"We made a round. There's, like, seventeen different rooms up here. You should check it out." Ally looks at me, notices the face I'm pulling, and holds up her hands. "What? It's not like we abandoned you in the middle of nowhere."

She's right. I don't know why I'm feeling so p.i.s.sy. "Where did Lindsay and Elody go?"

"Elody's suctioned to m.u.f.fin's lap. And Lindsay and Patrick are fighting."

"Already?"

"Yeah, well, they kissed for the first three minutes. They waited until minute four to start going at it."

This cracks me up and Ally and I laugh over it. I start to feel better, more comfortable. The vodka fills my head with warmth. More people are arriving all the time and the room seems to be revolving just a little bit. It's a nice feeling, though, like being on a really slow carousel. Ally and I decide to go on a mission to save Lindsay before her fight with Patrick turns into an all-out brawl.

It seems like the whole school has shown up, but really there are only sixty or seventy kids. This is the most that ever shows up at a party. There's the top and middle of the senior cla.s.s, popularity-wise-Kent's just holding on to the lower rung of the ladder, but he's hosting so it's okay-some of the cooler juniors, and a couple of really cool soph.o.m.ores. I know I'm supposed to hate them, like we were hated when we were soph.o.m.ores at all the senior parties, but I can't bring myself to care. Ally gives a group of them one of her ice stares as we go by, though, and says "s.k.a.n.ks" loudly. One of them, Rachel Kornish, supposedly hooked up with Matt Wilde not long ago.

Obviously no freshmen are allowed in. The social bottom doesn't show either. It isn't because people would make fun of them, although they probably would. It's more than that. They don't hear about these parties until after they've happened. They don't know the things we know: they don't know about the secret side entrance to Andrew Roberts's guesthouse, or the fact that Carly Jablonski stashed a cooler in her garage where you can keep your beers cold, or the fact that Rocky's doesn't check IDs very closely, or the fact that Mic's stays open around the clock and makes the best egg and cheeses in the world, absolutely dripping with oil and ketchup, perfect for when you're drunk. It's like high school holds two different worlds, revolving around each other and never touching: the haves and the have-nots. I guess it's a good thing. High school is supposed to prepare you for the real world, after all.

There are so many tiny hallways and rooms, it feels like a maze. All of them are filled with people and smoke. Only one door is closed. It has a big KEEP OUT KEEP OUT sign plastered on it over a bunch of weird b.u.mper stickers that say things like sign plastered on it over a bunch of weird b.u.mper stickers that say things like VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS and and KISS ME. I'M IRISH KISS ME. I'M IRISH.

By the time we get to Lindsay, she and Patrick have made up, big surprise. She's sitting on his lap and he's smoking a joint. Elody and Steve Dough are in a corner. He's leaning against the wall and she's half dancing and half grinding against him. She has an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, b.u.t.t end out, and her hair is a mess. Steve is steadying her, using one arm to keep her on her feet, but he's having a conversation with Liz Hummer (her real name-and, coincidentally, her car) like Elody isn't even there, much less rubbing on him.

"Poor Elody," I say. I don't know why I suddenly feel bad for her. "She's too nice."

"She's a wh.o.r.e," Ally says, but not meanly.

"Do you think we'll remember any of this?" I'm not sure where the words come from. My whole head feels light and fuzzy, ready to float away. "Do you think we'll remember any of it two years from now?"

"I won't even remember tomorrow." Ally laughs, tapping the bottle in my hand. There's only a quarter of it left. I can't think when we drank it all.

Lindsay squeals when she sees us and stumbles off Patrick's lap, throwing an arm around each of us like it's been years since we were together. She s.n.a.t.c.hes the vodka from me and takes a sip while her arm is still wrapped around my shoulders, her elbow tightening momentarily against my neck.

"Where did you go?" she yells. Her voice is loud, even over the music and the sound of everybody talking and laughing. "I was looking everywhere for you."

"Bulls.h.i.t," I say, and Ally says, "In Patrick's mouth, maybe."

