your lonely nights might not be over, but at least you’ll have a fantastic book as company while trying to survive.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eKiersten White, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHide\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSlayer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hilarifying! This twisty and subversive thriller will keep you guessing to the very last page. Your sleepless nights are just beginning…”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eCaleb Roehrig, author of \u003ci\u003eWhite Rabbit \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eBlood in the Water\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Suspenseful, heartfelt, and hilarious in equal measure, YOUR LONELY NIGHTS ARE OVER is a whip-smart queer YA thriller that manages to be both a note perfect window into contemporary teen culture and a loving homage to the golden age of slasher horror.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eTom Ryan, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eKeep This to Yourself \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eI Hope You’re Listening\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eYour Lonely Nights Are Over\u003c\/i\u003e is a delightfully devious Slasher. A Queer \u003ci\u003eScream\u003c\/i\u003e with a \u003ci\u003eMean Girls\u003c\/i\u003e twist, Sass delivers an expertly crafted, unforgettable story, as bloody as it is heartfelt and timely, about the importance of protecting and honoring the intimacy of genuine friendships and the dangers of emotional abuse. \u003ci\u003eYour Lonely Nights Are Over\u003c\/i\u003e is undeniably my most anticipated young adult thriller of 2023.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eTerry J. Benton-Walker, author of \u003ci\u003eBlood Debts\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like \u003ci\u003eSurrender Your Sons, Your Lonely Nights Are Over\u003c\/i\u003e is a smart, propulsive thriller with laugh-out-loud humor and a killer cast. This novel deftly explores queer friendship, romance, trauma, and fury. An homage to slashers past and an exciting new entry in the horror canon, it is both a bloodcurdling scream and rallying cry of a book.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eAaron H. Aceves, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThis Is Why They Hate Us\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Full of jump scares, gripping mystery, and true creeps, this is the queer slasher novel you've been waiting for! Sass had me hooked from the first chapter, but thankfully not with barbed wire!\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eJason June, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003ebestselling author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eOut of the Blue\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eand \u003ci\u003eJay's Gay Agenda\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This suspenseful slasher with a diverse, well-developed LGBTQ+ ensemble cast is also a catty, comedic celebration of queer community and identity. A campy and entertaining page-turner.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In this enthusiastic homage to queer youth and friendship, Sass embraces quintessential campy slasher tropes and persuasively blends snarky humor with suspenseful horror.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sass...crafts another twisty thriller that celebrates queer solidarity and the quiet pain of navigating queer loneliness...Carve out some time to make this a one-sitting read, because you'll quickly understand why everyone is obsessed with these 'beautiful, bitchy besties.'\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"[A] violently funny outing.\"\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sass weaves an intricate thriller that will keep readers guessing until the last few chapters…highly recommended.”\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eSLJ\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"The severity of the stakes at hand rarely stifles the rapport of the duo who are giving gay joy and resolve in the face of serial murder. The spotlight on queer loneliness, precarious and fatal, makes the relationships and humor even more potent.\"\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eBCCB\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAdam Sass\u003c\/b\u003e began writing books in Sharpie on the backs of Starbucks pastry bags. (He’s sorry it distracted him from making your latte.) His debut YA novel, \u003ci\u003eSurrender Your Sons\u003c\/i\u003e, was named a best book of 2020 by \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e and Foreword INDIES, a best first novel for young readers by ALA Booklist, and one of the best YA murder mysteries of all time by Pop Sugar. He is also the author of the upcoming \u003ci\u003eThe 99 Boyfriends of Micah Summers\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAdam has been featured in \u003ci\u003eTeen Vogue\u003c\/i\u003e and the \u003ci\u003eSavage Lovecast\u003c\/i\u003e. He is also a recurring co-host on the popular podcast \u003ci\u003eSlayerfest98\u003c\/i\u003e, where he recaps Marvel shows, \u003ci\u003eBuffy the Vampire Slayer\u003c\/i\u003e, and other pieces of pop culture. Find him on Twitter at @TheAdamSass and on Instagram at @itsadamsass.\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDEARIE\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eI’m probably the only person in school not obsessed with that Sandman show. I can’t escape it. Popular kids, nerds, teachers, janitors—-since the show dropped, everyone’s become an amateur detective. Yesterday, AP Bio didn’t start for fifteen minutes because Mr. Kirby was theorizing about the killer’s incomplete shoe print. He and my best friend, Cole Cardoso, went on and on about how modern technology could recreate the print better than seventies computers (if only the evidence still existed).