Lauren nudged Evan. “Same with me and the worse half.”
“I should have strangled you with the umbilical cord in utero.”
Lauren stuck her tongue out at Evan, and Brynna marveled at how dissimilar they could look, even though they were born within minutes of each other.
“I would like to register a barf complaint,” Darcy said, rolling her eyes. “Umbilical? Utero? Not on a Friday night. Never on a Friday night.”
Evan’s eyes cut to Brynna. “Curfew, Queen B?”
Brynna blinked. “Midnight.”
“Then we’d better get going.”
Evan grabbed Brynna’s free hand and one of Lauren’s. Lauren clamped on to Darcy, and with Brynna still holding on to Teddy, they were one long, wonky line being led by Evan as he stomped across campus.
“Where are we going?” Brynna wanted to know.
Lauren spun free of her brother. “Oh, that’s right, you’re still a virgin.”
Brynna stopped, feeling all the blood rush from her face. “What?”
Teddy thumped into her and dropped her hand.
The parking lot—fifteen seconds ago littered with Hawthorne and Crescent High students screaming and talking—suddenly went impossibly quiet as if everyone, every student, every teacher, was waiting for Brynna to answer.
“Not like that!” Evan swatted at her then ducked his head close. “Although I want to hear every detail if it’s a no. She means,” he went on, this time theatrically and with a flourish of both arms, “you are currently on your virgin voyage of Evan’s Amazing Adventures.”
Teddy clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh good god, how did I get dragged into one of these again?”
“Shut it, gimp.”
Teddy rolled his eyes. “Have a little sympathy! I just watched my team get terrorized by the bottom-of-the-league Bulldogs.”
“Well,” Darcy said, handing Evan her car keys, “then you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to get a season-ending injury before your season even started.”
Brynna expected Teddy to look stung or argue, but he just narrowed his eyes and grinned. She liked that about him—he was easygoing and didn’t mind being razzed. Erica would love him—would have loved him.
The group stopped in front of a sports car that looked like it belonged in the pages of a catalog or in some kind of showroom. The overhead lights bounced over the car’s pristine black paint job and the inside—with fawn-colored, supple leather seats—was just as factory-new looking.
“Wow,” Brynna said to Darcy, “is this your car?”
Though they had been getting closer, Darcy was the one in the group that Brynna knew the least about. She was nice enough and was in a few of Brynna’s advanced classes, but the blond was quiet—or maybe it was that Evan was always so loud. Unlike the others, Darcy never invited anyone over or talked much about her parents or family. Brynna respected the girl’s shy nature and never pried.
“Yup, this little beauty belongs to our Darcy—much like most of this town and half the money in this world.”
“And can you believe she lets Evan drive it?” Lauren asked.
Evan rolled his eyes. “Cars are like Kleenex to the Davenports. One gets soiled, Daddy buys a new one. Come on, B. Virgin rides shotgun.”
Brynna ducked into the car just in time to see Darcy, cheeks pink and eyes downcast, crawling into the backseat.
“Darcy, it’s your car, you should be up front.”
Darcy smiled thinly and shrugged. “Tradition is tradition, B. Better get up there.”
Evan cranked down all the windows and cranked up the radio, and then Brynna was singing along with the rest of them, screaming out the wrong words to whatever song came up, kicking her feet against the dashboard during the drum solos. The night air was breezy and warm and her friends—her new life—were so magazine-cover perfect that Erica and the tweet flailed far behind, and she forgot to pay attention to the miles of road that Darcy’s car ate up. She didn’t notice when the breeze died down, but the temperature dropped and the air that waved over her bare arm turned moist.
When Evan made a sharp turn—and the wheels of Darcy’s car spun out on a catch of sand—Brynna heard it. It was distant but distinct: the crash of waves.
She sat bolt upright just in time to see the sign, slapped over with Santa Cruz and surf decals, the name of the beach just barely visible: Harding Beach.
The memories of the night didn’t have to come flooding back. She didn’t have to think of the images, remember the churning surf, the way the pier looked in the darkness—because it was right in front of her.
“Why are we here?” Brynna asked, hysteria in her voice. She gripped the dashboard and the door handle, her knuckles white, her palm aching with the effort. “Why are you doing this?”