We're laughing over the fact that Lindsay's a bulls.h.i.tter and Elody's a drunk and Ally's OCD and I'm antisocial, and someone cracks a window to let out the smoke, and a fine mist of rain comes in, smelling like gra.s.s and fresh things, even though it's the dead middle of winter. Without anyone noticing I reach my hand back and rest it on the sill, enjoying the freezing air and the sensation of a hundred pinp.r.i.c.ks of rain. I close my eyes and promise myself I'll never forget this moment: the sound of my friends' laughter and the heat from so many bodies and the smell of rain.

When I open my eyes I get the shock of my life. Juliet Sykes is standing in the doorway, staring at me.

She's staring at us, actually: Lindsay, Ally, and Elody, who has just left Steve and come over to stand with us, and me. Juliet's hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and I think it's the first time I've ever really seen her face.

It's shocking that she's there, but it's even more shocking that she's pretty. She has blue eyes set wide apart and high cheekbones, like a model's. Her skin is perfectly clear and white. I can't stop staring at her.

People are elbowing and pushing her because she's blocking the doorway, but she just stands there, staring.

Ally catches on first and her mouth drops open. "What the...?"

Elody and Lindsay turn to see what we're both staring at. Lindsay goes pale at first-she actually looks afraid, which is beyond strange, but I don't have time to wonder about it because just as quickly her face goes purple, and she looks ready to rip someone's head off. That's a more natural look for her. Elody begins giggling hysterically until she doubles over and has to cover her mouth with both hands.

"I can't believe it," she says. "I can't believe it." She tries to start singing "Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est," but we're all still in shock and don't join in.

You know how in movies someone says or does something inappropriate and the record scratches and there's dead silence all of a sudden? Well, that isn't exactly what happens, but it's close. The music doesn't stop, but as everyone in the room starts to pick up on the fact that Juliet Sykes-bedwetter, freak, and all-around psycho-is standing in the middle of a party giving four of the most popular girls at Thomas Jefferson the stink eye, conversation drops off and a low sound of whispering fills the room, getting louder and more insistent until it's a constant hum, until it sounds like wind or the ocean.

Juliet Sykes finally steps away from the door and into the room. She walks slowly and confidently toward us-I've never seen her look so calm-stopping three feet in front of Lindsay.

"You're a b.i.t.c.h," she says. Her voice is steady and too loud, like she's deliberately addressing everyone in the room. I'd always imagined her voice would be high-pitched or breathy, but it's as full and deep as a boy's.

It takes Lindsay a half second to find her voice. "Excuse me?" she croaks out. Juliet hasn't made eye contact with Lindsay since the fifth grade, much less spoken to her. Much less insulted insulted her. her.

"You heard me. A b.i.t.c.h. A mean girl. A bad person." Juliet turns to Ally next. "You're a b.i.t.c.h too." To Elody, "You're a b.i.t.c.h." She turns her eyes to me and for a second I see something flashing there-something familiar-but just as quickly it's gone.

"You're a b.i.t.c.h."

We're all so shocked we don't know how to respond. Elody giggles again nervously, hiccups, and goes silent. Lindsay's mouth is opening and shutting like a fish's, but nothing's coming out. Ally's balling up her fists like she's thinking of clocking Juliet in the face.

And even though I'm infuriated and embarra.s.sed, the only thing I can think when I look at Juliet is: I never knew you were so pretty. I never knew you were so pretty.

Lindsay pulls herself together. She leans forward so her face is only inches from Juliet's. I've never seen her so angry. I think her eyes are going to pop out of her head. Her mouth is twisted into a snarl, like a dog's. For a second she looks really and truly ugly.

"I'd rather be a b.i.t.c.h than a psycho," she hisses, grabbing Juliet by the shirt. Spit is coming out of her mouth-that's how angry she is. She shoves Juliet backward, and Juliet stumbles into Matt Dorfman. He pushes Juliet again and she careens into Emma McElroy. Lindsay starts screaming, "Psycho, Psycho," and making the high-pitched knifing noises from the movie, and suddenly everyone's screaming out, "Psycho!" and making the motion of an invisible knife and screeching and pushing Juliet back and forth. Ally's the first to overturn a beer on her head, but everyone catches on to that too; Lindsay splashes her with vodka, and when Juliet stumbles my way, half drenched, arms outstretched, trying to get her balance, I grab a half-finished beer from the windowsill and dump it on her. I don't even realize I'm screaming along with everybody else until my throat is sore.

