Chapter 7: The Cup

The swim house on Maple Street was a wide, ugly building with a porch that shook under thirty pairs of feet.

Music pounded through the windows.

Jesse stood on the sidewalk in a clean shirt, with Hank beside him holding up his phone.

"Last chance to leave," Hank said.

"I'm going in."

"Nate said not to."

"Nate said he'd be here by ten," Jesse said. "I'll stay in the kitchen and leave when he walks in."

"That's a terrible plan."

"I know." Jesse breathed out. "But if I don't go, Pierce wins. Everyone will say I was scared."

"Everyone can say what they want."

"Hank."

Hank sighed. "Fine. But I'm filming. And you're staying where I can see you."

They went up the steps together.

Inside, the house was hot and loud and smelled like spilled soda.

Swimmers in green shirts crowded the hallway, and people who didn't swim at all filled every other room.

Several heads turned when Jesse walked in.

He heard his name in the low buzz of talk, and the word photo.

He kept his chin up.

Pierce appeared out of the crowd with a wide, easy smile.

"You came," he said. "I'm glad. Really."

"I said I'd think about it."

"And you thought well." Pierce clapped him on the arm. "Come on, I've got a place saved in the kitchen. Hank, you too."

"I'm good," Hank said, holding his phone up.

Pierce glanced at it and kept smiling. "Suit yourself."

The kitchen was quieter.

A dozen people stood around a counter covered in red cups and chip bags.

Pierce climbed onto a chair, tapped a spoon on a bottle, and the room hushed.

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