“Oh, yeah, I’ve had it since I was born,” she had said sheepishly, picking at her hash browns. “My parents named me after it.”

“Rose, then?”

She smiled, and even behind her mask it made something strange flutter in my stomach. “It’s a secret, unless you tell me yours.”

“I’m no one,” I lied.

It seemed innocuous back then. I didn’t want to ruin the moment by telling her the truth, but then when morning came, I thought I heard my name so I looked over my shoulder. And the next second, she was gone.

And now here she is, again, reappeared like some reoccurring dream.

Or perhaps a nightmare.

She hesitantly puts the pitcher down on the island counter. “Um—sorry. I thought you were Elias.”

“I am not,” I reply.

She rubs her hands on her jeans—they must be sweaty; I know mine are—and then holds out her hand as if she wants me to shake it. Her lilac nails are painted with sparkly glitter. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, maybe? I’m Rosie. Rosie Thorne.”

A rose-shaped mark.

Rosie.

I look down at her hand.

“Maybe we could—I don’t know—be friends?”

Friends.

The only friends I’ve had, aside from Imogen, have all gossiped behind my back and sold my deepest secrets to the tabloids. And if she finds out—when she finds out—that I was that bloke in the General Sond costume at ExcelsiCon? All of the secrets I told her, all of my fears, and hopes, and dreams…

I don’t want to risk them getting out.

So it will be best if I don’t become her friend at all, because the closer she gets the more likely she will see behind my mask. That night on the balcony was a mistake. Meeting her was a mistake.

I won’t make another one.

The tabloids would eat this kind of story up.

So I incline my head instead, pushing the feelings I have toward her down into some deep part of me that will find its way to the top again later, when I’m alone, and tell her in a bored tone, “Sure.”

Lies, lies, lies.

Then I grab a can of LaCroix from the refrigerator, leaving her with her hand outstretched.

* * *

—

  AFTER SHE LEAVES, Elias knocks on my door to check on me. I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to one of those murder podcasts that seem to always be trending. This one is about a man who killed women and stored their bodies in a refrigerator.

“Well,” he begins, “you could have helped her a little today—”

“Fire her.”

He stares at me. “…What?”

“You heard me.”

“Vance, she just started—”

“I don’t care. I don’t like her.” My voice cracks at that.

He gives an exasperated sigh. “Why?”

Because I’m afraid. And I’m a coward. Because I hated how I liked how she smiled, and how she laughed, and because of that I let myself imagine her, thinking I would never find her again.

And now she’s here. And I’m not the prince she thinks I am.

“Because I don’t like her,” I reiterate. “Is that so hard to understand?”

“You don’t even know her.”

“I don’t care!” I bite back, knowing my words are too sharp.

After a moment, Elias sighs and says, “All right.” My tense shoulders begin to unwind. Good, now she’ll go and live her life and disappear again. But then he says, resoundingly, “No.”

I sit up. “Pardon?”

“No,” he repeats, as simple as telling a child. I am not a child. “No, you don’t get to decide this.”

“She’s a menace!” I snap, which is a lie. She’s not a menace. Not at all. But I’m not sure how else to get my point across. I am not used to being told no.

I don’t like it.

He raises a pointed eyebrow. “What are you so scared of, Vance?”

I scoff.

“She’s nice and she’s been doing all of the work that you both should be doing together, and she hasn’t once complained,” he goes on, and my scowl turns pale. “I’ve known you since you were a kid. I know you. What scares you about her?”

The fact that I opened up more to her than I ever had to anyone in my life. That when she realizes that those secrets belong to Vance Reigns, she’ll tell them to the world for enough money to buy that book she ruined a hundred times over.

But I don’t say anything.

“Well, whatever it is, get over it. You’re not getting out of this so easily—and tomorrow I expect you to help her in that library. That isn’t a request, it’s an order.” Then he grabs the doorknob and slams the door on his way out.

