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logic yet. In the end, everything made sense, everything had some kind of order. Everything. It just had to. And Jeremy Gronson just had to understand everything.
    Seeing a different tack, he lifted the rook. The small ebon tower caught bits of light from the recessed bulbs in the ceiling. He held it awhile, pondering, then set it down in a new spot. Now the patterns of the pieces looked familiar, ordered. Everything was in its place again. Everything perfect. He knew just what to do next.
    He imagined the game playing out, saw his pieces as if they were his football teammates: moving across the field, pushing through the frail defense, passing him the ball, so he could run and run until…
    â€œArgh!”
    Jeremy swatted at the pieces, sweeping as many as he could into the air. The black king shattered a water glass. A white pawn made a small indentation in the wall.
    He still lost. Through some insane accident, he still lost.
    But then again, there were no accidents.
    â€œJeremy?” Mother said, her voice muffled by the door. “Everything all right in there?”
    â€œYes. Fine.”
    â€œAre you still thinking about that girl?” Father asked loudly. Even through the door and the wall, Father had heard the tension in his voice. Father was always hearing things in his voice. He just never understood what they were about. Of course he was thinking about the girl, but not for the stupid hormonal reasons Father suspected.
    He shook his head. “No, Dad. I’m not thinking about the girl.”
    He imagined the board again in his mind, piece by piece, move by move. Then he imagined himself swatting that away as well.
    It was a trick, it had to be—just a trick. Maybe it was one of the tricks the Obscure Masters would reveal when he finished his initiation. Just as soon as he won the last game.
    Far off, a timer beeped.
    â€œJeremy! Our tea’s ready!”
    â€œI know, Dad. I know.”
    â€œCan’t have servants every day, Jay.”
    Jeremy winced. He hated when father called him Jay.
    Â 
    â€œYou scare the crap out me, Siara,” her dad said as the evening sky, visible through the window behind him, swelled over the city.
    Reality bites, she thought. They sat in the barely-eat-in kitchen at a table that had been too small for the three of them for years, she steadily meeting his totally glaring eyes.
    She tried to get through to him one more time. “I had to go into the fire to save Harry. And Jeremy, the boyfriend you were pushing me to stay with, took me to that party in the first place. As for the riot, well…the charges were dropped.”
    Forget it. It was useless. She didn’t believe any of it herself. She blasted some air through her curled lower lip, up at the plum-red strands on her forehead. They weren’t in her eyes; she just did it out of nervousness and because she was kind of hoping it might look cute enough to lower the Dad Anger Quotient.
    It didn’t.
    â€œThe charges were dropped,” he repeated slowly. “How’d we get here, exactly?”
    She gave him a sheepish grin. “Take a left at adolescence?”
    Even her most humble, self-deprecating humor didn’t break through. He didn’t laugh.
    â€œYou’re grounded for a month. Really, not like last time. I’m putting locks on your windows so there’ll be no more sneaking out via the fire escape.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œYou go to school, you come home. You do your homework, you go to bed, you wake up, you go to school. Repeat for thirty days. On weekends maybe we’ll walk you around the block a few times for exercise, but that’s it.”
    â€œCan I…can I go see Harry?”
    â€œNo.”
    Siara’s indignation rose with her voice. “He’s all alone. He doesn’t have much family. He’s my…friend. Shouldn’t I stick by him? Aren’t you the one who told me I should always do what I think is