"You wouldn't," Courtney says.

"You can't," Tara says.

"I can, I would, and I'm going to." I roll down the window, and the cold slams me, blots out everything, numbs my whole body so I just feel myself in bits and pieces, an elbow bobbing here, a thigh cramping, fingers tingling. The music pumping from the boys' car is so loud it makes my ears hurt, but I can't hear any words or melody, just the rhythm, throbbing, throbbing-so loud it's not even sound anymore, just vibration, feeling.

"Hey." At first I can only croak the word out, so I clear my throat and try again. "Hey. Guys."

The driver swivels his head in my direction. I can hardly focus I'm so keyed up, but in that second I see he's not that cute, actually-he has kind of crooked teeth and a rhinestone stud in one ear, like he's a rapper or something-but then he says, "Hey, cutie," and I see his three friends lean over toward the window to look, one, two, three heads popping up like jacks-in-the-box, like the Whack-a-Mole game at Dave & Buster's, one one, two two, three three, and I'm lifting my shirt, and there's a roar and a rushing, singing sound in my ears-laughter? screaming?-and Courtney's yelling, "Go, go, go." Then our tires screech, and the car lurches forward, sliding a bit, the wind biting my face, and the smell of scorched rubber and gasoline stinking up the air. My heart sinks slowly back from my throat to my chest, and the warmth and feeling comes back to my body. I roll up the window. I can't explain the feelings going through me, a rush like you get from laughing too hard or spinning too long in a circle. It's not exactly happiness, but I'll take it.

"Priceless! Legendary! Legendary!" Courtney's thumping the back of my seat, and Bethany's just shaking her head and reaching forward to touch me, eyes wide, amazed, like I'm a saint and she's trying to cure herself of a disease. Tara's screaming with laughter. She can barely watch the road, her eyes are tearing up so badly. She chokes out, "Did you see their faces faces? Did you see see?" and I realize I didn't see. I couldn't see anything, couldn't feel anything but the roaring around me, heavy and loud, and it occurs to me that I'm not sure whether this is what it's like to be really, truly alive or this is what it's like to be dead, and it strikes me as hilarious. Courtney thumps me one more time, and I see her face rising behind me in the rearview mirror, red as a sun, and I start laughing too, and the four of us laugh all the way back to Ridgeview-over eighteen miles-while the world streaks past us in a smear of blacks and grays, like a bad painting of itself.

We stop at Tara's house so everyone can change. Tara helps get me into my dress again, and after I slip on the fur shrug and the earrings and let my hair down-which is all wavy from being twisted up in a half-knot all day-I turn to the mirror and my heart actually reindeer-prances in my chest. I look at least twenty-five. I look like somebody else. I close my eyes, remember standing in the bathroom when I was little as the steam from my shower retreated from the mirrors, praying for a transformation. I remember the sick taste of disappointment every time my face reemerged, as plain as it ever was. But this time when I open my eyes it works. There I am: different and gorgeous and not myself.

Dinner's on me, of course. We go to Le Jardin du Roi, this super expensive French restaurant where all the waiters are hot and French. We pick the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu, and n.o.body asks to see our IDs, so we order a round of champagne. It's so good, we ask for another round even before the appetizers come. Bethany gets drunk right away and starts flirting with the waiters in bad French, just because last year she spent the summer in Provence. We must order half the menu: tiny melt-in-your-mouth cheese puffs, thick slabs of pate that probably have more calories than you're supposed to eat in a day, goat cheese salad and mussels in white wine and steak bearnaise and a whole sea ba.s.s with its head still attached and creme brulee and mousse au chocolat. I think it's the best food I've ever tasted, and I eat until I can hardly breathe, and if I take one more bite I really will bust my dress. Then, as I'm signing the check, one of the waiters (the cutest one) brings over four miniature gla.s.ses of sweet pink liquor for the digestion for the digestion, except, of course, he says it for ze deejestee-on for ze deejestee-on.

I don't realize how much I've had to drink until I stand up and the world swings wildly for a second, like it's struggling to find its balance, and I think maybe the world's world's drunk, not me, and start to giggle. We step out into the freezing air and it helps sober me up a little. drunk, not me, and start to giggle. We step out into the freezing air and it helps sober me up a little.

