The attached video is a trailer for the book, made by the amazing softyhartz in her graphics shop daylightsofty.

26th December 2007— 3 months later

...

The theme song of The Wonder Years plays in the background while I scroll through a curated list of the top ten Italian restaurants in Manhattan. The confusion arises between no.1 and no.5, the only ones to make it in the big league. While the former is apparently big on its variety of sauces, the latter is known for its signature platter of a classic butter crumb cheesecake. Who am I kidding here? The real decider is that dollar mark and the number of times it is printed by the choices in the menu. I am sure Archie understands the level of broke someone is, if they are running their car on an empty tank since almost a week. I was afraid this habit will catch on with me.

Even though it isn't very ideal, it makes up for a big chunk of everything that has changed in these past three months. The police, the bloodshed, the constant threats, and... well, to keep it short, all things shady have kept themselves from surfacing back in our riddled lives. Now I am not claiming that we are completely off the hook— the Harvard graduate lawyer appointed by Kylie's parents, striving to gather some piece of evidence against our scathed reputations, and in turn ending up with a compilation of restraining orders from our parents attorneys— but, the absence of the swarm of narrowed eyes following us everywhere we go, is a big relief. The only part which still hurts is the inevitable gap Kylie left all of us with.

She's still there, but her close to lifeless body sitting in a hospital bed is actually worse than her being dead right now. I figure it's easy for the rest to move on and leave the past behind, because they aren't aware of how the result of their sins is breathing somewhere, waiting to strike. The same way I felt about Avon Louis the night after I got a warning from his friend. Luckily, we haven't heard anything from that side as well. Neither in mail, nor in letter.

Although, part of the reason might be how I haven't peeked in our dented mail box since I was seven and was waiting for a Tweety the bird colouring book. And my father still stands surprised over how he choked on a broken piece of lemon yellow crayola while making a burrito at four in the morning. The guy could have at least sneaked a glance at the scrunched paper stuck on the refrigerator. This memory has given birth to such cynicism, I have deferred from even looking at the old thing flinging on top of the dented pole. That dent is a whole another story from my own wonder years.

Copying the contact number of no.5 on the keypad of my phone, I venture out to look for a couple old magazine subscriptions we have been donating our money to. I do end up piling up on a bunch of those, but the surprise guest comes as a brown package delivered barely an hour ago. What comes further as a surprise is my name painted in calligraphy on top of the package. Coincidence much?

I set it on the kitchen island whilst I grab my rusty lighter and slide open the pocket knife alongside. The jute rope comes slithering off with a few efforts and so does the crisp brown paper, revealing the contents of the package. A box full of hay and an invitation card in the middle. The strings of dried grass make me take a second look at the name on the now teared apart wrapper— the conjoined pieces still reading as 'Emma Callaway.'

I contemplate on using the same pocket knife to pull the glued lid of the envelope apart, and reading the elaborate invite stuffed beneath. It's no spoiler that I do it anyway and let my anxieties take over in the worst way possible.

Rachel Stinson invites you to her 20th birthday bash at Daniel's lounge, 56th St. Manhattan. The one by the recently inaugurated wine brewery (wink–wink).

The dress code is to let loose and drag your asses down to this hell of a night by seven in the evening. But there is a set of instructions to follow: Keep an eye out at all times or else the shadow might slip beneath the demon's grimes.

The invite slips off my hands and back into the box full of hay. This can't be a prank, right? The eerie set of instructions and all this barnyard themed rubbish, is pointing towards something. Something I gladly left behind. I almost think of dialling up the rest of the gang to ask if I am the only one to receive this shady package, but the thought itself makes me back out of it. I don't want to induce panic over a silly joke, if that's what this actually is. There's only one way to confirm my suspicions.

That newspaper cutting had the clue written on the flip side of the article about DixonValley, so maybe this package has the same pair of initials... it does not. I read out the scrawled message over the other side of the packaging paper, chuckling while I do so.

"I know what you did last summer."

***

All that glitters is not gold. This phrase, yet true at times, doesn't apply to the extravaganza of this affair— the word justifying the who's climbing on top of whom gambles going on in here. If I were to put my money, I would pick the birthday girl herself— and not on the sheer of basis of her rep for experimenting— but in consideration of the count of crystal glasses she has been seen holding since the champagne began to pour. The fizz of the liquor has died, but the ones gulping on it, are as fresh as a couple of kids on a sunny day at the beach. Not to mention how the swimsuits would come handy for after the strip poker has cashed the Midas touch out of these walking dollar bills and their pretty faces. The droopy vibe of the atmosphere can be correlated from the bravery of the benched cheerleaders, showing their soda pop resultant figures while the sickly and the toned guy population captures them in their phones. I was invited to this bare party as well, but lucky for me, I have an agenda other than making snow angels in my underwear, and secondly, I have no money or shame to bet on the pack of cards. When you have joker written all over your face, you don't make it obvious in front of the ones thriving in denial.