Juliet looks up at me after I dump the beer out. I can't explain it-it's crazy-but it's almost a pitying look, like she she feels bad for feels bad for me me.

All of the breath leaves my body in a rush, and I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. Without thinking, I lunge at her and shove as hard as I can, and she goes backward into a bookshelf that almost falls over. I've pushed her back toward the door, and as everyone is still squealing and laughing and screaming "Psycho," she runs out of the room. She has to squeeze by Kent. He's just come in, probably to see what everyone's screaming about.

We lock eyes for a moment. I can't exactly tell what he's thinking, but whatever it is, it's not good. I look away, feeling hot and uncomfortable. Everyone's buzzing with energy now, laughing and talking about Juliet, but my breathing won't go back to normal and I feel the vodka burning my stomach, creeping back up my throat. The room is stifling, spinning faster than before. I have to get out for some air.

I try to push my way out of the room, but Kent gets in my face and blocks my way.

"What the h.e.l.l was that about?" he demands.

"Can you let me by, please?" I'm not in the mood to deal with anyone, and I'm especially not in the mood to deal with Kent and his stupid b.u.t.ton-down shirt.

"What did she ever do to you?"

I cross my arms. "I get it. You're friends with Psycho. Is that it?"

He narrows his eyes. "Pretty clever nickname. Did you think of that all by yourself, or did your friends have to help you?"

"Get out of my way." I manage to squeeze past him, but he grabs my arm.

"Why?" he says. We're standing so close together I can smell that he's just eaten peppermints and see the heart-shaped mole under his left eye, even though everything else is blurry. He's looking at me like he's desperate to understand something, and it's worse, much worse than anything else so far-than Juliet or his anger or the feeling I'm going to be sick any second.

I try to shake his hand off my arm. "You can't just grab grab people, you know. You can't just grab people, you know. You can't just grab me me. I have a boyfriend."

"Keep your voice down. I'm just trying to-"

"Look." I succeed in shaking him off. I know I'm talking too loud and too fast. I know I sound hysterical, but I can't help it. "I don't know what your problem is, okay? I'm not going to go out with you. I would never go out with you in a million years. So you can stop obsessing obsessing over me. I mean, I shouldn't even know your name." The words fly out and it's as though they strangle me on the way up: suddenly I can't breathe. over me. I mean, I shouldn't even know your name." The words fly out and it's as though they strangle me on the way up: suddenly I can't breathe.

Kent stares at me hard. Then he leans in even closer. For a second I think he's going to try to kiss me and my heart stops.

But he just puts his mouth up to my ear and says, "I see right through you."

"You don't know me." I jerk backward, shaking. "You don't know one thing about me."

He holds his hands up in surrender and backs off. "You're right. I don't." He starts to turn away and mutters something else.

"What did you say?" My heart is pounding in my chest so hard I think it will explode.

He turns to look at me. "I said, 'Thank G.o.d.'"

I spin around, wishing I hadn't borrowed a pair of Ally's heels. The room spins with me and I have to steady myself against the banister.

"Your boyfriend's boyfriend's downstairs, puking in the kitchen sink," Kent calls after me. downstairs, puking in the kitchen sink," Kent calls after me.

I give him the finger over my shoulder without turning around to see if he's watching me, but I get the feeling he's not.

Even before I go downstairs to see whether what Kent said about Rob is true, I know it: tonight isn't the night after all. The combination of disappointment and relief is so overwhelming I have to hold on to the walls as I walk, feeling the stairs spiral up under me like they're going to slip away any second. Tonight isn't the night. Tomorrow I'll wake up and be exactly the same, and the world will look the same, and everything will feel and taste and smell the same. My throat gets tight and my eyes start to burn, and all I can think in that moment is that it's all Kent's fault, Kent's and Juliet Sykes's.