I check my phone and see that I have a text from Rob. What's up w u? We had a plan 4 2nite What's up w u? We had a plan 4 2nite.

"Come on, Sam," Courtney calls. She and Bethany have climbed into the backseat of the Civic. They're waiting for me to take shotgun again. "Party time."

I quickly write a text back to Rob. We're on. C u soon We're on. C u soon.

Then I get in the car, and we head to the party.

The party's just getting started when we arrive, and I beeline for the kitchen. Since it's still early and pretty clear of people I notice a ton of details in the rooms I haven't seen before. The place is so stocked with little carved wood statues and funky oil paintings and old books it could be a museum.

The kitchen is brightly lit and everything here looks sharp and separate. There are two kegs lined up directly inside the doorway, and most of the people are gathered here. It's basically guys at this point, plus some soph.o.m.ores. They're huddled in clumps, gripping their plastic cups like they contain their whole life force, and their smiles are so forced I can tell their cheeks are hurting.

"Sam." Rob sees me and does a double take as soon as I come in. He shoulders his way toward me, then backs me up against the wall, leaning a hand on either side of my head so I'm penned in. "I didn't think you were gonna show."

"I told you I was coming." I put my hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat skip under my fingers. It makes me sad for some reason. "Did you get my text?"

He shrugs. "You were acting weird all day. I thought maybe you didn't like my rose."

Luv ya. I'd forgotten about that; forgotten about how upset I was. None of that matters now. They're just words, anyway. "The rose was fine." I'd forgotten about that; forgotten about how upset I was. None of that matters now. They're just words, anyway. "The rose was fine."

Rob smiles and puts one hand on my head, like I'm a pet. "You look hot, babe," he says. "You want a beer?"

I nod. The wine I had at the restaurant is already wearing off. I feel way too sober, too aware of my whole body, my arms hanging there like dead weights. Rob has started to turn away when he suddenly stops, staring down at my shoes. He looks up at me, half amused, half puzzled. "What are those?" He points at Anna's boots.

"Shoes." I point one of my toes and the leather doesn't even budge. This pleases me for some reason. "You like them?"

Rob makes a face. "They look like army boots or something."

"Well, I I like them." like them."

He shakes his head. "They don't look like you, babe."

I think of all the things I've done today that would shock Rob: cutting all my cla.s.ses, kissing Mr. Daimler, smoking pot with Anna Cartullo, stealing my mom's credit card. Things that aren't like me like me. I'm not even sure what that means; I'm not sure how you know. I mentally try to add up all the things I've done in my life, but no clear picture emerges, nothing that will tell me what kind of person I am-just a lot of haziness and blurred edges, indistinct memories of laughing and driving around. I feel like I'm trying to take a picture into the sun: all of the people in my memories are coming back featureless and interchangeable.

"You don't know everything about me," I say.

He gives a half laugh. "I know you look cute when you're mad." He taps a finger between my eyes. "Don't frown so much. You'll get wrinkles."

"How about that beer?" I say, grateful when Rob turns away. I was hoping that seeing him would relax me, but instead it's making me jumpy.

When Rob comes back with my beer, I take my cup and go upstairs.

At the top of the stairs I almost collide with Kent. He takes a quick step backward when he sees me.

"Sorry," we both say at the same time, and I can feel myself blushing.

"You came," he says. His eyes look greener than ever. There's a weird expression on his face-his mouth is all twisted like he's chewing on something sour.

"Seems like it's the place to be." I look away, wishing he would stop staring at me. Somehow I know he's going to say something awful. He's going to say that he can see through me again. And I get this crazy urge to ask him what he sees-like he can help me me figure out figure out me me. But I'm afraid of his answer.

He looks at his feet. "Sam, I wanted to say..."

"Don't." I hold up a hand. Then it hits me: he knows what happened with Mr. Daimler. He can tell. I know I'm being paranoid, but the certainty is so strong it makes my head spin, and I have to reach out and grab on to the banister. "If this is about what happened in math, I don't want to hear it."

He looks up at me again, his mouth set in a line. "What did did happen?" happen?"

"Nothing." Once again I feel Mr. Daimler's weight pressing into me, the heat of his mouth clamped over mine. "It's none of your business."

"Daimler's a dirtbag, you know. You should stay away from him." He looks at me sideways. "You're too good for that."