\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“It’s a shame San Diego PD didn’t keep better records before the FBI got involved.” Mr. Kirby sighed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCole was trying to convince Kirby that Mr. Sandman knew someone in the force—-a father or friend—-who messed with the evidence. But Mr. Kirby just shook his head. “Never ascribe to malice what can be explained by incompetence.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCole rolled his eyes. “Corrupt \u003ci\u003eand incompetent, then.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eMr. Kirby clumsily tied his obsession back into the bio lesson for the day, but nobody was mad at the distraction. For the first time in his teaching career, he had his students riveted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eAnyway, because Mr. Sandman was never found, this show has my classmates thinking he’s behind every corner. But the slayings happened in San Diego, California, and this is Stone Grove, Arizona: a rusty, dusty canyon town of twenty thousand. A lonely place to live, sure, but unlikely to see the return of a famous boomer slasher. I don’t blame people for gossiping. They like thinking something exciting could happen here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBut Stone Grove isn’t that special.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhich is why I’m not bothered about these death threats that have been popping up. They’re a prank, as simple as that. Today, Queer Club is meeting about the texting drama during free period, and I’m here to make sure they stop believing the whispers that Cole and I are behind these anonymous texts. This happens a lot—-people blaming us. Looking cute and inspiring jealousy are kind of our thing. But death threats? That warrants a public denial.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eMaybe we should get publicists! High school reputation publicists should be a thing, but until that day comes, I have to make my own statements. So here I am in room 208, the Queer Club’s regularly reserved space—-where the band and choir rehearsed before they built the new auditorium. It’s a theater--in--the--round classroom with desks scattered across three levels of crescent--shaped stadium platforms. Since the auditorium opened, it’s become a flex space, either for clubs or a quiet study area—-which is why I’m a stranger here. I study in my own time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eJust kidding, I have extremely bad senioritis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eActually, that’s also a lie. I got early acceptance to my top--choice theater school in LA, so I don’t have senioritis; it’s more like\u003ci\u003eI’m ready to leave this town so I can start living my life–-itis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I didn’t see you at the meeting last week,” says a pretty, upbeat white girl with long, silvery hair. Her name is Em. She’s a trans sophomore whose cheerleading social circle has never quite bumped into mine—-which is a circle of just me and Cole. Em and I wait alone in the cavernous classroom, which usually hosts a dozen Queer Club members but so far is shockingly empty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eTypical. I finally come back to this damn club and everybody ditches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I used to come to these Queer meetings when I was a freshman, but I just wasn’t a joiner,” I admit, brushing on a coat of cherry ChapStick. Em nods in awkward silence at her desk atop the room’s highest platform. “I’m Frankie Dearie, but everyone just calls me Dearie.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm smiles. “I know. You’re a big--boy senior now.” Her brow furrows. “Boy, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eChewing my lower lip, I give my outfit a cursory scan: a black cropped tank with cutouts on the sides, calf--high boots, and a sheer lilac bandanna worn tightly around my throat. I snort. “Yeah, boy, but . . . I’m figuring it out.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm sighs into her resting palm. “I feel that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eTick. Tock. Where is everyone? Where’s Cole? He was supposed to be my buffer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm taps her pen against her cheek, watching me, clearly about to ask what she’s wanted to since I sat down. “You know . . . It’s okay if you did it as a prank—-”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“JESUS,” I groan. “We didn’t send those threats.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm throws up innocent palms. “Hey, I thought it was kinda funny . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Believe me, if it was us, we’d claim credit by now. Our primary goal is always attention.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm returns to her phone, and I return to mine. No response yet from Cole to my \u003ci\u003eHELP MEEEEE, ARE YOU CLOSE? texts. I open a saved screenshot of the reason I’m sitting here in purgatory: the death threat texted from an anonymous number to two members of Queer Club.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eYour lonely nights will soon be over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eMr. Sandman used to mail the words in a note to his victim the day before he killed them. If you saw that message, you were as dead as hamburger in twenty--four hours. On the bodies, he’d leave a second note—-\u003ci\u003eYour lonely nights are over—-closing the deadly circle. That’s how the news gave him the name Mr. Sandman. It’s the title of a creepy 1950s song that uses that “lonely nights” lyric.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eSo, half a century later, two states away, and after a show glorifying the killer starts streaming, this cursed message is sent to two of the most exhausting people in school: Grover Kendall (Queer Club’s secretary) and Gretchen Applebaum (treasurer). Now those two believe they’re either hours away from being slaughtered or the victims of a cruel prank.