Half an hour later the party starts to wind down. Inside, someone has ripped the Christmas lights off the wall and they're trailing along the floor like a snake, lighting up the dust mites in the corners.

I'm feeling better now, more like myself. "There's always tomorrow," Lindsay said to me, when I told her about Rob, and I run the phrase over and over in my head like a mantra: There's always tomorrow. There's always tomorrow. There's always tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

I spend twenty minutes in the bathroom, first washing my face and then reapplying makeup, even though my hands are unsteady and my face keeps doubling in the mirror. Every time I put on makeup it reminds me of my mother-I used to watch her bend over her vanity, getting ready for dates with my father-and it calms me down. There's always tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

It's the time of the night I like best, when most people are asleep and it feels like the world belongs completely to my friends and me, as though nothing exists apart from our little circle: everywhere else is darkness and quiet.

I leave with Elody, Ally, and Lindsay. The crowd is thinning as people take off, but it's still hard to move. Lindsay keeps calling out, "Excuse me, excuse me, move it, feminine emergency!" Years ago we discovered at an under-eighteen concert in Poughkeepsie that nothing clears people faster than referencing a feminine emergency. It's like people think they'll catch it.

On our way out we pa.s.s people hooking up in corners and pressed against the stairwell. Behind closed doors we hear the m.u.f.fled sounds of people giggling. Elody slams her fist against each door and yells out, "No glove, no love!" Lindsay turns around and whispers something to Elody, and Elody shuts up and looks at me guiltily. I want to tell them I don't care-I don't care about Rob or missing my chance-but I'm suddenly too tired to talk.

We see Bridget McGuire sitting on the edge of a bathtub with the door just cracked open. She has her head in her hands and she's crying.

"What's wrong with her?" I say, trying to fight the feeling of swimming in my own head, of my words coming from a distance.

"She dumped Alex." Lindsay grabs on to my elbow. She seems sober, but her pupils are enormous and the whites of her eyes bloodshot. "You'll never believe it. She found out that the Nic n.a.z.i busted Alex and Anna together. He was supposed to be at a doctor's appointment." The music's still going so we can't hear Bridget, but her shoulders are shaking up and down like she's convulsing. "She'll be better off. Sc.u.mbag."

"They're all sc.u.mbags!" Elody says, raising her beer and spilling some of it. I don't even think she knows what we're talking about.

Lindsay takes her cup and sets it on a side table, on top of a worn copy of Moby d.i.c.k. Moby d.i.c.k. She pockets a little ceramic figurine too: a shepherd with curly blond hair and painted eyelashes. She always steals something from parties. She calls them her souvenirs. She pockets a little ceramic figurine too: a shepherd with curly blond hair and painted eyelashes. She always steals something from parties. She calls them her souvenirs.

"She better not hurl in the Tank," she says in a whisper, tipping her head back toward Elody.

Rob is stretched out on a sofa downstairs, but he manages to grab my hand as I go by and tries to pull me down on top of him.

"Where're you goin'?" he says. His eyes are unfocused and his voice is hoa.r.s.e.

"Come on, Rob. Let me go." I push him off me. This is his fault, too.

"We were supposed to..." His voice trails off and he shakes his head, confused, then narrows his eyes at me. "Are you cheating on me?"

"Don't be stupid." I want to rewind the whole evening, rewind the past few weeks, go back to the moment when Rob leaned over, rested his chin on my shoulder, and told me he wanted to sleep next to me, go back to that quiet moment in that dark room with the TV blue and muted in front of us and the sound of his breathing and my parents sleeping upstairs, go back to the moment I opened my mouth and heard "I do too."

"You are. You're cheating. I knew it." He lurches to his feet and looks around wildly. Chris Harmon, one of Rob's best friends, is standing in the corner laughing about something, and Rob stumbles over to him.

"Are you cheating with my girlfriend, Harmon?" Rob roars, and pushes Chris. Chris stumbles and knocks against a bookshelf. A porcelain figurine topples over and shatters and a girl screams.

