"Get out of my house." My mom was practically snarling as she stood in front of me, her expression stern, one hand on her hip.

"Get out of the way," I replied in a robotic voice. I made a point of not budging an inch from my comfortable position—on my back on the overstuffed, white living room couch, with my head turned at an angle toward the TV—and looked straight ahead, as if she weren't there. "You're blocking my view."

"Adrian St. Clair, you get off your butt this instant."

I should have guessed she meant business when she used my full name and by her tone but I wasn't always the most perceptive person, so I continued to ignore her and, using the remote control in my hand, turned the TV's volume up several notches.

This got a rise out of her, apparently, as she snatched the remote control out of my hand and turned the TV off. I bolted upright and huffed, while she looked at me with a cool expression.

"I am saying this with love, dear daughter. I am going out for a while and when I come home you better be off that couch and doing something that involves standing or at least sitting properly with your back straight or else."

"Or else what?" The question was out of my mouth before I thought better of it.

My mom said nothing, just gave me the look she usually gave whenever our little talks went on longer than she would have liked. In the past, whenever my friends saw that look, they always told me that they thought I was about to get slapped. That would never happen; my mom was too elegant, too much of a lady, to hit.

I supposed not all families talked like this to each other but this was the norm in the St. Clair household. To be honest, I would be more freaked out if my mom acted sweet and motherly all of a sudden; it would just mean that she was up to something.

"Where are you going?" I asked, in an effort to change the subject and diffuse the situation.

"I'm having lunch at the country club with some people your father knows from work, and then picking up some stuff at the supermarket."

I scowled, and then looked at her more closely, noticing just then how put-together she looked. Her honey blonde hair was in a sleek little bun; she wore a nice mid-length dress, heels, and the tastefully understated jewelry she only wore when she wanted to make an impression.

I, on the other hand, was still in the clothes I wore to bed the previous night and my hair—the same color as my mom's—was a tangled, disheveled mess; I began to see her point, but was not about to give my mother the satisfaction of admitting it.

"Oh good. We're out of food," was what I said, instead.

"Because you ate it all," my mom said, scoffing. I dismissed her accusation with a wave. She cast me one last disapproving look, headed toward the door, but just when I thought she was finally off my back, she turned to face me once more. "One more thing, if I come back with guests, I want you to move this party-of-one into the den. I'm not in the mood to explain to my friends that my beautiful daughter has disappeared and was replaced by this growth in my living room."

I widened my eyes at her and gave an exaggerated gasp. Shifting so that I was on my knees with my arms draped over the back of it, I called out to my mom. "I am going back to school in a week and going off to college in two years. Mark my words, someday you are going to miss this eyesore and wish you made better use of this time."

My mother fell silent, which rarely happened. I flashed her a sly grin. "I really like those fancy desserts they have at the club. Bring me back an assortment."

She furrowed her brows and huffed. "I will not," she said, and was out the door before I could think of a comeback.

I continued to stare at the last spot by the front door where my mom had stood. I scowled, indignant at being yelled at so early in the morning. It wasn't even –

I flopped back down on the couch and felt around the cushions until I found my phone and saw the time on the screen. My brows knitted. Almost noon?

That didn't seem right. I woke up and got out of bed bright and early, had breakfast on time and fully intended to get a number of things done. It was only for a moment that I started watching cartoons.

I counted the number of shows I had watched since I started; the math checked out.

Sighing, I got up, and dragged my feet toward the stairs so I could shower, change and try to salvage the rest of the day. Just before my feet landed on the bottom step, I turned and made a quick detour, toward the kitchen.

Lunch first, I decided. I was pretty sure I could whip up something suitable with whatever we had left lying around. There would be plenty of time left to be productive afterward. Maybe.

***

My mom was full of it: She tried to make me look like some lazy slob who spent all her time cooped up and didn't care about anything or anyone. Ask anybody who knew me—really knew me—and he or she would say that I was the complete opposite. I was athletic; I ran and was in junior varsity at school. It had just gotten too hot lately, even after sundown for it. I liked running, but not to the extent that I would die for it.

I didn't even spend as much time in front of the TV as she made it sound. If there had been a TV show that I really liked, things would have been a lot different, but I hated all the shows this season. Even the ones I used to like have started to suck. I heard about some good ones lined up for fall but that's beside the point.

The point was: I didn't waste my summer. It was just that, now that it was coming to an end, things were, quite understandably, winding down. People had places to be, stuff to do, preparations for the new term and other future concerns to make.

I did lots of things when summer began, and it wasn't even entirely my fault that I never went anywhere. We were supposed to go to Tahoe to visit my dad's parents. We used to go there every summer, usually for Fourth of July weekend and I was actually looking forward to it, for a change but my dad was just too busy.

Now that I was listing it down, my summer didn't seem so impressive, after all.

I partied, though; I hung out with friends. At least, the friends who stayed in town instead of being gone all summer without so much as a phone call or a text message saying hi or asking how you were and whether you were still mad about how things ended the last time the two of you saw each other—

I huffed and shook my head. I didn't have to defend how I spent my summer vacation to my mother. She was just picking on me because I was the only one here. If Summer, my older sister, were around, my mom wouldn't even bother with me.

Not that I wanted my sister here, or anything; we weren't exactly the best of friends. She and my mom got along with each other fine—better than I did with either of them, at least. Mainly because Summer always did as my mom said. Not without some attitude, but as a card-carrying member of the Mensa Organization, she was entitled.

The entire day passed without me actually doing anything. Dinner was uneventful. My mom did most of the talking, since she was the one who actually did something today. My dad was too tired to really bring much to the table in the way of conversation.