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eGrover, Cole, and I used to be friends years ago (all of us in Queer Club used to be, actually), but it got complicated in middle school, and by high school, Grover had such a falling--out with me and Cole that he will now never miss an opportunity to shit--talk us. Who knows what Grover has been saying privately, because the dirty looks we get in public are constant. His bad vibes for us are so well known that all he had to do was put out a TikTok saying he’s the victim of bullying and the whole school jumped to us as suspects.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eI thought that Cole and me showing up at Queer Club would smooth things over, or at least help everyone see the truth: we don’t care enough about these people to prank them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eYet here I am, with no Cole, no Grover, and no Gretchen. Nobody but me and Em.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Is this the L . . . GT . . . B club?” asks a small, dark--skinned Black freshman who has wandered inside the classroom. A janitor with a bushy mustache holds the door open for him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm perks up. “Yep!” The boy cautiously hugs his overstuffed backpack. “Well, it’s just G and T so far.” She chuckles. “I’d love a G\u0026amp;T.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eI courtesy--laugh, and she can tell. Her face falters. “I’ve never had one. My mom, um . . . loves them.” She groans to herself. “Ah, God, I gotta get out of this town.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“SAME,” I mouth to Em.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe freshman boy has already left, in—-I can only assume—-fear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe door bursts open again, and my heart lifts. Cole Cardoso, an eighteen--year--old boy with light brown skin, a swoop of inky--black hair, and a sharply handsome face, sneaks in wearing a maroon bomber jacket over a tightly fitting white tee. A gold chain drapes over the top of his muscular chest. At the sight of him, I thrust my fists in the air victoriously. Em starts compulsively brushing her hair. Cole’s beauty can be debilitating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Thank God you’re here,” I moan luxuriously.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Got behind, sorry, was running to my venting music,” Cole mutters as he slips his AirPods into their case. His tone is oddly self--conscious. He eyes Em like she’s an enemy combatant, which isn’t surprising. I dragged him back to this club, which is probably still nothing but snippy, humorless debates or news about the latest inhuman bill from our ogre congresspeople.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I thought there were like ten people in this club?” Cole asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Right?” Em laughs. “This is my second meeting.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Apparently, it’s down to just us three,” I say, hugging my bestie. He certainly smells like he’s been running, and his hands are bone--cold, so he must’ve been outside. Even in a desert town, February gets chilly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole doesn’t sit. His sculpted eyebrows arch as he scans the room. “No one’s here?” he asks. “Byeeeee. Dearie, let’s go.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Maybe they’re running behind!” I open my phone to text Lucy, the club’s vice president. “Five more minutes and then we’ll go.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole boops my nose. “We don’t need to be here. You’ve been manipulated. We didn’t send those threats, and Grover made this a character assassination because he’s a jealous FLOP.” My friend sighs, as if disappointed in me. “The Flops called the shots and you came running.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eI can’t even look him in the eyes, that’s how correct he is. “Then why did you come?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Every statement you make on this rolls the dice with my reputation too.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy ears get hot. I forgot again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhen you’ve been best friends as long as Cole and I have, it’s easy to forget you’re not twins. Well, it’s easy for the white friend. As time has gone on, more every year, I’m reminded with a painful spasm that Cole is not my twin and this bullshit jealousy people have for us lands differently on his shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I was gonna deny \u003ci\u003eeverything,” I whisper, hooking Cole’s pinky in mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eSmiling, he takes my frail shoulders in his strong hands. “You have a soft heart, and snakey bitches can smell that. They’ll tell you how scared they are. You’ll apologize even though you had nothing to do with those threats. But not on my watch! If I hear one ‘I’m sorry’ leave your lips, I’m going to sit on your face in front of the whole club.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” I kick his shin playfully.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm stares, wide--eyed, and my smile falters. “He’s kidding!” I tell her. “We’re just friends.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm holds up \u003ci\u003esay no more hands, but Cole says, “See, that’s the stuff I’m talking about.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“What stuff?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWe know we’re friends who talk sexy for fun without it meaning anything. You care\u003ci\u003eso much about how you come across!” Tsk--tsking, he slips off his jacket and gets comfortable next to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eChewing her pen, Em asks, “So, who do you think sent those death threats?