"Are you crazy?" Chris jumps back on Rob and suddenly they're locked together, wrestling, shuffling around the room and knocking into things, grunting and yelling. Somehow Rob gets Chris down on his knees and then they're both on the floor. Girls are shrieking and jumping out of the way. Someone cries out, "Watch the beer!" just before Rob and Chris roll up against the entrance of the kitchen, where the keg is sitting.

"Let's go, Sam." Lindsay squeezes my shoulders from behind.

"I can't just leave him," I say, though a part of me wants to.

"He'll be fine. Look-he's laughing."

She's right. He and Chris are already done fighting and are sprawled on the floor, laughing their heads off.

"Rob's going to be so p.i.s.sed," I say, and I know Lindsay knows I'm talking about more than just ditching him at the party.

She gives me a quick hug. "Remember what I said." She starts to singsong, "Just thinkin' about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow...." "Just thinkin' about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow...."

For a moment my stomach clenches, thinking she's making fun of me, but it's a coincidence. Lindsay didn't know me when I was little, wouldn't even have spoken to me. She has no way of knowing I used to lock myself in my room with the Annie Annie soundtrack and belt that song at the top of my lungs until my parents threatened to throw me out onto the street. soundtrack and belt that song at the top of my lungs until my parents threatened to throw me out onto the street.

The melody starts repeating in my head and I know I'll be singing it for days. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow. A beautiful word, when you really think about it. A beautiful word, when you really think about it.

"Lame party, huh?" Ally says, coming up on the other side of me. Even though I know she's only p.i.s.sed Matt Wilde didn't show, I'm glad she says it.

The sound of the rain is louder than I thought it would be and it startles me. For a moment we stand under the porch eaves, watching our breath condense into clouds, hugging ourselves. It's freezing. Water is falling in steady streams from the eaves. Christopher Tomlin and Adam Wu are throwing empty beer bottles into the woods. Every so often we hear one shatter, and the sound comes back to us like a gunshot.

People are laughing and screaming and running in the rain, which is coming down so hard everything looks as though it's melting into everything else. There are no neighbors to call the cops for miles. The gra.s.s is churned up, great black pits of mud exposed. Headlights are flashing in the distance, in and out, on and off, as cars sweep down the driveway toward Route 9.

"Run for it!" Lindsay yells, and I feel Ally tugging on me and then we're running, screaming, the rain blinding us and streaming down our jackets, the mud oozing into our shoes; rain so hard it's like everything is melting away.

By the time we get to Lindsay's car I really don't don't care about the awful way the night turned out. We're laughing hysterically, soaked and shivering, woken up from the cold and the rain. Lindsay's squealing about wet b.u.t.t marks on her leather seats and mud on the floor, and Elody's begging her to go to Mic's for an egg and cheese and complaining that I always get shotgun, and Ally's yelling for Lindsay to turn on the heat and threatening to drop dead right there from pneumonia. care about the awful way the night turned out. We're laughing hysterically, soaked and shivering, woken up from the cold and the rain. Lindsay's squealing about wet b.u.t.t marks on her leather seats and mud on the floor, and Elody's begging her to go to Mic's for an egg and cheese and complaining that I always get shotgun, and Ally's yelling for Lindsay to turn on the heat and threatening to drop dead right there from pneumonia.

I guess that's how we get started talking about it: dying, I mean. I figure Lindsay's okay to drive, but I notice she's going faster than usual down that awful, long, penned-in driveway. The trees look like stripped skeletons on either side of us, moaning in the wind.

"I have this theory," I'm saying as Lindsay skids out onto Route 9 and the tires shriek against the slick black road. The clock on the dashboard is glowing: 12:38. "I have this theory that before you die you see your greatest hits, you know? The best things you've ever done."

"Duke, baby," Lindsay says, and takes one hand off the wheel to pump her fist in the air.

"First time I hooked up with Matt Wilde," Ally says immediately.

Elody groans and leans forward, reaching for the iPod. "Music, please, before I kill myself."

"Can I get a cigarette?" Lindsay asks, and Elody lights one for her off the b.u.t.t she's holding. Lindsay cracks the windows, and the freezing rain comes in. Ally starts to complain about the cold again.