Oakley snatched the half-melted slushie from Amberly’s hands and took a gulp so aggressive it left a blue stain above his lip like a poorly applied mustache. "Alright, my turn," he announced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Valerie. Truth or dare?"
Valerie stiffened, her fingers tightening around the frayed strap of her backpack. The carnival noise dimmed around them—the shrieks from the Tilt-A-Whirl, the tinny carnival music, even Walker’s muttered complaints about glitter in his eyebrows faded into background static. She exhaled through her nose. "Truth."
Oakley’s grin widened, predatory. "Have you ever lied to me?"
Jovie snorted into her cotton candy. "That’s your big question? Weak."
Valerie’s pulse stuttered. The memory surfaced like a corpse in a lake—two figures silhouetted against the flickering fluorescence of the 8th grade hallway, the wet sound of mouths moving against each other, the way one had shoved the other against Oakley’s locker hard enough to make the metal shudder. She’d frozen mid-step, her sneakers squeaking on linoleum, and they’d broken apart with identical deer-in-headlights expressions. One was Jason Rhee from bio. The other—
"Yeah," Valerie said, too quickly. She picked at a loose thread on her shorts. "Like that time I told you your hoodie didn’t smell like a dead raccoon."
Oakley squinted. "That’s not—"
"Or when I said your mixtape didn’t make me want to stab my eardrums with a pencil."
Jovie choked on her cotton candy. Walker’s rainbow-streaked forehead creased. But Oakley wasn’t buying it. He leaned in, close enough that Valerie could see the blue slushie stain on his teeth. "You’re dodging." His voice dropped, suddenly serious. "Who was it?"
The Ferris wheel lights blurred in Valerie’s periphery. She swallowed hard. "Jason Rhee," she muttered. "And... someone else."
Oakley’s breath hitched. Valerie watched his Adam’s apple bob as he processed the unspoken half of that sentence—the part where she hadn’t just seen two random guys, but two guys *at his locker*. The carnival sounds rushed back in a dizzying wave: squealing brakes from the Scrambler, the popcorn machine’s greasy hiss, some kid wailing about a dropped corn dog.
Joel’s phone was suddenly in his pocket. "Oakley—"
ns216.73.217.80da2
and then Add to home screen.