I think of the note that sailed onto my desk earlier. I knew knew it was from him. The thought of Kent McFuller feeling sorry for me, looking down on me, makes something break inside. it was from him. The thought of Kent McFuller feeling sorry for me, looking down on me, makes something break inside.

My words come out in a rush. "I don't have to explain anything to you. We're not even friends. We're-we're nothing."

Kent takes a step back, lets out a noise that's halfway between a snort and a laugh. "You're really unbelievable, you know that?" He shakes his head, looking disgusted or sad, or maybe both. "Maybe everyone's right about you. Maybe you are just a shallow-" He stops.

"What? A shallow what what?" I feel like slapping him to get him to look at me, but he keeps his eyes turned toward the wall. "A shallow b.i.t.c.h, right? Is that what you think?"

His eyes click back on mine, clear and dull and hard, like rock. Now I wish he hadn't looked at me at all. "Maybe. Maybe it's like you said. We're not friends. We're not anything."

"Yeah? Well, at least I don't walk around pretending to be better than everybody else." It explodes out of me before I can stop it. "You're not perfect, you know. I'm sure you've done bad things. I'm sure you do bad things." As soon as I say it, though, I get the feeling it's not true. I just know it somehow. Kent McFuller doesn't do bad things. At least, he doesn't do bad things to other people.

Now Kent does does laugh. " laugh. "I'm the one who pretends to be better than everybody?" He narrows his eyes. "That's really funny, Sam. Anyone ever tell you how funny you are?" the one who pretends to be better than everybody?" He narrows his eyes. "That's really funny, Sam. Anyone ever tell you how funny you are?"

"I'm not kidding." I'm balling my fists up against my thighs. I don't know why I'm so angry at him, but I could shake him, or cry. He knows about Mr. Daimler. He knows all about me, and he hates me for it. "You shouldn't make people feel bad just because they're not, like, perfect or whatever."

His mouth falls open. "I never said-"

"It's not my fault I can't be like you, okay? I don't get up in the morning thinking the world is one big shiny, happy place, okay? That's just not how I work. I don't think I can be fixed." I mean to say, I don't think "it" can be fixed, I don't think "it" can be fixed, but it comes out wrong, and suddenly I'm on the verge of crying. I have to take big gulping breaths to try to keep the tears down. I turn away from Kent so he won't see. but it comes out wrong, and suddenly I'm on the verge of crying. I have to take big gulping breaths to try to keep the tears down. I turn away from Kent so he won't see.

There's a moment of silence that seems to last forever. Then Kent rests his hand on my elbow just for a second, his touch like the wings of something brushing me. Just that one little touch gives me the chills.

"I was going to tell you that you look beautiful with your hair down. That's all I was going to say." Kent's voice is steady and low. He moves around me to the head of the stairs, pausing just at the top. When he turns back to me he looks sad, even though he's smiling the tiniest bit.

"You don't need to be fixed, Sam." He says the words, but it's like I don't even hear them; it's like they go through my whole body at the same time, like I'm absorbing them from the air. He must know it's untrue. I open my mouth to tell him so, but he's already disappearing down the stairs, melting into the crowd of people flowing into the house. I'm a nonperson, a shadow, a ghost. Even before before the accident I'm not sure that I was a whole person-that's what I'm realizing now. And I'm not sure where the damage begins. the accident I'm not sure that I was a whole person-that's what I'm realizing now. And I'm not sure where the damage begins.

I take a big swig of beer, wishing I could just go blotto. I want the world to drop away. I take another big gulp. The beer is cold, at least, but tastes like moldy water.

"Sam!" Tara's coming up the stairs, her smile like the beam of a flashlight. "We've been looking for you." When she gets to the top she pants a little, putting her right hand on her stomach and bending over. In her left hand she's holding a cigarette, half smoked. "Courtney did recon. She found the good stuff."

"Good stuff?"

"Whiskey, vodka, gin, ca.s.sis, the works. Booze. The good stuff."

She grabs my hand and we go back down the stairs, which are slowly getting clogged with people. Everyone's moving in the same direction: from the entrance to the beer and then up the stairs. In the kitchen we push through the clot of people gathered by the keg. On the opposite side of the kitchen there's a door with a handwritten sign on it. I recognize Kent's handwriting.

