"Amber, sweetie," my mom whispers tensely. "Take a video of her, quick!"

"Okay, hang on," I say, opening the camera application on my phone.

I aim the lens at the coffee table in front of the couch where I'm sitting. Two coffee cups rest on the glass surface (with matching coasters underneath, of course). On the other end of the table is Mom's laptop. A video of two labrador retriever puppies fighting over a toy is playing on the screen.

K-Stew is watching this video as though it is proof of extraterrestrial life on Earth. Ears perked up, watery eyes wide, tongue lolling in shock. When the video is over and the screen turns black, she climbs to a stand. I watch her through my phone as she checks the space behind the laptop screen. Upon finding a stunning lack of puppies, K-Stew tilts her head in confusion.

"You should post the video to YouTube," Mom smiles when I stop recording, clasping her hands to her chest. "She's going to be a star! Like the doge."

"There's no 'the'," I laugh, rolling my eyes.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Show me, sweetie," she says, holding her hand out. "Show me the video!"

"Mom, wait," I whine as I click to view my photo library.

I'm about to play the video of K-Stew, but I stop short when I notice something strange in my photo library. It's littered with over a dozen blurry photographs of something I don't recognize. It's my turn to be confused and tilt my head to the side. Out of the sixteen pictures, only two are clear enough to see.

A girl who appears to be twelve or thirteen years old is sitting on a couch. Her hair is a wild mess of blonde curls. Her forehead and eyebrows are hidden behind the most horrifying set of bangs in the history of the universe. She is grinning at the camera toothily, the flash glinting off of her braces.

I stare at her t-shirt, white and short-sleeved, with the words 'I'M T—REX-IFFIC!' printed in bold red letters.

A table stands in front of the couch, crammed with figurines of every kind of dinosaur under the sun. (Well, under the ground, now that they're extinct.)

Something clicks in my brain, and I realize that the girl in the picture is Gracie Fitch. Suddenly, I remember her parents' bedroom, the cabinet, and the photo album from Saturday night.

"Sweetie, show me!" Mom's impatient voice brings me back to the moment.

"Yeah, here," I sigh, playing the video and handing my phone to her.

Greasy was a dinosaur geek before she moved to this town and took the throne at my high school. The image of the heartless ice queen in her former (and secret) avatar is nothing less than pure gold.

***

For the third night in a row, Dylan Frost hasn't shown up at the lighthouse. His absence is making me nervous. It confirms my fear that something went wrong after our kiss.

The strong breeze whips my hair away from my face. I can feel the salty air and the restless ocean working hard to clear my sleep-deprived brain. The blurry images in my head are slowly starting to come into focus.

An odd, nervous sensation causes my legs to swing over the edge of the lighthouse frantically. I can almost feel the events of Saturday night, an inch away from my grasp. I shut my eyes tighter and will the memory closer . . .

I crossed my legs at the ankles and turned to Dylan, lying on the floor less than an inch away from me. His face was turned towards the sky, his eyes shifting from star to star. My right arm was pressed against his left, our fingers linking and unlinking.

The cold stung my exposed legs, and the uneven cement poked my back. But I felt no pain, just a buzz of carefree bliss humming through my veins.

"Why were you here that day?" I murmured, my incoherent thoughts wandering to that Friday night.

"What day?" Dylan asked, turning to face me.

"Friday, Friday," I sang with a delirious giggle. "Last week."

He inhaled deeply and tore his hooded eyes away from mine.

"I just . . . I don't know. Somedays, I feel useless, like I'm nothing. I can't control it. Everything hurts, I hate it all. And I get these, uh, I . . . I just want to disappear. I was feeling like that night, and I suddenly thought of the lighthouse."

I continued to stare at him, my inebriated brain failing to make sense of his words.

"I wasn't going to actually do anything, not really. And then you came out of nowhere and scared the crap out of me," he laughed dryly, slurring his words. "Ambrosia, I don't want to feel that way. But I don't know how to stop it. I don't know what to do."

Although I was incapable of understanding Dylan's confession in my drunken state, I sensed that he was in distress. The buzz that coursed through my blood simmered down to a faint tingle.

"Shh, it's okay," I whispered.

I tried to erase his pain in the only way I knew how at that moment. I reached up with my hand and closed his stormy eyes gently. Shifting forward, I kissed Dylan as my eyelids drifted shut.

***

My stomach is churning with disbelief and anger. An icy fear causes my spine to stiffen as I recall Dylan's words.

No, no, no. It's not okay. I can't lose Dylan Frost, too.

How could I have forgotten that? How could I have been so stupid?

I snag my calf muscles on the rusted metal as I hasten to pull my legs through the railing. It takes way too long for me to climb to a stand and run down the winding staircase.

My legs — just beginning to recover from all the running last weekend — are screaming in agony as I sprint towards Dylan's house. I choke back the sobs that are building in my lungs and keep going.

I haven't been to Dylan's house in several months, but I know the address like the back of my hand.

I'll never understand why almost every house in this neighborhood has a tree in the front yard that leads directly into a bedroom. Usually, this bedroom belongs to a child or teenager. And Dylan, like most people in this town, sleeps with his window open.

The parents might as well put out a sign by the door that says: Welcome, dear burglar/kidnapper/murderer! Please use the tree to gain easy access to our child's bedroom. Help yourself to the batch of freshly baked cookies on the kitchen counter, too!

Four minutes and some more bruises on my palms later, I'm safely inside Dylan's bedroom. The yellow glow of the streetlights helps me identify his silhouette. He's sound asleep, sheets pulled up to his neck.

I tiptoe towards his bed. In one quick motion, I climb onto it with my knees on either side of his hips and clamp my hands over his mouth.

Dylan's eyes shoot open. His irises glint in the semi-darkness as a gasp rises from his throat.

"Cool your jets, Frost," I whisper. "It's just me."

But Dylan's jets are anything but cool. His hands reach up to grab my wrists. He thrashes about with so much force that I'm almost knocked off the bed.

"Damn it," I groan as I steady my knees against his sides. "Stop struggling. It's me, Amber!"

I pull my hands away from his mouth when the confusion in his eyes give way to recognition. Much to my relief, he stops struggling.

"What the hell, Ambrosia?" he whispers groggily, rubbing his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I remember now."

"Remember what?"

"I forgot what happened on Saturday. But I remember all of it now."

"All of it?"

"Yeah. Is that why you're avoiding me? Because of what you said that night?"

Dylan rakes his hands through his hair. The motion causes the thick sheets around his neck to fall away. Blood rushes to my face when my gaze lands on his shirtless chest.

Suddenly, I'm too aware of all the places where my body meets his. I scramble away from him to sit at the edge of his bed, coughing awkwardly.

"God," he says after a long silence. "What I said —"

"You're wrong. You're not useless," I mutter, the words leaving me in a panicked rush. "You're not nothing. Dylan, I need you to come to the lighthouse tomorrow night."

"Why?" He looks at me squarely. "I thought you didn't want me there."

"Tomorrow night," I say, rising to my feet. "Please."

"Ambrosia!" Dylan calls, pushing himself to a sitting position as I walk towards his window.

"We'll talk at the lighthouse tomorrow," I say in a hushed voice. "Go back to sleep. Goodnight."

Before he can respond, I climb out of the window and down the tree. Pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, I jog my way home.