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“What you drinking there, cutie?” Tim asks me.

I flush. It’s the first time I’m really hanging out with my classmates instead of being bullied by them. And now I’ve got to admit that I don’t belong. “Sprite.”

“Aw, hell no,” he says, pulling me away from the circle. “We gotta fix that.”

I freeze. I wish I knew how to do this. I wish I knew how to assert myself without looking like an absolute dork, but I don’t think I’m capable of it. “I’m good with this,” I tell him.

“You driving? he asks, still pulling me. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll give you a ride home.”

My knees lock. I don’t like where this is going. “I⁠—”

Suddenly Ford is there, his hand wrapped around my bicep. His hand is big. His palm is warm and calloused. There’s something unyielding in the pressure he exerts, and for a moment, just a moment, I forget that I hate him. All I know is that those eyes of his, those lovely hazel eyes, are half shut as they dip to my mouth and back up. And that I am deeply relieved that he is beside me and intervening.

“Let it go, Johannsson,” he says. “Before she runs and cries to her dad and we all get in trouble.”

I’d thought he was helping me, but no—he was just here to remind everyone that I’m the enemy.

Tim shrugs and lumbers away while my stomach sinks like a stone. “I wasn’t going to go cry to my dad,” I hiss, as he pulls me a couple feet from Kappy and her friends. “You of all people should know that.”

He ignores me. “Why are you here?”

“It’s Lauren’s party and I’m her friend,” I reply. “I didn’t think I’d need to explain that to you.”

He pushes a hand back through his hair. I bet his hair is soft and would fall between my fingers like sand. “This isn’t a good place for you,” he says. “Just go home.”

“Isn’t a good place because you’re going to ruin it, you mean?”

He releases a frustrated breath. “How many fucking times do I have to tell you I haven’t been behind the shit at school? Look, if you stay, especially if you stay dressed like that—” his gaze falls to my chest and then jerks away nearly as fast, “someone’s going to mess with you, and you’ll be too fucking naive to even realize it.”

I flush. He’s probably right, but I’m annoyed that he’s said it. “I am stuck at this school for another seven months. Is it asking so much that I be allowed to hang out like everyone else?”

His jaw locks tight. He doesn’t answer my question, which means he knows I’m right. “You look different,” he says. “What did you do?”

I open my mouth to answer and think better of it. I don’t owe him an explanation of any kind. “None of your business.”

He glances at my mouth again and then he blinks, as if he’s caught himself at something.

It’s the way he sometimes looks at me after I’ve spoken in class. The way he looked at me for half a second with his hand on my breast. Though I have no experience whatsoever with boys or with men, I’m pretty sure what I see in his face isn’t irritation or anger or resentment.

“Go home,” he demands. “And don’t start messing with your face. You don’t need it.”

He’s being obnoxious and bossy and a bully, and I’d still rather be here, craning my neck to meet his gaze, than anywhere else in the world. “I’m eighteen, Ford. If I’m going to take orders from anyone, it’s not going to be you.”

He smirks. “Look who suddenly thinks she’s feisty. Does your dad know you’re wearing those shorts and that tank?” He pulls out his phone and takes a picture of me. “Does he even know you’re here?”

My stomach drops, and it must show on my face because he laughs. “Of course he fucking doesn’t,” he says. “You’ve got ten minutes to get out of here or I’m sending this picture.”

The unfairness of it staggers me. But the only shocked word I can utter is: “Why?”

“I told you why. Because people are going to mess with you, and I’ve wasted enough time interfering.”

“The five minutes you’ve spent haranguing me at a party is actually a waste of both our time,” I snap.

He unlocks his phone. “So, you’re staying, then? I should go ahead and send the photo now?”

I’m cornered. The trouble I’ll be in if my father sees me in Kappy’s sister’s clothes, surrounded by teenagers, is so exponential I can’t even grasp it. I’m pretty sure when I’m fifty my dad will still be holding this against me and making asides about my untruthfulness.

“I hate you,” I tell him.