It says: PLEASE DO NOT ENTER PLEASE DO NOT ENTER.

There's a footnote written in tiny letters along the bottom of the page: SERIOUSLY, GUYS. I'M HOSTING THE PARTY AND IT'S THE ONE THING I ASK. LOOK SERIOUSLY, GUYS. I'M HOSTING THE PARTY AND IT'S THE ONE THING I ASK. LOOK! THERE'S A KEG BEHIND YOU THERE'S A KEG BEHIND YOU!

"Maybe we shouldn't-" I start to say, but Tara has already slipped through the door so I follow her.

It's dark on the other side of the door, and cold. The only light comes from two enormous bay windows that face out onto the backyard.

I hear giggling from somewhere deeper in the house, then the sound of someone b.u.mping into something. "Careful," someone hisses, and then I hear Courtney say, "You try to pour in the dark." try to pour in the dark."

"This way," Tara whispers. It's weird how people's voices get softer in the dark, like they can't help it.

We're in the dining room. There's a chandelier drooping from the ceiling like an exotic flower, and heavy curtains pooling at either side of the windows. Tara and I skirt around the dining room table-my mom would have a coronary from excitement, it must seat at least twelve-and out into a kind of alcove. This is where the bar is. Beyond the alcove is another dark room: from the sofas and bookshelves I can just make out, it looks like a library or a living room. I wonder how many rooms there are. The house seems to extend forever. It's even darker here, but Courtney and Bethany are rooting around in some cabinets.

"There must be fifty bottles in here," Courtney says. It's too dark to read labels, so she opens each bottle and sniffs it, guessing at the contents. "This is rum, I think."

"Freaky house, huh?" Bethany says.

"I don't mind it," I say quickly, not sure why I feel defensive. I bet it's beautiful during the day: room after room of light. I bet Kent's house is always quiet, or there's always cla.s.sical music playing or something.

Gla.s.s shatters next to me and something wet splatters on my leg. I jump as Courtney whispers, "What did you do?"

"It's not me," I say as Tara says, "I didn't mean to."

"Was that a vase?"

"Ew. Some of it got on my shoe."

"Let's just take the bottle and get out of here."

We slip back into the kitchen just as RJ Ravner yells, "Fire in the hole!" Matt Dorfman takes a cup of beer and starts chugging it. Everyone laughs and Abby McGail claps when he's drained the cup. Someone turns up the music, and Dujeous comes on and everyone starts singing along. All MCs in the house tonight, if your lyrics sound tight then rock the mic.... All MCs in the house tonight, if your lyrics sound tight then rock the mic....

I hear high-pitched laughter. Then a voice from the front hallway: "G.o.d, I guess we came at the right time."

My stomach jumps into my throat. Lindsay's here.

THERE ARE CERTAIN THINGS YOU NEVER SAY.

Here's Lindsay's big secret: when she came back from visiting her stepbrother at NYU our junior year, she was awful for days-snapping at everybody, making fun of Ally for having weird food issues, making fun of Elody for being such a lush and a pushover, making fun of me for always being the last to do things, from picking up on trends to going to third base (which I didn't do until late soph.o.m.ore year). Elody, Ally, and I knew something must have happened in New York, but Lindsay wouldn't tell us when we asked her, and we didn't push it. You don't push things with Lindsay.

Then one night toward the end of the school year, we were all at Rosalita's, this c.r.a.ppy Mexican restaurant one town over where they don't card, having margaritas and waiting for our dinners to come. Lindsay wasn't really eating-hadn't really been eating since returning from New York. She wouldn't touch the free chips, saying she wasn't hungry, and instead kept dipping a finger into the salt that was r.i.m.m.i.n.g her margarita gla.s.s and eating the crystals one by one.

I don't remember what we were talking about, but all of a sudden Lindsay blurted out, "I had s.e.x." Just like that. We all stared at her in silence, and she leaned forward and told us in a breathless rush how she'd been drunk and how because her stepbrother wasn't ready to leave the party the guy-the Unmentionable-offered to walk her back to the dorm where she was staying with her stepbrother. They'd had s.e.x on her stepbrother's twin long bed with Lindsay fading in and out, and the guy-the Unmentionable-was gone even before Lindsay's brother got back from the party.

