You

finger.” You and the girl exchange mock surprise looks, then she smiles at you as Zack pulls you by your sleeve into the family room at the back of the house.

There’s a dozen people scattered around the room, some on the furniture, some on the floor, some standing by the stereo. Right away you notice that there are more girls than guys, something that never happens when you’re hanging out at Ryan’s house. Nobody looks familiar-even the way they dress and the way they wear their hair looks different from what you’re used to, not radically freaky different, just enough to have you notice. A couple of the guys are wearing loud Hawaiian shirts, one guy even has a tie on. The girls have on everything from skintight tank tops to baggy sweaters, and even though it’s close to freezing outside, a few are wearing short shorts. There’s jazz oozing out of the speakers. Anything else wouldn’t fit, but you wonder if anyone actually likes it.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.”

And now they’re all looking at you as Zack stands there next to you, one hand on your shoulder, the other holding up his drink. Someone turns down the music. “You all recall the torrid events that precipitated my swift departure from Crestwood Academy.”

You don’t. You’ve heard rumors-everything from stealing the principal’s car to blowing up a science lab to running a strip poker club-but you don’t know and frankly don’t care. Getting kicked out of Crestwood, a private school way on the other side of town, is probably a lot easier than getting kicked out of a public high school like Midlands. You’ve never even met anyone who went to Crestwood before, but now, apparently, you’re in a room full of them.

“And you’ve no doubt heard of my many adventures in the wilds of Midlands High. This is Mr. Chase, hero of so many of those adventures. Mr. Chase, these are some losers I know. I assume they all have names. Go find out for me.” He gives your shoulder a slap and walks away.

Before you can feel any more embarrassed, one of the girls on the couch scootches over and pats the cushion next to her. Her long blond hair looks white against her black formfitting sweater. A dainty row of silver rings arches along one eyebrow. You sit.

“Nicole,” she says, holding out her hand. Her nails are bright red, matching her lipstick.

“Kyle.”

Her fingers are warm.

“Your first time to one of Zack’s parties?”

You nod.

“Yeah, he can be a bit out there, but at least he’s never boring.”

You nod again. It’s true.

“So you go to Midlands,” Nicole says, as if you were some thrill seeker, living on the edge. She asks you about the school and the classes and the teachers and students you never heard of but that she’s pretty certain go there, and you’re telling her, exaggerating only a little, when Zack arrives and hands you both drinks-a pink-colored wine for Nicole and a tall, orange-brown drink with a bendy straw for you. You can smell the whiskey a foot away.

“Don’t tell me you two are talking about school.” He shakes his head in disgust. “That’s one of the house rules, no shop talk. Nicole, tell young Chase here how you were born way up in Dawson Creek, Canada, and you, Mr. Chase, you tell her how fascinating she is. She’s quite vain, you know, and if you tell her how beautiful she is you’ll have her naked in an hour, posing for a webcam. Isn’t that right, Nicole?” He smiles at her as he walks off and she smiles back, a cold smile that makes you uncomfortable.

You ask her about Dawson Creek and she tells you, but it seems forced now, and when she reaches for her buzzing phone, walking off to the kitchen to take a call, you’re relieved.

It’s close to midnight. The jazz is gone, thank god, replaced by some fast-paced European techno. It’s better, but not by much. The conversations are louder, more laughter, more swearing, and there’s a sweaty sheen to every face. Half-finished drinks are scattered around the room alongside bowls of picked-over potato chips and pretzel crumbs. It’s warm and you’ve got a good buzz on.

The kid with the tie-Mike? Matt?-is slumped down in a recliner, asleep and drooling, and you saw Nicole leave an hour ago, along with the tall kid someone said was her ex. A bunch of new people have arrived since then, mostly couples but a few more unattached females, and, other than the pairings that disappeared into empty parts of the house, everyone is gathered around the two big couches that fill a corner of the room.

You’ve been talking with Josh and Andrew and Cindi with an i and this kid Josh calls Stitch but who everyone else calls TC, and there’s that girl from India, Something Singh, who sounds more like she’s from England, and Victoria, whose silver tongue stud clicks against her teeth when she talks, and the girl who’s going to Aruba for Thanksgiving, and the one who went last year and almost got busted for smoking pot on the beach, and Becca, who’s got the hots for Stitch or TC or whoever the hell he is, and the guy who came in late, the one in the JESUS IS MY HOMIE T-shirt who told you to get out while you still could, just before he fell over drunk on the couch.

And at the center of it all, coat still on, drink still in hand, Zack sits on the arm of the couch. Leaning against him is Brooke, the dark-haired girl from the kitchen.

The Girlfriend.

Cindi with an i is telling everybody why they should boycott the zoo and the guy with the lopsided glasses is explaining to the black chick where to find bootleg movies online. Somebody’s telling that penguin-in-a-bar joke again. Your upper lip feels numb and the girl sitting next to you smells like an ashtray. Somebody’s cell phone goes off and you and cigarette girl bump heads as you reach for your phones and that gets you both laughing, and you may be buzzing, but you’re careful not to laugh too loud or too long. She’s there with somebody, but you never know. And it wasn’t either of your phones anyway, and you laugh again and right then Brooke goes running from the room and she’s crying.

“Not cool, Zack,” Andrew says, voice low and flat.

“I can’t believe you said that,” Victoria says, the metal clicking louder than her words.

You look over at Zack.

That smirk.

He shrugs. “If she doesn’t want people to know that she sticks her fingers down her throat after every meal, she shouldn’t write it down.”

“It’s her journal, Zack,” the Aruba-bound girl says. “It’s private.”

Another shrug. “Not very. It was right beside her bed. And besides, it’s not as if she cares what you think about her.” He takes a sip of his drink. “That was in there too.”

Everyone shifts uncomfortably.

Everyone but Zack.

He sighs a fake sigh and stands up.

“Fine. I shall go…apologize.”

Victoria glares up at him. “It doesn’t mean anything if you don’t mean it.”

Zack smiles. “My dear, I never mean it.” He gives her a wink and that somehow, somehow, makes her smile, too.

Zack steps to the center of the room and claps his hands together. “All right, team, here’s the game plan. I’m going to go up to my room where the lovely Miss Brooke is crying facedown on the bed. She could be in the bathroom…” He acts like he’s about to puke and a few people groan and a few more laugh. “In any case, I can’t afford more escort-service bills, so this will take some time. Have yourself a nightcap, hit the lights on the way out, and don’t bother sending thank-you cards. Ciao.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re walking home alone.

You wake up Sunday morning and you’re ready for it.

The bottle of Gatorade, icy cold last night when you set it alongside your bed, is still cool at eight thirty, the carpet around it wet from condensation. You crack it open and chug half the bottle in deep, gasping gulps. You wash down a couple of Tylenol-out of the bottle and waiting for you-with a slower, controlled swig. The queasiness isn’t as bad as you had feared, but the headache is worse. It’s better this way. You could fake your way through a headache, but once you started with the dry heaves your parents would start with the questions.