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Who?” Cole asks, flipping hair from his eyes. “How about they sent them to themselves?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Why would they do that?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“For the \u003ci\u003eattention?” Cole snorts, as if he’s the only rational person left on earth. “This is something everyone in a so--called Queer Club should be suspicious of: attention--seeking. That’s what we are. That’s what we do. It’s the oldest motivator in the book besides, like, money.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I mean, that could make sense,” I say. “Grover and Gretchen feel invisible.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEver since Grover made that video where he sobbed about what he called his “death message,” I’ve had this lump of dread in my chest. Grover’s not\u003ci\u003enot cute, and his vulnerability about feeling unloved made him . . . I don’t know . . . I got this overpowering impulse to take care of him. But was that his intention? A thirst trap of guilt?\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eTo paraphrase Ms. Spears, there are two kinds of people in the world: ones who attract through confidence and ones who attract through self--pity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole is the epitome of one, Grover of the other. That’s why they’re perfect enemies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEm, deep in thought, slaps her pen against her open palm. “There was no tragedy mask.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“THANK YOU.” Cole thrusts his hands toward her. “Where’s the tragedy mask?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Wait, what?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole scoffs to Em, “He doesn’t watch the show.” She smirks, seemingly pleased to finally have an inside track on Cole that I can’t access.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Sorry I’m not a death addict like the rest of you,” I say, playing with my neckerchief. “Explain the tragedy mask.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole takes my hands and brings them to his lips. “My sweet friend, you live on Jupiter. It’s the poster for the show. The main symbol of the killer. Mr. Sandman signed all his victims’ messages with a doodle of a tragedy mask. You know, the theater kind . . .” Cole scrunches his face in an exaggerated frown. “The few witnesses and survivors all saw Mr. Sandman wearing the mask. It’s his thing, and it is\u003ci\u003enot present in the fake--as--hell messages those Flops sent to themselves.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“But . . . that was in the seventies. He’d be a grandpa now. What if he can’t master a phone, and this is the way he does messages now, with no doodle?” Cole’s blank stare cuts me deeper than any words could. I run my hand through my mop of dark curls, embarrassed that I’m taking this circus remotely seriously. Standing, I pull on my black leather jacket that’s decorated across the back with hot--pink roses. “Okay, enough scary stuff, no one’s coming.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Thank GOD!” Cole bellows. Even Em seems grateful someone finally made the decision to pack it in. She slides her notebook into a canvas tote and flings it over her shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eLeaving the room how we found it—-lights on and door open—-the three of us step into the empty hallway. Large shafts of afternoon sun cut through the circular overhead windows, casting spotlight shapes across rows of hunter--green lockers. In the distance, a smattering of footsteps squeak over the linoleum, but otherwise, for two in the afternoon, there’s surprisingly little going on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole and I sling our arms around each other’s waists, as Em tags along two paces behind. “Ugh,” Cole says, “dealing with Grover was so much easier when we were kids, and I could just titty--twister him into shutting up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eI elbow him and whisper, “I’m sure he’d love it if you did that now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I would jump into traffic first.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Maybe he just needs some smooching to calm down.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole squints. “Dearie, guys who do the wounded sparrow thing are manipulators. If you fall for it enough times, you’re gonna marry some dickhead who controls every breath you take.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Okay, harsh!” I flick his ear and he hisses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I’m sorry! He’s just . . . Ugh, Dearie, don’t like Grover. He sucks.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I can handle myself.” I lace my cold, slender fingers into Cole’s, which are warm and soft, despite all his deadlifting. Cole is sporty, but he also knows proper skin care.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe swing our arms lazily. Em is probably baffled about what our deal is. Most people are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Don’t worry,” I whisper, “I’m not marrying anybody until I’m fifty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole’s dimples pop. “Me, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eI nod. “For the taxes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eOur chortling is interrupted by a flurry of footsteps. Ms. Drake, a fortysomething white woman in a blue polka--dotted jumpsuit, rushes past, clattering her hip against the school’s double exit doors before running into the parking lot. A gust of bitingly cold wind rushes in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Ms. Drake?” Em calls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eMs. Drake is our librarian and the Queer Club’s faculty sponsor. Whatever her reason is for not showing up today, something has her terrified. She shouts into her phone: “HELLO? We need an ambulance right away! Stone Grove High School!