Denial reminds me of how the star of the party is using this blowout—if I may say so— to make her defeat in the annual presidential elections of Arlington, somewhat bittersweet. It doesn't sound good, but it is a step up from bitter, and fine with the cheap embodiment of Cher Horowitz. I guess she should have helped Daddy with some minor assistant chores before jumping into a full blown political campaign in the midst of university budget cut. Justice for Kylie Meyers looked pretty as the unsolicited graffiti on the slate grey walls, but not so much on the side of the lawsuit filed by the power couple— formerly known as The Meyers. While the princess' big dreams were shattered by the lack of home charity, the authorities had withdrawn their hands as well. As much as they wanted to justify their lack of participance in the mysterious death on the campus, they also didn't want to end up moving the campus to somewhere aloof from the coverage of Metro News. Texas, maybe?

So, it doesn't come as a surprise that daddy's little girl went all out on the occasion of her turning twenty, only to later leave her own party and shove her tongue down the throat of a rejected quarterback, or a former captain of the lacrosse team... or just anybody quoted in the front page goss passing around the doors of the classrooms— sometimes underneath the washroom stalls as well. I for one won't really mind the absence of her magnet like demeanour since I need to keep an eye out. I have no idea for who or what, but I am running my eyes all over the crowd like the hall monitor of our college does. She has a motto to help her keep with this mockery of a job— no break, no quake.

I don't want to admit to this, but it is actually a very accurate description of my situation right now. I don't know who is behind this, what are they planning to do, or if they are even going to do something... but I have to stay prepared for whatever is about to come. All I am hoping for is that none of my 'acquaintances' should show up here. I don't need to worry about more than one unpredictable target for the evening, not when I don't have the facility of arming myself with all the free flowing champagne and rum and tequila around here. Sobriety is indeed a devil disguised in an angel's attire.

"Woah!" A shriek in the room grabs my attention, and so does the chain of woahs following the disgusting victim of strip poker. Everyone is now looking at their phones, except for me and the bar baristas, apparently, preparing a heavy concoction of espresso and vodka. Swaying away for a mini second, I return back to the notification blast on the crowd's cellphones, and how I have no idea what it is. One of the beavers buried in her phone, looks up at me for a rather prolonged chunk of time— inducing a nauseating paranoia within my ice water heavy mind. I feel a couple more set of eyes shooting glares in my direction, making me pull out the string of secrets underneath my bed.

Is it something in relation to Kylie? Something about Avon? Or worse, is it about my addiction and how I wrote that slut stamped confession on the diversity list? The varied possibilities make me want to leave this party as soon as the  traffic on the pull a cab app would allow. I almost pull my phone out of my jeans, when one of the beer bathed guys' clarifies what the shocked expressions are about.

"Mrs. Goldfield has resigned from her position today. No more biology classes, people!" He shouts and raises his filled to the brim mug of beer, spilling some on the half asleep girl by his side. Well, it is proven to be a natural conditioner for silky locks of hair and a freshly primed head too... I guess. The silver lining is that none of this concerns my big book of secrets, or for that matter, our big book of secrets. I need not forget that we are in this together, even if I am the only one facing the brunt for today.

"Rachel is going all the way, huh? Someone needs to keep an eye out for her," a slurred voice whispers beside me, but the source flees away just as quickly as the meaning of his words translates itself in my mind. Keep an eye out for her. Rachel is the one I need to watch, the one to be possibly targeted tonight.

"Crap," I search the confetti clustered floor to find Rachel's golden dress amongst the herd of wet t-shirts and bras and jeans, but the task doesn't seem to near success until I myself surrender to the madness of this fest. I begin with the class couples near the entrance, sipping on decade old wine and battering the ones falling prey to the cheap stock in plastic cups. Except for a few judgemental gazes and frowns, I come out alive to move on to the next level— the early slumbers. These are the people who can't keep their eyes open after downing on a drink or to, but continue to raise the spirits with an occasional 'woo' or 'yay'. I find a clean spot to slump down in the middle of their pile of bodies, but fail to spot Rachel amidst the drool fest. Discarding my jacket right off, I prep myself for the pot party and the recognisable exes sitting in the circle of life. A few pitiful and longing smiles— some with a tedious combination of both, and a round or two of pretending to suck out of the pipe, gets me out of this obstacle as well. Without Rachel, if I am to state the obvious.

My last resort are the washroom stalls where a metaphorical sock is hanging off each and every door. Pulling the fabric of my tee to my nose, I bend down to possibly find the glass slipper I am looking for. My unwarranted search comes to a dead end after witnessing some bizarre positions and some equally surprising varieties of protection. None too appalling, my nausea rises to my throat as I step out in the open for the sake of my life.

Proving my own theories wrong, my gaze spots Rachel getting handsy with the editor in chief of our college magazine, in a secluded corner by the bar. As baffled I am by how she decided to pull something completely off my expectations— and on the very day I needed for her to strictly stay within the bounds of classic Rachel, I am also relived that she is within the vicinity of my eyes.