PART TWO

REBEL

The automatic doors slide open, and Amara hears his footsteps before she sees him. General Sond—again. She can sense the strange warped energies that spiral around him like volcanic ash. They’re wrong—he’s wrong. And yet…

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, resisting the urge to reach for her pistol.

He slowly makes his way around to her seating area. It’s a part of the space station that looks out onto her home planet of Plylantha, a beautiful pearl of a world, purple and blue and green. It looked different on the other side of the Black Nebula. No, that’s a lie. On the other side of the Nebula, all that remained of her home planet were floating rocks and debris, of a place that once was but was no longer.

“What do I do?” he asks, startling her as he sits down.

“In what capacity, General?”

He lets out a breath. “You think me wicked.”

“That’s suspect.”

“You do,” he says, and gently reaches a hand out and turns her head so she must look at him. She could fight against it, but she doesn’t. His touch sets her skin on edge, and her nails dig into her palms—but she doesn’t pull away. As if she’s daring herself to know how far she can go. “I know the look of someone questing for revenge.”

“It’s not a quest,” she replies, leaning closer, testing the inches between them. She doesn’t blink as she stares into his eyes, trying to find a soul there. “It’s a promise.”

I MANAGE TO FIND A PAIR of not-so-dirty jeans on my bedroom floor and shimmy into them as Dad’s alarm screeches across the apartment for the fourteenth time.

I poke my head out of my bedroom and shout, “Dad, are you dead?”

From the other side of the apartment, I hear a zombie groan.

Good, not dead.

Since it’s a bit chilly this morning—thank God September finally got the memo—I throw on an old sweatshirt and jeans, pull my hair back, and fix myself some coffee. After a few minutes, Dad shuffles out of his room, in a crumpled button-down and orange tie. His silver hair is sticking straight up on the left side. He licks his hand and tries to flatten it down, but it doesn’t work.

He yawns as he fixes himself a cup. “So how’s Quinn and Annie’s Homecoming plan coming along?”

“I think they’re making buttons to hand out that say QUEER HERE TO ROCK and HOMECOMING IS SO GAY,” I say, pouring the rest of my coffee into the sink and grabbing my bookbag. “I can only assume I know which one you came up with.”

He snorts. “I’ll gladly take half credit for both.”

“Like a true hero,” I reply, kissing him on the cheek, and hurry out the door.

* * *

—

  TUESDAY MORNINGS ARE FOR (MORE) COFFEE and pancakes, so as soon as I pick Quinn and Annie up, we head to the Starlight Diner for some breakfast. Seniors don’t have first period Tuesday and Thursday mornings—presumably so we can study for our SATs and apply to colleges—but I highly doubt any of us actually use that time as planned.

Why, when you can enjoy a stack of delicious pancakes instead?

We order our usual—three specials with an extra side of bacon—before Annie and Quinn spread out the details of their Homecoming plan across the table. They’ve already made the buttons, but now they’re both working on the posters, which are just as flashy and glittery as I suspected. Today, Quinn has on a fabulous dress—yellow with middle fingers printed all over it. They saw Natalia Ford in a similar print at ExcelsiCon last year and just had to track down the clothing company. They look up to Natalia Ford something fierce.

“She’s really everything. I can’t wait to see Starfield: Resonance. It is going to be amazing. Like, not like Last Jedi amazing, but like Star Trek: First Contact amazing,” they’re saying as they bedazzle the word VOTE onto the poster.

I’m not sure what the difference is (I was never really into Star Wars or Star Trek), but I nod anyway.

“I just hope Natalia treats Sond like The Last Jedi treated Kylo. I’m hashtag no redemption arc,” Annie adds, shaking a tube of blue glitter glue.

“But you like the Zuko redemption arc,” Quinn points out.

Annie waves her hand dismissively. “But Sond is terrible. He was in the TV show and he will be in everything we know about the movie.” Our pancakes come, and we clear a spot for them on the table. Annie steals a bite of my blueberry pancake before she continues. “I just don’t understand how so many people love Sond. How can you root for a villain?”