First Floor Bathroom

Johns Meredith

Friday 17 September

12:53 P.M.

"No. No. Absolutely not."

Massie eyed her Chanel watch imperiously – she'd already wasted fifteen minutes in the scrappy first floor bathroom that nobody actually used (the hot water, hand dryer and one of the fluorescents had stopped working in 1994 and never been fixed or replaced), trying to explain a very, very simple concept to Cam – he was going to the ball with her, and he didn't have a choice. "Are you done?" she asked. "Because I kind of have somewhere to be."

Cam was understandably incredulous. His eyes – one green, one blue, and always thrill-inducing to observe – were wide; his breathing was shallow and quick. Massie had no way of knowing without a little handholding (which she wasn't averse to at all), but she was pretty sure that his hands were cold and clammy; he kept rubbing them against his slacks frenetically. "Un-fucking-believable," he said, turning away from her.

"Um, excuse me, but Derrick asked Claire to the Debut and she didn't hesitate – really, I'm doing you a favor."

"Why the fuck would Derrick ask Claire to be his date?" Cam rubbed his temples, mussing up his already-messy brown-black hair. "He's been listening to me talk about how much I like her for weeks."

"Which I totally don't get, by the way." Massie didn't like to frown – her biggest fears were wrinkles, carbs and sharks, in that order – but since she'd found Skye's little diary (and subsequently managed to lose it) she'd done a lot of it. "She's so…vanilla."

Cam scoffed, turning his back to her. Massie loved almost everything about Cam: his broad shoulders, and the way his leather jacket clung to them; his long, muscular legs, draped in slim-fit raw denim Acne jeans; his long, beautiful, slender fingers; his artist's temperament. She bit back a sigh between her perfectly straight, white teeth. The only unlovable thing about him is his tendency to over-think everything. Actually, make that two things. She grimaced. Evidently, he has poor taste in women.

"Of course you don't get it, Massie – she's not a heartless bitch from the pits of Hell. Clearly, you two don't speak the same language."

Massie took a step back on her Louboutins and narrowed her eyes. "Excuse you but that was rude…and totally unnecessary."

"I don't know what's up with D today," Cam hissed, turning back to face her. The two functional fluorescents flickered eerily, casting creepy, ominous shadows across the room; too bad that this was the only place for a Johns Meredith boy and a BALC girl to have a conversation (or 'meet clandestinely') outside of the designated hours of integration, like study hall and lunch. "He's – I don't know. He's acting weird; cold."

Cam was constantly fretting over some imagined slight – Derrick didn't wait for him outside of third period Geography class, or Kemp and Josh booked tickets to a Chet Faker gig and didn't ask Cam if he wanted to go, or Dylan (who was just as anxious and over-analytical about her social life) sat down at a table and didn't acknowledge Cam's presence.

Massie told herself that she wasn't particularly worried; examined her lilac-painted nails for chips, cracks and breakages that didn't exist thanks to OPI Nail Envy and BioSculpture gel; but couldn't shake the tiny, panicked voice in the back of her head, telling her that Cam was right and something really weird was happening. He was acting fucking weird this morning…and, let's face it: asking Claire Lyons to be his date is a sign of total crazy.

"Are you suggesting he knows about – are you saying he knows?" she asked.

Cam's head shot upright.

Like most people, Cam could still remember – very clearly, in fact – the first time he'd met Derrick. On the first day of preschool they'd been stationed at easels next to each other, finger-painting. Young D and Young C had gotten into a fight over the red and white acrylic paint until they'd realized that they were both painting their hero, David Beckham.

Since then, they'd pretty much shared everything: when the fighting got too bad between Derrick's parents, he stayed at Cam's house for weeks at a time; when Cam was struggling to cope with being Head Boy and co-captain of the soccer team and the best student in his grade, Derrick was always there with a joint to listen and give him some perspective.

They had never shared a girl before, and they'd promised themselves they never would. Girls made things messy. Girls were a distraction – a nice, soft, pretty-smelling, sometimes-sexy distraction – from the other really important things in life, like school and soccer.

Cam had broken that promise; now Derrick had, too. "Who could have told on us?" he asked, balling his hands into fists. He shoved them into his pockets, determined not to punch a mirror or something equally as fragile, no matter how much he felt like it. "Did you tell anyone? I didn't tell anyone!"

Massie knew it was silly to be offended, but she felt…well, she felt a little bit offended. She and Cam had been meeting up in secret for three months and he hadn't been overwhelmed by the desire to brag? Not even once? Not even to Kemp Hurley, Johns Meredith's resident pot dealer and sleazeball perv?"Glad to hear I was your dirty little secret," she murmured, kicking one of the corroded pipes protruding from underneath the original 1890's marble bench-tops.

"Massie, I'm serious. Did you tell anyone?"

"No! I have a reputation to protect."

Cam rolled his eyes.

Massie knew that he was tormented by everything that was happening; well, she was, too. If Cam was half the good-guy-gentleman-knight-in-shining-armor-type he thought he was, we wouldn't be in this situation right now. And if he was a quarter of the guy he thought he was, he would have stopped to check that I was okay right now, instead of being such a think-for-yourself-er. "Um, this situation is kind of awkward for me, too, C. I'm fully cognizant of the potential shit-storm we're about to weather – so I'd appreciate a little less judgment, and a little more teamwork."

"Go fuck yourself."

She sighed and rolled her eyes right back at him. Or not.

Cam turned his back to Massie again, but he could still see her in the mirror; she was preening over his shoulder, unaware that he could see her. A little less judgement…yeah, right. Massie was a seductress. Like Eve with a fucking apple, saying "Go on, take a bite." She controlled the people around her with reckless disregard for their feelings, and she did so by whatever means possible. She'd wanted to make Derrick feel bad; take his best friend away from him; so she'd slept with Cam. To Massie, he was nothing more than collateral.

It had taken her two hours and two bottles of Grey Goose to have Cam so plastered that he'd forgotten his own address, let alone the innumerable reasons for not sleeping with Massie Block. And after that? Were you drunk every hour of everyday for the last three months, while you willingly went behind your best friend's back?

He shook his head. There really wasn't an excuse for what he'd done.

The truth was, Massie was as beautiful as she was evil. Even now, when he wanted to shake the shit out of her and try to make her see sense, he was distracted by her beauty: slender, petite body; long, silken curtain of mahogany hair; caramel latte tan; million-dollar smile. She'd obviously taken extra care to dress herself this morning – he wondered what freshly planned scheme had been interrupted by Derrick's inexplicable behavior.

Finally, he bowed his head. "Fine. I'll be your date."

She grinned. "Good boy. Now, we have a lot to plan, young Cameron. Follow me."