THE FLARE STRUCK hard.

My senses vaulted into hyperdrive, exploding all at once, like a car started with the stereo on full blast. System overload.

Pain slammed my frontal lobe, dissolved. I breathed a barely audible whimper. Sweat glistened on my skin.

My heart rate quadrupled.

Terrified of discovery, I slammed my sunglasses into place. Golden eyes hidden, I checked for open mouths and pointing fingers. Listened for frightened screams.

No one so much as glanced at me.

A waiter passed, hoisting a platter of veggies. Two tents away, the lacrosse guys were discussing a prize wheel. Nearby, a gaggle of blue-haired ladies compared hats while sipping from champagne flutes.

The party rolled on, oblivious.

Hands shaking, I smoothed my hair and resumed my circuit around the yard.

They can’t see your eyes. No one can tell.

This hadn’t happened before. I’d never burned in the open. Hell, in a freaking crowd. Madness. Suicide.

To flare so easily, without a spark? Triggered by nothing more than a bump and a few snickers? Why here, why now?

This was incredibly dangerous. From now on, I’d carry sunglasses everywhere, day and night. What if I hadn’t brought them today? What would have happened?

My haphazard wandering brought me to the clubhouse entrance at the end of the lawn. To my left, a garden bench was tucked among a stand of dogwoods. I hurried to it and sat. Perhaps alone, in the shade, I could pull myself together.

Calm. Breathe.

Data bombarded from all directions, demanding attention. The world was etched in crystalline detail. Slowly, carefully, I sifted through the sensory muddle.

I could see individual blades of grass, the stitching on my classmates’ clothing. Could smell a perfume of oleanders, human sweat, iced shellfish, and bruschetta. Could hear whispers, the clink of silverware, the crunch of gravel underfoot. Could taste ocean spray on the wind. Could feel the gentle weight of the sliver necklace hanging from my neck.

It was incredible.

For the first time that day, I didn’t feel overwhelmed by insecurity. These snobs couldn’t do what I could. Couldn’t even fathom the experience.

Confidence restored, I decided to take another spin around the yard.

Without straining, my ears teased snippets of conversation from the general din. Had anyone noticed my fit? Was anyone watching my movements?

No and yes. Though my flare had gone undetected, plenty was being said about me. Classmates spoke behind their hands. The words weren’t pleasant.

My good mood evaporated.

To be fair, I’ve never been part of the “in” crowd. No Viral is. Bolton preppies mock us relentlessly. They call us things like peasants, or island refugees. They know we aren’t rich, and never let us forget it.

Tuning in that afternoon, I discovered that recent events had made me even less popular, which I hadn’t thought possible.

To many Bolton students, I was “that girl.” As in, “that girl who broke into Claybourne Manor.” Or “that girl who got Chance arrested.” But I had other titles as well. “The young girl” or “the little kid.” Or my favorite: “the science weirdo.”

From what I could eavesdrop, I was practically a villain. The blue bloods were horrified that a boat kid from Morris had taken down members of their circle.

Stories reached me, burned my ears. Wild tales straying far from the truth. I couldn’t believe some of the rumors. Everyone had an opinion, none complimentary.

Disheartened, I tried to shut out the whispers.

Focus on another sense. Try your nose.

I drew air through my nostrils, careful not to snort. Usually I could ferret a few scents from the breeze. Fresh-cut grass. A cloying perfume. Creed? Sweaty underarms. Melting butter.

Good. Safe, familiar scents.

Then the odors changed. New smells entered my perception. Trace odors, lurking just below the top layer. Undefined and faint, the aromas were difficult to pin down. Yet recognition danced on the tip of my consciousness.

My mind tried to dissect the new olfactory input. Failed. To put it more clearly: my nose stopped making sense.

That sour tang wafting from the red-dressed debutante talking with her boyfriend. Was that … nervousness?

And the dull vinegary smell oozing from the toddler by the koi pond, the one randomly dropping pebbles into the water. If forced to pick a label, I’d go with … boredom.

I couldn’t explain it, but I smelled … something. And my brain was insisting on the connections. I dug deeper.

A door banged open in my brain. Thousands of trace scents poured through.

Dropping to a knee, I grabbed my head with both hands. The torrent of information was more than I could bear. Straining and quivering, I tried to shake off my flare. I had to make it stop.

SNUP.

The power receded. My senses normalized. It was over.

I pulled off my sunglasses and rubbed my eyes, feeling like I’d been through a ringer. When my lids opened, the Tripod of Skank was three feet away.

CRAP CRAP CRAP.

Courtney Holt. Ashley Bodford. Madison Dunkle.

Three spoiled brats playing at princess. My personal nightmare.

They didn’t like me, and I loathed them. These girls were the last people on earth I wanted to see.

“What are you doing here?” Courtney seemed genuinely astonished. Which, with her intellect, was routine. “Surely you can’t debut now? Not after what you did to Hannah.”

“After what I did?” I spoke without thought. “To her? Seriously?”

Courtney nodded, wide-eyed, blonde curls bouncing. Her microscopic blue dress struggled hard to cover a perfect figure. Sapphire jewelry sparkled in the afternoon sunshine.

“You’re a criminal,” she said, dead serious. “You make people go crazy!”

The Tripod stood shoulder to shoulder before me. I felt trapped.

“I don’t know how you stayed active.” Ashley brushed glossy black hair from her eyes. “But what I can’t get is why. No one wants you here. You must know that.”

Okay. That hurt.

Madison giggled. She was the nastiest—the Tripod’s front foot. Hair, nails, and makeup flawless, she practically glowed with expensive excess.

Madison also had a crush on Jason. His fascination with me did not go over well.

Where was he? I could’ve used his attention right then.

“The word’s out, Tory,” Madison said cruelly. “Everyone knows you’re a freak. Whose house do you plan to rob next?”

Enough. Three against one, and they weren’t pulling punches. Time to retreat.

To my left was a clubhouse door. I strode over and tried to shoulder it open. It didn’t budge.

Laughter erupted behind me.

“Try pulling, sweetie.” Madison.

“And don’t muss your rented clothing,” Ashley added.

“That is a nice dress,” Courtney said, oblivious as always. “I wonder how she got it? Is there, like, a Goodwill thing for debs or something?”

Our face-off had begun to draw a crowd. I hated the attention.

Madison, however, relished an audience. She moved in for the kill.

“Maybe you should find another activity, Tory.” Chilly smile. “One more suited for someone like you.”

Ashley and Courtney nodded.

Humiliated, I yanked the door open and fled inside.

“So long!” Madison called. “We’ll be here all season!”

Spiteful giggles followed me into the air-conditioned darkness.