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eEvery muscle in my body freezes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eBy the time Em, Cole, and I look at each other, the screams begin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe turn toward the sound. Students are clutching their faces as they run sobbing down the corridor—-away from a place we can’t quite see. “A shooter?” I whisper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“We would’ve heard shots,” Cole whispers back uneasily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eI can barely speak with this lump of fear in my chest. “What do we do . . . ?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eCole’s grip on my hand tightens as the three of us wait against the lockers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy mom is a detective. If I text her, maybe she can get here faster? Slowly, with a sweating hand, I open my phone to text Mom, when Ms. Drake bolts back inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“They can’t be dead!” Ms. Drake mutters to herself as she rushes past us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eDead. Who?\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Get out of here,” Cole says, pulling me away urgently, but I rip free and sprint after Ms. Drake, her courage contagious. I have to help. Cole yells, “Dearie, wait!” and chases me until we round the corner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eA dozen students swarm around someone on the ground whose tennis shoes stick out of the crowd like the legs of the Wicked Witch’s sister under Dorothy’s house. The shoes squirm on the ground, so whoever it is, they’re still alive. As Ms. Drake parts the group, a young boy with thick glasses and light, tawny--brown skin runs out, sobbing incoherently. It’s Benny Prince from Queer Club. A crimson streak of blood stains the shield on his Captain America shirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Benito?” Cole asks, horrified, as he stops the boy. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Cole, he’s . . .” But Benny is in too much shock to finish what he was saying. He whispers something softly in Spanish and Cole nods, his eyes laser focused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Then whose blood \u003ci\u003eis it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eAnother person wrestles free of the crowd: Lucy Kahapana—-a small girl with light bronze skin, a side--buzz haircut, and rumpled skater boi clothes. Her hands are stained red, and her eyes are puffy from crying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Lucy, what happened?” I ask, stepping into her path.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“We need an ambulance!” she shrieks as she moves to run down the hall. But almost immediately her sneaker slips, sending her hurtling backward into me. Before I can correct my balance, we both collide with the linoleum. Pain rockets through my shoulder. From my vantage point on the ground, the crime scene becomes clear: two more Queer Club members—-Mike and Theo—-crouch over a boy shaking uncontrollably, sitting with his back against the lockers. The shoes I saw. It’s Grover—-I recognize his blond hair and beefy arms. Ms. Drake shushes him. He’s alive but drenched in scarlet. Barbed wire is wrapped around his neck like a noose. Puckering gashes have turned his throat into a waterfall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt’s like \u003ci\u003eSaw. I’m breathless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“They’re coming, sweetie,” Ms. Drake says. “Don’t touch it. Don’t touch the wire. Mike, HOLD HIS HANDS DOWN.” Mike does as he’s told and presses Grover’s hands to the floor. Grover fights him—-he very badly wants to pluck the barbs out of his neck, but Ms. Drake is right. If he dislodges them, there’ll be no stopping the bleeding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eGrover blubbers in a panic: “He—-he—-he—-had a mask.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Don’t talk,” Ms. Drake says forcefully. “Your neck, remember?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eAssurance has swept over her, crowding out any fear or doubt. My fear and doubt, however, aren’t going anywhere. If someone doesn’t come soon, Grover will die—-twenty--four hours after getting that text.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eStill on the floor, Lucy covers her face as she cries. Cole’s confident hands wrap under my arms, and he lifts me . . . but not before I spy another body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eGretchen Applebaum. The other club member who received a Mr. Sandman message. She lies next to Grover, motionless and ignored. Her eyes stare open vacantly. Her blond pigtails lie soaking in the pond of blood that seeps from the barbed wire wounds across her neck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eShe’s dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eAt the edge of her body is a note made from sandy--brown cardstock, which sits tented on the floor like a dinner invitation. Written in neat cursive is an unmistakable message: your lonely nights are over. Next to the handwriting is a doodle of a tragedy mask—-the symbol Cole and Em said kept it from being a true Mr. Sandman message.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe texts were real. They were a threat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe killer from TV has found our Queer Club.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e","brand":"Viking Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303636848869,"sku":"NP9780593526583","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593526583.jpg?v=1767744814","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/your-lonely-nights-are-over-isbn-9780593526583","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}