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“You’re with a boy? Claire, your father—”

“Mom!” I cut through her sentence, Mom when flustered somehow even more hilarious when I’m sitting in a puddle of rubbing alcohol and no underwear. “I am with Alex Craft—who is not dead and who is in fact a girl.”

“Oh, well . . . good,” she says. I giggle a little, and she does too, knowing herself well enough to be aware where the hook is and that she’s an inch away from flying off it.

“What were you going to say about Dad?”

“Your father went to the church.”

“Did he think God would hear him better there or something?” Because I know my dad’s first response when I didn’t come home at curfew would’ve been prayer.

“He went to the church, Claire.”

“Ohhhhhhh . . .” is all I can think of to say. A flush creeps up my cheeks as I picture my dad picking his way through sleeping bags full of bleary teens, probably tucking them in more securely and advising them to drink plenty of fluids in the morning.

“We tried not to be too upset when you didn’t come home,” Mom goes on. “I was mad but your dad said you were probably there, and that showing up would just make it worse . . . but then . . . Claire, you didn’t come home and we didn’t know what to do. He went out to the church, and when he didn’t find you . . .”

She starts crying again and I close my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

“So what happened?” Mom asks; there’s a tone of resignation, the sound of a parent who has tried really hard for a long time and realizes that the end of the tunnel doesn’t have a light so much as a black hole.

“Some guys put something in my drink,” I tell her. “They drugged me and it could’ve been really bad, but Alex was with me and she . . .” I pause, because I don’t know what happened in between me falling onto Ray’s shoulder and waking up in Alex’s bed. I just know what didn’t happen.

“She kept me safe,” I finish.

“She must be a good friend, then,” Mom says, followed by the sound of her nose blowing. “It sounds like we should meet her.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” I say. “Maybe I can get her to come over for dinner tonight?”

“Sure,” Mom says, and I’m just pulling my jeans back on when she adds, “Oh, and Claire?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re grounded.”

Alex tells me what she did after I get a shower, scrubbing so hard it hurts. We’re eating salads—she made two without comment, slicing hard-boiled eggs into some greens and tossing cheese on top, sticking a fork in everything and handing it to me like feeding me was a common occurrence. Her mom passes through the kitchen briefly, slightly puzzled by the sight of me. She refills a glass, using her shoulders to hide what she pours. I wait for her to leave before I respond, my eyes on the crumbly boiled yolk of my egg.

“That’s . . .” I trail off, aware that I was about to say crazy, along with words like you shouldn’t have done that. It’s a reflex, something that’s been ingrained in me. Do no harm. Be nice. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

But what if I don’t want to catch the flies? What if I’d rather see them swatted?

“Thank you,” I say instead.

She nods as she polishes off her salad, finally meeting my eyes. She hadn’t been looking at me while she explained, as if all her concentration was required to eat. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it,” she says.

I don’t answer because I’m still sorting that out myself. I know what my parents would say, that violence is never the answer; all conflict can be resolved peacefully. But my mom doesn’t have a fingernail scratch in her crotch, and my dad doesn’t know what it feels like to be carried away by three guys.

“They were so thrilled when I said I’m a virgin,” I blurt out. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

I start crying again, and Alex hands me a napkin. “You’re not stupid,” she says. “You simply don’t assume that people mean you harm.”

“Yeah, well.” I blow my noise loudly. “Last night that equaled being stupid.”

“No, it means you’re normal,” Alex says, gathering up my bowl when it’s clear I’m more interested in crying than eating. “Believe me when I say it’s better.”

“Why me, then?” I ask. “Why not Branley? She’s way hotter and was just as drunk as I was.”

Alex shakes her head as she sits back down. “Physical attractiveness has nothing to do with it. You were alone, isolated, and weak. The three of them had been watching girls all night, waiting for someone to separate from a group. It happened to be you, but it could’ve been anyone. Opportunity is what matters, nothing else.”