I want to make my parents proud too.

He stands in front of me and wipes a tear from my cheek. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m just really proud of you, Aiden. You should have seen your mom. She teared up and beamed when you won. I just think it’s really cool that you risked making a fool of yourself for her. You did it for her, right?”

“I did it for all the people that I love. Did you love it?”

“Everyone loved it. You got a freaking standing ovation.”

“That’s not what I asked. Did you love it?”

I take a deep breath, so that I won’t start crying. “I loved it, Aiden. I really loved it.”

I get the grin. The grin that grows into the megawatt, brighter-than-the-sunset smile. “I want you to meet my parents,” he says. He takes ahold of my elbow and guides me through the crowd that is still trying to congratulate him.

“Mom, Dad, this is Keatyn Monroe. She’s the girl I told you about.”

Told them about?

Shit. What did he tell them? That he hates me most of the time?

That I’m a freaking soccer-ball-stealing, boot-wearing, French-speaking lunatic?

Aiden’s mom holds out her hand. As we shake, Aiden’s dad says, “We understand Aiden’s French has improved because of you.”

Tutoring. Thank god. He just told them I’m his tutor.

I smile. “Yes, but we still have a long way to go. Especially if he’s going to get to our goal of a B.”

Aiden’s mom smiles. “We heard you’re taking him to France to celebrate when that happens.”

I look at Aiden. My eyes search his for answers. He told his parents that?

He gives me a sly grin.

“He sort of tricked me into agreeing to that,” I say honestly.

His mother laughs. “He’s had that gift since he was a little boy. He smiles that dang smile and looks at you with those big green eyes and he can get away with anything.”

“Mom!” Aiden says, laughing. “Don’t give away all my secrets.”

“Oh, that one I already know,” I say with a laugh of my own. I like his mom already.

Peyton interjects, “Yeah, he never got into trouble. He’d always make Mom laugh or he’d kiss her on the nose and get out of it. It never worked for me.”

Peyton’s dad laughs. “Give us a break. You may not know how to work your Mom, but you have your daddy wrapped around your little finger.”

Peyton beams and gives her dad a hug.

Aiden says, “Well, I supposed I better get out of this makeup and ready for the game.”

“Oh, I have to get going too. It was nice to meet you both.”

Aiden and I turn and walk away in the same direction. “Your parents are great.”

He nods. “Yeah, they are. I’m lucky. Everyone has been complaining about their families coming. I couldn’t wait to see mine. I bet it’s hard not having yours here. Hey, who is going to walk you onto the field?”

“It is, but my uncle is coming.”

We get to the boys’ locker room and as he heads through the door I sort of whisper, “Good luck, Aiden.”

He hears me, stops, does a one-eighty, and comes back to me. He pulls up the sleeve of the black leotard he’s wearing. On his arm is a marker drawn four-leaf clover.

“That looks like . . .”

“Points for dances, Round 3? I had someone draw it to match your note. I needed some of that luck today.”

He still has my note? Of course, I still have the real clover he gave me. It’s pressed between the pages of my Keats poetry book.

“Why did you need luck?”

“Probably because I risked making a fool out of myself. I’m glad I did it though. It was exhilarating. Is that how you felt when you went running down the field and kicked the soccer ball in the middle of our game?”

I laugh. “Yeah, kinda.”

“That was really brave. New girl. New school. To take that chance.”

“Maybe, but what you did was braver. Changing people’s perception of you is a lot harder than making a first impression.”

“Well, since I’m feeling lucky. What do you say? Points for Dances, Round 4?”

“I can’t do that, but . . .” I reach out and trace the outline of the four-leaf clover. “I do wish you and the team lots of luck.”

It seems kind of mean.

6pm

I go to the dance room, change into my game outfit, and get ready for the fun surprise we have for the alumni tailgate. I get a text from Garrett letting me know that he’s here. I text him back and let him know where to meet up with me.

I know he’s not my family. I know that he’s being paid a lot to help me, but I also know that Garrett runs a very large and successful security firm. I know that he’s taken a special interest in my case. I know that he cares.

I spot him. He’s looking really handsome in his charcoal pinstriped suit. I never really paid much attention, but Garrett is really quite good looking. And, apparently, Miss Praline has already noticed this. She is totally chatting him up.

“Do you know Melissa?” Garrett asks me.

“Melissa and I do know each other. She is also Miss Praline, my French teacher.”

Garrett grabs her hand, kisses it, and starts speaking to her in French.

He’s so flirting with her.

And she is totally swooning.

It’s really, really cute.

“Um, Miss Praline,” I say, as I pat Garrett on the back. “My uncle, Garrett, really doesn’t know anyone. Do you think he could sit with you during the game? I have to go now and do a dance thing, and I’ll be out on the field during the game.”

Garrett grins at me and Miss Praline gets all flustered. “Well, um, of course, I wouldn’t want your, uh, uncle, to get lost or anything.”

Ha! I doubt Garrett ever gets lost. He probably has a full recon poster of the school’s building plans on his cell phone.

“That would be great.” I give my uncle a hug, then point and say, “We’ll meet right over there to line up when there are two minutes left in the half.”

“Sounds good. I’m looking forward to it.”

There’s a wide pathway running down the parking lot and tailgaters are set up on both sides of it. I get a text from Peyton telling us to take our positions.

I walk casually over to a tent and pretend to be interested in what they are doing.

Someone turns up a great song. Which is my cue. I walk out into the pathway and start doing a line dance to the music. I’m the only one out here, so people are turning to stare.

After a few lines of the song, Peyton and Maggie come out to dance with me.