After I finished helping my mom clear the table and put things away, I watched a little more TV until a little before midnight, and then went upstairs to get ready for bed. I took a hot shower, washed my face and brushed my teeth. I didn't even bother turning on the light when I entered my room. I just flung myself into bed, facedown, on top of the covers. It was too hot for blankets, anyway.

Not bothering to look up, I stretched one arm toward my bedside table and felt for my phone. Scrolling through my social media may not be the best way to go to sleep on time but I had a week left before it became a problem.

I looked at the screen and saw that my phone had blown up since I last looked at it—before dinner. I unlocked my screen and saw that all my new messages were from Alexa Javier, or Alex, one of my very best friends. She had been away this past couple of weeks, which was also pretty much why I was living the life of a hermit these days. That would never happen if she were here. Alex was beautiful, popular, and a lot of fun. She always seemed to be wherever the action was.

The corners of my mouth turned down slightly; it was nice to hear from her, but I was surprised. She wasn't very big on texting and all that stuff, and, for someone like Alex, who was usually averse to these forms of communication, to do this—I assumed it was important.

Scrolling through her messages was like trying to piece together a complex jigsaw puzzle but I tried my best to make sense of it.

One of the earliest messages she had sent was a selfie with the exterior of Radio City Music Hall and a large crowd as a backdrop.  I didn't even know she was in New York but she said she was visiting family and she had them everywhere, so it was hard to predict where she was going to turn up next.

After the selfie came several extremely short, dodgy video clips, none longer than twelve seconds. I couldn't make out any clear image from the videos, either.

God, Alex was bad at this tech stuff.

I recognized the upbeat, catchy tune, playing over the roar of the crowd in one of the clips, then I remembered: Jordan Castle's big concert, at Radio City Music Hall was tonight—and Alex was there!

Anyone not living under a rock knew who Jordan Castle was. She was only the world's biggest teenage pop superstar at the moment. She was gorgeous, talented and sexy—and she dated the hottest, most famous guys.

Petty jealousy coursed through my veins. So unfair, I thought. If anyone should be watching Jordan Castle live, it should be me. I was at least twice the Jordan Castle fan that Alex was. I loved her music, knew every word to all of her songs, even forced people to listen to them on occasion and had followed her career ever since she was just starting out.

I had a tendency to go overboard whenever I found something I really liked.

Alex, on the other hand, seemed to be most interested in the clothes Jordan wore and which hot guys she was dating at the moment.

I shook my head to try and get rid of these thoughts and continued to scroll through Alex's messages. I noticed that there was a significant gap in the time she had sent the previous messages to the next few—mostly just incoherent keysmashing, which, I guess, meant that the concert was going pretty well.

The last thing she sent was another video clip and according to the information on the bottom, it was longer than her previous ones, lasting just a little over three minutes. My first thought was that she wanted me to watch Jordan Castle perform an entire song. The question was, which one?

My index finger hovered over the play symbol on the screen. I was suspicious by nature and was worried it might be some sort of prank designed to give the viewer a heart attack. I decided to send her a message.

To Alex: What's this? (12:27 a.m.)

I waited. And waited. Minutes had passed, and still no response. It seemed that Alex was back to being anti-cellphones. I pressed play.

Alex had to have help with this one. The video quality was a lot better and the camera remained fairly steady so far. There was no danger of damaging my eyesight with this video.

In the beginning of the clip, the stage was pitch black and the whole venue was quiet. And then, a spotlight went on and there was Jordan Castle in the middle of the stage. She held a sparkly microphone in her hands and was very casually addressing the crowd. I turned the volume up as loud as it would go and, upon hearing the beginning strings of the next song, recognized the tune instantly.

"Last Frame," I couldn't help blurting out in excitement. Embarrassed that I acted like a contestant at a game show, I sank deeper into my bed and said, more softly, "I love this song."

It was one of the slower songs in her latest album—an incredibly romantic duet, which she sang with Conner Grey, her latest hot boyfriend.

That explains the keysmashing, I thought. Alex had a huge crush on Conner Grey; she had a huge crush on a lot of guys. Hell, even I wouldn't mind seeing Conner Grey. He was very easy on the eyes.

Instead of introducing him, however, Jordan Castle surprised the audience by bringing a band in to help her in this number. Referring to them as her friends, she started to introduce each member.

"On drums, Tristan Lazaro."

I blinked. That couldn't be right. I must have heard wrong but squinting at my phone's screen let me know that it was no mistake. An incredulous look crossed my face while the rest of me remained frozen. The video continued to play.

"On guitar, Ethan Scott."

Maybe Alex did want me to have a heart attack, after all. My vision started to blur, making it hard to focus on the small screen. Ironic because, by this time, my eyes were probably wide as saucers.

Jordan continued, "Last but not least—"

The antsy feeling that prickled my skin became unbearable and I had to pause the video so I could sit upright and get my bearings. I didn't need to watch the rest of this, anyway. Maybe the crowd at Radio City Music Hall needed Jordan Castle to introduce this band but I sure didn't.

These people were not Jordan Castle's friends; they were mine. I knew all three members of this band, had known them all my life.

Which was why the order in which she chose to introduce them immediately made sense. I would have done it the same way, saving the best for last.

"Seth Frasier," I finished for Jordan in a voice that was barely a whisper. He was my oldest friend: the boy who lived on my street, five houses away, and who, on the night before the last day of school last term, ruined my entire summer before it even began and then promptly disappeared off the face of the earth, never to be heard from again.

Until tonight.