"It was only, like, three minutes," she said at the end, and I knew then she was already filing it away under Things We'll Never Talk About, tucking it back in some far corner of her mind and building other, alternate stories on top of it, better stories: I went to New York and had a great time. I'm totally going to move there one day. I kissed a guy, and he wanted to come home with me, but I wouldn't let him.

Right after that our food came. Lindsay was hugely relieved after telling us-even though she swore us on pain of death to absolute secrecy-and her whole mood changed instantly. She sent back the salad she'd ordered ("Like I want to choke down that rabbit c.r.a.p") and ordered cheese-and-mushroom quesadillas, pork-stuffed burritos with extra sour cream and guacamole, an order of chimichangas for the table to split, and another round of margaritas. It was like a weight had been lifted, and we had the best dinner we'd had in years. All of us were stuffing our faces, even Ally, and drinking margarita after margarita in different flavors-mango, raspberry, orange-and laughing so loudly at least one table asked to be moved to a different part of the restaurant. I don't remember what we were even talking about, but at one point Ally took a picture of Elody wearing a flour tortilla on her head and holding up a bottle of hot sauce. In the corner of the frame, you can see a third of Lindsay's profile. She's doubling over, cracking up, her face a bright purple. One hand is clutching her stomach.

After dinner Lindsay threw down her mom's credit card to pay for the whole thing. She's only supposed to use it for emergencies, but she leaned forward over the table and made us all grab hands like we were praying. "This, my friends, was an emergency," she said, and we all laughed because she was being melodramatic as usual. The plan was to go off to a party in the arboretum: a tradition on the first warm weekend of the year. We had the whole night ahead of us. Everyone was in a good mood. Lindsay was being normal again.

Lindsay went to the bathroom to fix her makeup, and five seconds after she left the table, all those margaritas and all that laughing hit me at once: I'd never had to pee so bad in my life. I sprinted to the bathroom, still laughing, while Elody and Ally pegged me with half-eaten chips and crumpled napkins and yelled, "Send us a postcard from the Niagara Falls" and "If it's yellow, keep it mellow!" so that yet another table asked to be moved.

The bathroom was single-person, and I leaned up against the door, calling for Lindsay to let me in, rattling the handle at the same time. I guess she'd been in a rush to get in there because she hadn't locked the door correctly and it opened as I was leaning against it. I tumbled into the bathroom, still laughing, expecting to find Lindsay standing in front of the mirror with her lips puckered, applying two coats of MAC Vixen lip gloss.

Instead she was kneeling on the floor in front of the toilet, and the remains of the quesadillas and the pork-stuffed burrito were floating on the surface of the water. She flushed but not quickly enough. I saw two whole undigested tomato pieces swirl down the toilet bowl.

All the laughter left me instantly. "What are you doing?" I asked, even though it was obvious.

"Shut the door," she hissed.

I closed it quickly, the noise of the restaurant vacuumed away, leaving silence.

Lindsay got up from her knees slowly. "Well?" she said, looking at me like she was already preparing her arguments-like she expected me to accuse her of something.

"I had to pee," I said. It's so lame, but I couldn't think of anything else. There was a tiny piece of food clinging to a strand of hair and seeing it made me feel like bursting into tears. She was Lindsay Edgecombe: she was our armor.

"Pee then," she said, looking relieved, though I thought I saw a flicker of something else-maybe sadness.

I did. I peed while Lindsay bent over the sink, cupping her hands and sipping water from them, rolling it around in her mouth and gargling. That's a funny thing: you think, when awful things happen, everything else just stops, like you would forget to pee and eat and get thirsty, but it's not really true. It's like you and your body are two separate things, like your body is betraying you, chugging on, idiotic and animal, craving water and sandwiches and bathroom breaks while your world falls apart.

I watched Lindsay fish out a Listerine strip and place one in her mouth, grimacing slightly. Then she went to work with her makeup, touching up her mascara and reapplying her lip gloss. The bathroom was small, but she seemed very far away.

Finally she said, "It's not a habit or anything. I think I just ate too quickly."

"Okay," I said, and forever afterward I didn't know if she was telling the truth.

"Don't tell Al or Elody, okay? I don't want them freaking out over nothing."