Although now that I can keep an eye out for her, I also can see everything happening between the two, even from a distance. It is nothing too incriminating, but there is something uncomfortable about how the guy's hands are gripping her body and how she is squirming under his weight. I contemplate on questioning the sneaky business, but ultimately decide otherwise. I don't need to draw more attention to myself than I already have, in these past few minutes. And chances are I am spilling my paranoia on whatever my eyes are feeding on— the openness of Rachel's sexual escapades being the target as of now.

I keep myself from getting all antsy, until I realise the unusual couple is trying to slip past the doors of... a storeroom, maybe? Whatever it is, I can't let Rachel off my sight and I need to do something before the party locks itself in there. My restlessness proves to be no help, but it's consequences definitely do. After a few accidental spills, I refill my cup with fresh ice water from the hydrant installed behind the bar, and take my clumsy steps over to the speedy pair. All it takes is a dump on the guy's jeans, to make him spring away from the door,
and as a bonus— the laughing stock of the party.

"What the hell!" He curses while flinging his hands over to the blotch on his jeans, but to no avail.

"So sorry, it was an honest mistake," I click my teeth while he rushes to the washroom to wipe his ass. Leaving Rachel alone, I expect to hear a mouthful from her, but she defies my predictions yet again. She doesn't utter a word, just purses her lips in a thin line— a smile almost, and goes back to the open seating of the lounge. I discreetly follow her as well, but first things first, I lock the door of the Cold storage— as the sloppy handwriting on the wood says— and even place a barricade of sorts. Those yellow cones which warn you of wet floors.

It might not be a foolproof plan, but it will keep them from coming back here. Lets hope this is the only place I need to seal for the night, and the only guy I have needed to pull a third grade prank on. If this was some few months ago, I wouldn't even be apologetic about it, but these gags don't seem as fun as they used to be. In fact, I don't even feel like I belong amongst these party animals anymore. Not that I have a say in it, or else I wouldn't be getting huddled to where the deejay is. Apparently, all the scattered sections have now come together to jump on the beats of an eighties rock album.

The deafening music forces me to encompass the enormity of the people around me. Inspite of going to the same college, I realise I don't know the names of over half of these clowns. The two years that I have spent in Arlington, I have spent with my gang, which is a brave thing to claim after all that has happened. Whether it was the red headed bass player, the swooning captain of the lacrosse team, the girl with a bag of coke in her jacket, or the teen rebel with only one agenda... these are the people I swore by. On paper, this just might sound like the coolest group on the campus. But the reality is far away and far more grimy than what it appears to be.

I often wonder how things would have been different if I picked one of these strangers instead. They don't seem like the perfect allies, but I can confidently say that anyone would have been a step up from the troublemakers I decided to follow after. Jackie Tyler, the leader of the green club, Kate Shannon, the assistant of the former biology teacher, or even Bran... I let my eyes do a double take as I spot a familiar face in the crowd. I dismiss it as the ice water going to my head, once the strangers crowd my sight yet again.

Letting Rachel be for a while, I step inside to check on my phone and my hearing senses, if still alive. My phone doesn't have any new notifications and as for my hearing ability— the constant banging of a door does the test for me. The noise seems to be too loud for the sock falling off the banging doors of the washroom stalls, and too near for my hunch to be true. Another loud hit makes the yellow cone crawl over to my feet, and reminds me of how locked the cold storage a while ago.

I rush over to unlock the now silent door, dreading the view as I do so. The chilly air slaps across my face, but fails to keep my eyes from welling up to a blur of red. My shoe protected feet squirms under the freezing floor, unwillingly sticking to where his lifeless fingers are. I don't allow myself to watch, but the movement of the foam to the V of his t-shirt echoes in the silence of the enclosed space. The first time I saw him, there was an invariable lure to his face, the kind which should be replacing the blue right now. The only thing separating him from the carcass he has been reduced to, is the glint in his eyes. It doesn't say anything, but tells that he had a lot to say.

If I were even a dime smarter than I am, I would have realised this sooner. The familiar face in the crowd, the banging of the door, the one I was supposed to keep an eye out for. I have already let down his friend once, and today... I let Brandon down as well.

I can't point at what killed him, but from the trail of white coming out of his mouth, it looks like he was poisoned. Why would someone target Brandon, though? What motive could they possibly have? As if on cue of my enquiries, a treacherous gasp fills the numbing silence of the room. A box full of beer bottles falls flat on the floor, revealing the crutches concealing behind. I am quick to grab on one of the sealed bottles, afraid of who it might be.

The crutches line themselves with the shelves in the storage, and so does the one taking their support. The moment he steps out from behind the boxes, the bottle falls off my hand and splits into a mountain pile of glass pieces onto the floor. It isn't more about seeing him, but the transparent packets he is holding onto. I have seen them before and I know what they are capable of.

"What is this, George?"