Pair by pair, dancers join in the dance, and pretty soon a lot of the alumni dancers join in too, then some of the crowd.

By the end of the song, the pathway is full of people dancing with us.

After the flash mob, Peyton runs up to me, flushed and beaming. “That was so much fun. You did a great job starting it.”

“A great job making a fool out of myself, you mean?”

“Speaking of fools, what did you think of Aiden’s dance?”

“It was really good. So, does Whitney know about Cam or your dress yet?”

“Are you kidding? I made sure to parade him in front of her the second he arrived. I know she’s mad, but it’s not like she can say anything about it. And no, she doesn’t know about my dress. I want that to be a surprise.”

“That seems kind of mean, Peyton. I think you should tell her.”

“I don’t think it’s any of her business what I wear.”

“That’s true, but—“

She holds her hand up. “No. I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to do what I want to do.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“I’m not listening.”

I really want to tell her that this is going to blow up in her face. That someone will end up getting hurt in the crossfire. That her boyfriend will get drugged. That she’ll turn into a bitch. That her secret will come out.

But I know she won’t listen.

Maybe it’s a lesson you have to learn on your own.

Excitement in the air.

Halftime.

At halftime, I change into my formal gown, then meet Garrett just outside the field house. We gather with the other Court members waiting for the processional. The game has been going in our favor. We’re up by fourteen already and you can feel the excitement in the air.

Except for here.

Here, there is tension.

Peyton is happily sashaying around in her new dress, but you can feel the tension between her and Whitney. You can see the glares Whitney gives her and you can tell that Peyton is pretending not to care.

Whitney is standing next to her perfect-looking parents.

Where there is even more tension.

I think it’s safe to say that Whitney’s mother does not approve of her dress. She keeps looking at it and scowling.

I have to hand it to Whitney though. She has her head held high and a smile plastered on her face.

I didn’t think she could pull off a dress covered with jewels, but she so is. She looks amazing and I can see why she fell in love with the dress. It makes the rest of our gowns look plain in comparison.

Dawson grabs me from behind, kisses my neck, and whispers, “You look hot.” Then he gets in line with his own parents.

I forget about Whitney and Peyton and just stare at him. He looks so sexy in his football uniform and my mind can’t help but wander back to wearing that jersey and nothing else yesterday. Although, in my daydream we are not interrupted by his parents.

Garrett is reading emails from his phone. He coughs and a troubled look crosses his face.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“I just got some news.”

I instantly panic. “Bad news?”

“I’m not sure yet. We had an interview scheduled next week with a guy regarding Vincent and, possibly, your case. Now he’s dead.”

“Dead?” I croak out.

The band director, who is in charge of leading us all out onto the field, yells out, “Okay, line up by class starting with the freshmen. We’re about ready to go out.”

We’re supposed to follow the band director out onto the field. Then, as our class is called, we’ll walk down the sideline, then turn and go up through the 50-yard line toward the home crowd.

“Yes,” Garrett replies. “He was apparently killed in a random mugging.”

Random mugging. Where have I heard that before?

He continues. “His family doesn’t think it was random. They think he was murdered. And, I mean, they’re right . . .” He stops to listen to the stadium announcer who starts talking about the Homecoming Court tradition over the loudspeaker.

The band director yells out, “As soon as he says freshmen, all freshmen proceed on your route.”

And this year’s Freshmen Court is . . .

Garrett whispers to me, “The guy was huge. I can't imagine anyone trying to mug him.”

“What did he have to do with Vincent? How did Vincent know him?”

“He had an appointment with him a few weeks ago.”

"And this year’s Sophomore Court is . . .

“Was he a doctor?”

Garrett looks at me and shakes his head. “No, he was a tattoo artist. He did Vincent’s chaos tattoo.”

“All right, juniors, walk down to the fifty-yard line and hold,” the band director instructs us.

Garrett and I walk to the fifty-yard line. I hear someone shouting my name from the Visitor’s section, which I’m now standing in front of. I look up and see Braxton waving at me.

I smile and give him a little wave back, but there’s something gnawing at the back of my brain.

“We had hoped Vincent might have said something about the tattoo that would help our case. Like maybe he mentioned why he was getting the same tattoo as you. Or something like that.” He shakes his head. “It was a long shot.”

And this year’s Junior Court is . . .

I remember the tattoo artist who Brooklyn brought in to do our tattoos. How big he was. “Tell me he wasn't covered in tattoos and looked like Santa Claus.”

I take a step forward to walk onto the field, but Garrett doesn't come with me.

He’s firmly holding his stance and my elbow.

“How do you know that?”

The band director yells, “Miss Monroe, go, please.”

I pull Garrett down the center of the field, putting on a big smile that completely masks the sick feeling in my stomach.

“Because Brooklyn hired a guy who looked like that to do our tattoos. Everyone called him Tiny.”

“That’s the guy who is dead,” Garrett says.

Keatyn Monroe.

As I accept a bouquet of flowers, the student section yells, “MON—R-O-A-R!”

I plaster a fake smile on my face and wave to the crowd.

Then it hits me. Where I heard it.

“Garrett,” I say out of the side of my mouth, while still keeping a smile plastered on my face. “Vincent’s mom and stepdad were killed in a random mugging.”

Garrett says, “This is quite disturbing.”

“Yeah, it is.”

And this year’s Senior Court is . . .

We all turn to watch Dawson, Jake, Brad, Whitney, Peyton, and Mariah walk down the fifty-yard line toward us.

Garrett holds my arm tight. “Are you okay? You’ve got a smile on your face, but I can feel you shaking.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. But I’ll be better if you can prove Vincent killed him. Then he can go to jail and I’ll be free.”